THE COMPLETE DUMAREST

by E. C. Tubb
The stories in this collection originally appeared as print publications from 1967 through 2002.

EARTH'S CHILD

Part One
– Child of Earth –

The night had anticipated the coming winter, darkness masking the sky as sleet filled the air to the eerie sough of
wind that rose, at times, into a maniacal shrieking as if tormented creatures writhed in an extremity of pain. Images
too mature for his imagination yet they lingered and teased his mind as he moved cautiously over a bleak expanse of
stone, sand and scrub in the growing light of dawn. A twig culled from a stunted bush eased the chatter of his teeth
and gave the pretense of food as he chewed at the tough fibers. Frost made the going even more treacherous and
twice he slipped to lie, fighting the fear of injury, rising to nurse bruised flesh and scraped skin, to move on, to reach
his destination, to turn his back to the east and adopt his position as the sun rose higher into the sky.
Waiting, fighting the desire to close his eyes, to rest, to sleep, to escape into a more hospitable place. One
touched by the gossamer fabric of vaguely remembered dreams. Of warmth, comfort and security. Of unknown
contentment. An empty wish—he had no choice but to stay alert.
Crouching, cold, almost naked against an expanse of gritty soil as he stared at the area ahead. The wind touched
his near-naked body, driving knives of ice through the rents, numbing the flesh and chilling the blood and causing his
teeth to chatter. He clamped them shut, feeling the jerk of muscles in his jaw, the taste of blood as his teeth caught at
the delicate membranes of his cheeks. Weakness blurred his vision so that the scrub barely masking the stony ground
danced and spun in patterns of bewildering complexity. Impatiently he squeezed shut his eyes, opening them to see
the landscape steady again, seeing, too, the twitch of leaves at the base of a matted bunch of vegetation.
The lizard was cautious. It thrust its snout from the leaves and stared with unwinking eyes before making a small
dart forward to freeze again as it checked its surroundings. Watching it Dumarest forced himself to freeze.
To rise now would be to lose the prey; it would dive into cover at the first sign of movement. Only later, after it
had come into the open to warm itself by the weak sunlight and search for grubs would he have a chance and then
only one. For now he must wait as the wind chilled his body, gnawing at him with spiteful teeth, sending more pain to
join the throb of old bruises, the sting of festering sores, the ache of hunger.
Dumarest touched the crude sling at his side. Braided thongs the length of his hand and forearm joined by a
pouch made from the skin of a small rodent. Each thong ended in a loop; a convenience, only one needed to be
slipped over the middle finger, the other, the release, clamped by the thumb and first finger. A pouch held stones
carefully selected as to shape and size. One was cradled in the sling. He would have time for one cast only. All
depended on choosing the exact moment, of hand and eye working in harmony, of speed which would enable him to
strike before the lizard could escape.
Now?
The creature was alerted, head lifted, eyes like jewels as they caught and reflected the sunlight, scaled body tense
on the soil. It would be best to wait.
To wait, then, guided by subconscious dictates, to act. To rise, the loaded sling spinning in a sharp circle, the
thong released at the exact moment to send the missile hurtling through the air.
To land in the dirt at the side of the lizard's skull.
Dumarest was running even as it left the pouch, mouth open, legs pounding, breathing in short, shallow gasps to
oxygenate his lungs. To gain energy and speed so that, even as the half-stunned lizard dived for cover, he was on it,
holding it fast as his teeth dug into the scaled throat and released the blood of its life.
Blood he gulped until the creature was dead.
It was dark by the time he arrived at the place he thought of as home, the fire a warm beacon in the gloom. The only
welcome he would get but, with luck, he would be given a portion of his kill; the lizard swinging over his shoulder. A
hope that died as a man came to the mouth of the cave to snatch it and send him reeling with a vicious, backhanded
blow.
"Lazy young swine! What took you so long?" He didn't wait for an answer, standing tall and bloated his scarred
face twisted into a snarl. "You've been eating! It's on your mouth! Blood!"
"From the lizard! I had to—"
"Liar!" Again the thudding impact of the fist. A blow that sent his own blood to mingle with the dried smears on
his chin. "You useless bastard! I took you in, let my woman tend you, and all you do is lie! A day's hunting for this!" He
shook the dead reptile. "Well, it's too bad for you. Stay out there and starve!"
"I'll freeze!"
"So freeze. What's that to me? To hell with you!"
Another blow and he was gone, snug within the confines of the cave, warmed by the fire and the food Dumarest
had won. From where he crouched he could hear the mutter of voices, the harsh, cackling laughter of the crone as
she heard the news. A liquid gurgling as they gulped fermenting liquids. Later came the sounds of animals in rut.
Later still the sound of snores.
Dumarest rose from where he had crouched. Softly he moved towards the cave and pushed aside the curtain of
skins covering the opening. The fire burned low and he squatted beside it, warming his hands and rubbing them over
his limbs. From the pot standing beside the embers he found a bone and sucked it, cracking it open to get at the
marrow before throwing it on the coals. More followed until the pot was empty and, drugged by the nourishment, his
outraged physique demanding rest, he fell asleep.
And woke to a scream of rage.
It was day and in the light streaming through the curtain the crone stood glaring at him, her raddled face
convulsed with fury. A slut, her body sagging beneath the filthy clothes she wore, lice crawling in her matted hair,
sores on lips and chin. A fit mate for the man who woke and reared to his feet, wiping the crust from his eyes.
"He's eaten it!" She pointed at the empty pot. "The stew's gone! The thieving young bastard's eaten it!"
"I'll teach him!" The man pushed her aside. He was naked aside from an apron around his loins. It fell as he
stripped off his belt. The leather whined as he swung it through the air. "Now you greedy young swine! Stand still and
be taught a lesson!"
Dumarest dodged as the belt swung towards him, feeling the wind of its passing through his torn garment.
Unimpeded the heavy buckle swung on to crack against the woman's arm. Her shriek of pain was echoed by the
man's roar of anger. He rushed forward, belt swinging, the buckle catching Dumarest on the shoulder and sending
him to stagger and fall beside the fire. Again he felt the impact of the heavy metal and rolled, reaching out, feeling
heat, fire that seared as he gripped a handful of embers and flung them into the snarling face.
"God!" The man screamed pawing at his eyes. "He's blinded me!"
The woman was fast. Water showered from a pot and washed away the ashes to reveal eyes filled with streaming
tears. A face that had turned into a killer's mask.
"I'll get you," he panted. "I'll make you pay for that. I'll have you screaming for mercy before I've done with you!"
Dumarest backed; his stomach knotted with fear, and felt the touch of wind against his shoulders as he left the
cave. It was barely dawn and a milky opalescence softened the harsh outlines of the terrain, wisps of fading mist
clinging to the face of the cliff, shredding as the man lunged through writhing vapors forming a curtain to create an
isolated area of conflict.
How to fight a man so much heavier and stronger than himself ?
Dumarest turned, running to place distance between them, stumbling as his foot struck a stone. Stooping he
snatched it up and held it poised to throw.
"Stop! Leave me alone!"
"Begging, you little bastard?" The man gloated, enjoying the moment. "Well, beg on, boy. I owe you nothing.
Nothing but the beating of your life!"
The stone could be thrown but if he missed what then? A second stone would provide another missile and
Dumarest looked for one as he retreated from his enemy.
He found it as the man charged.
Desperation fed power to his arm and he threw the stone with all his strength. It hit a temple, the man halting to
touch his head, to examine the blood on his palm. Before he looked up the second stone had followed the first,
striking against his cheek. In a frenzy he rushed forward, hands extended, fingers clawing. Dumarest felt them catch
the neck of his garment to jerk the fabric from his body. A jerk which threw him to the ground beneath his opponent,
a fist smashing into his face, fingers closing around his neck.
Fear drove him to attack in turn. He writhed, sending his hands over the bloated flesh, searching the groin,
finding the soft bag and gripping the testicles. He heard the shriek as he jerked and twisted, pulling with nails dug
deep. Rolling clear to leave his opponent moaning, clutching at his groin, blood thick between his thighs.
More blood flowered beneath the hammering impact of stones from his sling. Missiles that tore flesh and
shattered bone exposing the brain and turning the skull into an oozing pulp of gray and crimson.
The woman said nothing as he entered the cave but silently handed him a bowl of water, her eyes frightened,
little sucking noises coming from her lips. Her man was dead, who would provide? The boy was better than nothing; a
decision that dropped her hand from the knife tucked into her rags but Dumarest noticed the gesture and was
cautious as she washed blood from his nose and mouth.
"He hurt you." The woman was at his side judging the right time to establish her authority. "He was drunk, mad,
crazed and dangerous. I was afraid of him. That's why I couldn't help you last night."
Snorting he cleared his nose of clotted blood.
"I tried to stop him this morning," she continued. "He pushed me aside. You didn't see that, you were out of the
cave by then. The bastard hurt me." She winced as she pressed a hand to her side.
"He was always hurting me. I'm glad he's dead. Your nose hurt?
"No."
"It will." She lifted her hands towards him. "Unless you let me fix it you'll have trouble later on. It will block your
breathing."
Dumarest said, "Give me your knife."
"Knife? Knife? What the hell are you talking about?"
"The knife," he said again. "The one in your skirt. I just want to see it." Then, as she continued to shake her head,
he added. "I might be able to make one like it. It will be useful when hunting. I'll be able to get us more food."
"You'll hunt for me?" Dirt cracked in the creases of her face as she smiled. "You're a good boy, Earl. I've always
thought of you as my own. Stick with me and I'll look after you. Stand by me and you won't regret it."
"The knife?" He held out his hand. "I'll look at it while you fix my nose."
It was crude, a strip of pointed and edged metal with slats of wood to form a grip, the whole held together with
lashings of twine. He turned it as her fingers pressed at his nose, pushing cartilage back into place, roughly shaping
the damaged tissue.
"There!" She stepped back dropping her hands. "You finished with my knife?"
"I'm keeping it."
"Keeping it?" Her voice rose in a shriek of protest. "Stealing it, you mean. First you kill my man then you rob me.
Why stop there? Why not kill me too? Go ahead, you young swine. Kill me. Kill me, I dare you!" Her face changed as
he lifted the blade. "No! No, I didn't mean that!"
"How do you sharpen it? With a stone or a file? If you have a file I want that too."
"A stone," she said bitterly. "I haven't a file. Not now. He sold it for a bottle." She watched as he moved about the
cave. "What are you doing now? Robbing me some more?"
"I need clothes."
Clothes and food and something to carry it in. Water and a container for that too. A blanket against the cold of
night and coverings for his feet to protect them against the savage terrain. All the things which an adult had and
which he had been denied because he was a child. But he was that no longer. He would take what he needed and
make his way towards the east to live how he could.
A killer, a thief, a bully and a liar — a child of Earth.

***

They followed him. The men of the village eager for fun, for sport, for his agony and death. They had assembled
and sat and drank and talked and listened to the wailing complaints of the crone and her lies and demands that
something be done. Dumarest had always been a little strange, too reserved, too clever, a little too good at what he
attempted. Incidents were remembered, others invented. His victim had been popular in his careless, drunken fashion
and the sight of his corpse created unease. What had been done once could be done again. Other boys, goaded too
far, could remember what Dumarest had accomplished and try to follow his example. And they could succeed. The
stab of a point, the slash of an edge, the hammer blow of a stone — could be delivered with such speed and ease.
"Kill him!" demanded the crone. "He robbed me! Took my things. My blanket and jug and knife. He stole my knife!
He killed my man! You saw him do it! Let him do it! Watched as he beat his head and face to a pulp. Go and see it. See
what he did. Take a good look. Bury him — then go and get the bastard who did it!"
A score of them decided it was a good idea. True, the killer had a knife and he might well try to use it, but he was
a boy and they were men and it would be safe enough to track him down, and make him crawl and beg and plead and
scream as they broke his limbs, shriek as they tore out his eyes, moan as they used fire to sear his threshing flesh.
 It would be a thing to remember. Once they had whipped and tormented him into a mewing heap of lacerated
flesh and blackened bone. They would drag him back and hang him on a pole as an example. Something for all to see
and hear if they were careful to leave him alive. A lesson to those who might be tempted to forget who and what they
were and what would happen to them if they did.
"Let's go!" said a man. He swigged the last of the liquid in his jug. "Let's teach that little bastard a lesson no one
will ever forget!"
They knew the terrain. They had hunted and roved and scavenged and they knew which direction Dumarest had
taken. Knew, too, that he was young and relatively small and they could make faster progress. They had no doubt
they would catch him. He was starved and weak and would have limited endurance. Fear would ride with him and
terror would make him careless. He could even have made the mistake that there would be no pursuit. That they
would leave him alone. That he could walk away from his killing as if it had never happened. They would relish
reminding him it had.
He learned they were coming. Far back in the distance a bird had risen to wheel and glide away and, by so doing,
had signaled the presence of strangers in its domain. He knew who they had to be and could guess at their numbers.
Guess, too, as to how long they would take to reach his present position. By dusk, he calculated, studying the sun.
Maybe before, but he doubted it. For them dusk would be soon enough and the darkness of night would give an
added zest to what he knew they intended. But it would also give him an advantage.
Shards rattled from beneath his feet. The rags with which he had bound them protected him from the jagged
edges but the sound would carry and a hunter would recognize it for what it was. He repeated it, a third time, then
stepped slowly and stealthily to where the opening of a narrow gully pierced the surrounding mounds of the terrain.
The setting sun filled it with shadows and a straggle of trees resembled hostile sentries mounted on vantage
points and glaring at the opening, the expanse beyond. Stones lay scattered around and Dumarest paused to study
them. He had lost his sling but it was not a good close-quarter weapon. It took time to load and get into action and,
when spun, would produce a sound recognizable to any hunter. The knife was better but it was small and fragile and
to use it at all meant he would have to get in really close. An attack from the rear and a quick slash to cut the throat or
a stab to sever an artery. An attack that might work if the target was alone but relative size came into it and that
advantage was not his.
Carefully he chose from the scattered stones.
A sling wasn't essential to launch a missile. He had hands and arms and a back and shoulders to provide
muscular power. The thing was to get close enough, to throw fast and hard enough, to have a reserve in case of need.
The stones would provide it. He had reason to know how effective they could be. Others could have forgotten.
Standing among the trees he heard them coming. He stood against a bole, arms lifted, a stone gripped in both
hands. A heavy rock treble the size of his clenched fists, its weight taking its toll, giving birth to muscular tremors and
a mounting, numbing ache. Things he had expected and ignored. The bole of the tree eased his weight and gave a
degree of support. More important it enabled him to stand immobile. To wait in the thickening shadows as the rasp
of boots grew louder.
The voice was loud, blurred, careless. The man, a shape that gained features and details as it came closer. A big
man, blotched with sores, his clothing ragged, his temper short. A man Dumarest recognized.
"Earl! You in there? Answer me, lad. Let's end this and get back home. I've food and a fire and you're welcome to
share." He added, "Trust me. You'll come to no harm. I give you my word on that."
The rasp of boots grew louder as the man came closer. A hunter and a good one but a liar all the same. His head
moved as his eyes searched the dimness for a betraying trace of movement that Dumarest knew better than to
provide. He held his breath as the man turned to face the tree against which he stood, eyes studying the bole, the
silhouette, eyes and mouth opening in recognition at what he saw.
"By God, I've found you!" His voice rose to a shout as he ran towards his prey, coming close. "Hey! Here! I've—"
The shout died as Dumarest swung forward from the hips, the stone he held flung with all his force, arching from
his hands to land directly against the gaping mouth. Teeth shattered, bone, blood jetting as the man fell, dropping the
spear he had carried. Dumarest lunged forward, snatched up the weapon and slammed the blade into the fallen man's
heart.
Then he was running, weaving between the shielding trees, hearing shouts and curses behind him, the sounds of
pursuit, which faded as he gained distance and safety. Darkness closed around him and he moved steadily towards
the north living as best he could. A time of tribulation then, at the limit of his endurance, he stared at the strangest
thing he had ever seen.
It was something he had never seen before. A slim, rounded construction pointed at the sky. One bearing
symbols equally strange to which he gave no more than a glance his attention concentrated on the ramp leading from
the ground to an open port. Nowhere could he see or hear signs of life.
 For a long moment he hesitated then, as the wind stung his flesh with the chill of approaching night, he darted
forward, mounted the ramp and dived into the chamber beyond. A compartment filled with bales and boxes,
containers like coffins resting in the center. Odd things to find in an odd building but he had no time to examine them.
The sound of footsteps and coughing warned of the approach of others and he hid, watching, as they entered the
compartment.
Two men, wearing clothing almost identical in color and style, neither bearing weapons. One older, larger than
the other, dark stains marring his hands and cheeks who coughed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and
swore as he saw the trace of blood.
"That damned stuff Dorph's been feeding me isn't working. I've still got something eating at my lungs."
"Drugs take time to work," said the other. "You're loaded with antibiotics, there's nothing more Dorph can do. But
you engineers are all the same. You have no patience. No toleration. You want things to work and work at once.
Here." He produced a bottle from behind a heap of bales. "Take a slug of this, then we'll get to work. I checked the
cargo earlier so all we have to do is raise the ramp and seal the hold."
"You don't need me, Jesso. That's handler's work."
"You got something else to do?" The smaller man snatched back the bottle and took a gulp. He spat, cursing.
"This is too raw. It will taste better with some basic. I'll get us some from the dispenser while you wind up the
ramp."
"After we've wound up the ramp," corrected the big man. "I'm only here to help, remember?"
He moved towards the port and stood looking outside as the other crossed to where a spigot sprouted from the
wall. A thick liquid streamed from it as he pressed a control and half-filled a container. He topped it with what was in
the bottle, stirred it, sipped, nodded, tipped half into a second cup that he handed to the big man.
"This will hit the spot. Better than Dorph's tablets." He glanced at the open port. "What's it like out there?"
"The same as it's been all along. Cold, deserted, a barren waste. Now it's growing dark." The engineer gulped at
his cup. "Let's seal up and get the hell out of here."
Out of the compartment, away from where Dumarest crouched, shivering, fighting the hunger eating at his belly.
Crossing to the spigot he did as the smaller of the two men had done. The liquid was thick, sweet with an
appetizing tartness, emitting a tantalizing odor. He sipped at it then gulped it down. His stomach relayed messages of
gratitude. He helped himself to more and then more. Bloated he returned to his hiding place and snuggled against a
yielding bale.
Asleep he didn't notice the sudden movement of the compartment. Feel the change in orientation as the vessel
lifted towards the stars. Unaware that he was traversing the void until, inevitably, he was discovered.
Captain Bazan Deralta had an old, lined face with tufted eyebrows and a pinched nose set above a firm mouth
and prominent jaw. His skin was creped, mottled and pouched beneath the eyes. Thin hair graced a rounded skull.
His hands toyed with a small, rounded disc of polished stone.
"Your name, boy?" He nodded as it was given. "Well, Earl, so you decided to become a stowaway. Why did you do
it?"
Dumarest knew he needed to be polite.
"I didn't intend to, sir. I'd never seen a ship before. I thought it a building and I was desperate for shelter. I took
the open port to be a door and the ship as some kind of barn. That's the truth, sir. I swear it!"
"Did you know we'd left the planet?"
"No, sir."
"Even so you made a mistake, boy. A bad one." The captain leaned forward in his chair, eyes and face serious. "A
bigger mistake than I think you realize. It is my duty to punish you for having broken the regulations. Stowaways can't
be tolerated. They aren't invited and they aren't welcome. They can be dangerous. When found they are dumped as
unwanted cargo." The captain paused. "Do you understand what I am saying?"
"No, sir."
"It is my duty to evict you into space. Now do you understand?"
"I'm not sure, sir. What is space?"
"You don't know?" The captain shrugged. "No, why should you? You've never seen a ship before. Never left your
planet. Space is a vacuum, boy. A vast emptiness devoid of air. It cannot support life as we know it. Are you afraid?"
"Of dying? Yes, sir."
"Of course you are. To taste the void is not a pleasant way to die. Especially for the young and you are how old?
Ten? Eleven?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes what? Ten or eleven?"
"Ten, sir, I think. Or I could be eleven."
 "Aren't you sure?"
"No, sir." Dumarest looked at the captain. "Does it matter?"
"It should. Earth!" The captain spat the word. "You poor little bastard!"
"Sir?"
"Forget it. I meant no insult. You've no family, of course. No kin. No one to care for you. Nothing to eat and
nowhere to sleep. What the hell could you lose by stowing away? How were you to know you were committing
suicide?"
Dumarest remained silent, watching the hands as they toyed with the stone, sensing the man's doubt, his
indecision.
"What am I to do with you?" muttered Bazan. "Kill you, a boy? Toss you into the void because you acted from
ignorance? Dump you like excreta into space because you were desperate for shelter? Were you born for such an
end? Was anyone? Damn it! What to do?"
The stone slipped as he passed it from one hand to another, bounced on a knee and dropped to the deck.
Dumarest caught it just before it landed. It was carved in the shape of a woman depicted with her knees drawn to her
chin, head, back, buttocks and limbs blending in a smooth, continuous curve. The figure was worn with much
handling.
"Sir!" He handed it to the captain then saw the expression on the lined face. "Sir?"
"Do you always move as fast as that?"
"It was falling and I didn't want it to get broken."
"So you saw it begin to fall, lunged forward, stooped and snatched it before it could hit the deck." The captain
tossed the carving into the air, caught it, caressed it with the ball of his thumb and tucked it into a pocket. "Quick
thinking, boy. Can you read?"
"Yes, sir. A little. An old man taught me in exchange for food." He added, "He had some books but those who
killed him burned them for fuel."
"They murdered him?"
"They thought he had things of value."
"I see." The captain drew in his breath. "You've had a hell of a life. But it could change. Are you willing to work
hard? To learn?" As Dumarest nodded he added, "Damn it! I'll take a chance! You can work your passage. Ride with
us as crew. It will be a restricted life and it won't be easy. But, at least, you won't starve. Report to Dorph, the steward.
You'll find him in the salon."
A stranger as they were all strangers, as the ship was strange, the customs, the life. One of work and teasing, of
being the victim of mindless sadism, bearing the brunt of men tormented by boredom and the fear which
accompanied all who traversed the void. The empty dark in which dangers lurked and death could come in
unexpected ways.
Things the navigator taught him, as did the engineer, the steward and the handler. Each in their own fashion and
at their own pleasure. But he learned. Like a sponge he soaked up all the information that came his way. He read all
there was to read. He grew. He already had an animal-strength but a regular diet enhanced his physique. He
exercised. He washed and polished and cleaned the cabins and bulkheads, the cargo restraints and the caskets meant
for the conveyance of beasts in which those traveling Low rode doped, frozen and ninety per cent dead.
Most interesting was the salon in which those able to travel High idled away the tedium of the journey with the
help of quicktime, which turned hours into minutes. And, for the rest, there was drink, gossip and gambling.
Jesso the handler took care of that and took a pleasure in teaching the newcomer the tricks of his trade. From
him Dumarest learned how to shuffle, deal and handle a deck of cards. To manipulate them as he did those of lesser
skills. To sense a sharp, a cheat and a liar. To act as the handler's accomplice when he was involved in a game. A shill
who raised the betting when given the signal. To quit when told. To act when it became necessary to lower the
tension and restore equanimity.
To discover a vast new dominion of which he had been totally unaware. One filled with enticing novelty, of
unexpected beauty yet one that housed more savage predators than he had previously encountered. But he learned
and had acted when the need arose and had gained a measure of respect and acceptance. Life was good and he
relished the first contentment he had ever known.
But, on the world of Figona, it would all come to an end.

Part Two
– Figona –
 The captain was dying. He had been dying all during their recent voyage, growing skeletal-thin,
coughing clots of stained mucus and gobbets of ravaged tissue from decaying lungs. Spending the last
of his strength to land safely then to slump in the big chair in the control cabin to stare with glassy eyes
at the screens, dials, growing signals from the assembled panels. Standing beside him Dumarest heard
the liquid rasping, the soft rustle of clothing against plastic, saw the twist of the lips, the movements
of the hands and eyes, the ghastly sagging of a face now more than old.
"Steady," he soothed. "Just rest easy."
"Rest?" Bazan Deralta heaved in his chair: Coughing, he fought the phlegm which dogged his throat.
"Earl!"
He positioned the bowl, waited as the captain hawked and spat, clearing his throat, breathing with a
harsh, ragged sound. He lifted a protesting hand as Dumarest wiped his lips as he slumped back into his
chair.
"No, Earl! That's enough!"
Ignoring him he dipped the cloth into scented water and laved the captain's forehead, throat and
cheeks. The flesh burned as if with inner fire.
"How is he?" Entering the control room the navigator stared at the slumped figure. "Bad as ever. The poor
devil. He hasn't a hope of making it."
"We could take him to the infirmary."
"Sure," agreed Raistar. He was a tall, aging man with a harassed expression and a curt, blunt manner. "They
could take him and check his insides and take samples so as to grow new tissue. When ready they could slice him
open and replace his diseased organs and dump him into an amniotic tank. Slowtime would speed the healing. They
could fix him up as good as new. It could all be done in a few weeks." Bitterly he added, "All it takes is money."
"He has money. He has the ship."
"And when that's gone, what then?" The navigator shook his head. "And you're wrong, Earl. The captain
doesn't own the ship. We all have a share. So we sell it and pay for the treatment. If it works the captain will be
alive—but there will be no ship. At his age he hasn't a chance of getting another command. Not even a berth.
He'd be stranded."
"But alive."
"Or he doesn't make it." Raistar ignored the comment, "And we still have no ship."
"He's the captain! You just can't let him die!"
"We can't ruin ourselves to give him a chance." Anger tinged the navigator's voice. "You think we don't give a
damn? You think we don't care? But the facts are what they are. Either way we'd be stranded. Can you even begin
to imagine what that would be like? No berth, no cash, no future. No escape from this hellhole of a world. It's a
gamble we can't win. One we aren't going to take."
"But—"
"He's right, Earl." Zander had joined them in the control room. "We'll do the best we can but we can't take
the captain to the infirmary. The authorities will be notified in case of contamination. The ship will be
impounded and there will be heavy fees mounting day by day."
"We can work to pay them."
"It isn't as simple as that," said the engineer. "We can't afford to linger. As soon as Jesso has got us a cargo we're
o f f. "
"Without a captain?"
"Raistar can handle the ship. He can take care of the formalities. No one will know about the captain. Once in
space we'll do the best we can."
A best that needn't be good enough. None of the drugs they had carried had helped and Dumarest felt a
chill of foreboding as he again bathed the burning flesh of the emaciated face. One he had come to know and like
too well. A face of a man he had come to think of as a father, someone who had helped, who seemed to
understand, to be concerned. One who was going to die.
"We all have to go, Earl." The engineer, watching, had sensed his thoughts, guessed his emotions. His voice
was unusually gentle. "Today, tomorrow, someday—it all has to end. Bazan has done more than most. Seen more
than most. Now, maybe, it's time for him to move on."
"But there must be something we can do."
"There is and we will. Dorph is arranging it." Zander turned to lead the way from the control room, the big
chair, the wasted figure it contained. "You're to go with him to collect some medications. Hurry, Earl. He's
waiting for you outside."
 ***

Figona was a harsh world, one of clouded sunlight, tainted air and winds carrying the acrid stench of
chemicals. From where he stood at the head of the ramp Dumarest could see ugly glows on the horizon from
the smelters turning ore into ingots. Wisps of vapor streamed over the field, catching at his lungs, stinging his
eyes. The reason why the port had slammed close behind him. Such an atmosphere had no place within the vessel.
Especially when the captain was lying ill and coughing blood.
"Coming?"
Dorph, at the foot of the ramp, was impatient. Dumarest ignored him; years of association had lessened his
importance. Now the steward was just another person in a tiny world. As the engineer was another, the handler a
third. Both now busy on their own tasks.
"Earl! Damn it, boy, do you have to stand like some star-struck idiot? You've seen ships and landing fields
before. They're all the same. Let's get on with it."
Reluctantly he obeyed. It was true he had seen ships and fields before but, always, they held a special magic.
The attraction of the unknown. The hint of exotic adventure and unexpected possibilities. The ships scattered
around him had roamed the void and touched the planets of stars far distant. The crews that manned them had
trodden on worlds he had yet to see. Many of which he would never have the time to see.
Three years of travel had barely allowed him to touch the fringe of the universe.
"Hurry!" Dorph looked from side to side as Dumarest descended the ramp. A nervous gesture with no
apparent cause.
"We haven't much time," he said as he led the way to the gate. "The captain needs a special drug. Only a few
sell it. The man we need won't entertain visitors after dark."
Too many words and, like the furtive looks, foreign to his nature, Dorph never volunteered explanations.
He liked to remain enigmatic and, in his mind, mysterious. Now he wore a peaked cap fitted with an eye-screen,
which masked his face. He had insisted that Dumarest wore one like it. An odd request but there was no point
in arguing about it.
"Keep moving!" Dorph grunted as a guard blocked their passage. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. Just take it easy." The guard was a big man, armed and irritable. "Just give it a minute. Someone
special wants some room."
Dumarest looked to where the guard was facing. The crowd of men was parting, yielding to clear a passage
down which came a tail, thin figure. One seeming to glide over the tamped dirt, resplendent in a robe of vivid
scarlet, the breast adorned with a gleaming sigil. Beneath the raised cowl he caught a glimpse of a taut, skull-
like visage, the glow of sunken eyes.
"Who—"
"Quiet, boy!" snapped Dorph. "Don't be curious!"
The guard wasn't so reticent.
"It's a way of life," said Dumarest. "Some like it, some don't. I do."
"You've never seen one before?" His eyes roved over Dumarest. "Well, maybe not, you're young and there
aren't many in this area. You're looking at a cyber. An associate of the Cyclan. Closer to the Center they can be
found on every thriving world." He spat on the dirt. "Scum, the lot of them! They should be burned!"
"Why?"
"Forget it, Earl!"
Like Dumarest the guard ignored the steward.
"You want to know why? I'll tell you why. I was born on Helgar, a warm and easy world a long way from here.
My family shared and farmed a valley for five generations. We all lived well. Then the new Magnate wanted to
increase his revenue. He hired the Cyclan to advise him how best to do it. Their advice turned the valley into a
reservoir. We lost our home, land, everything. For compensation we were given a tract of desert. My father cut his
throat. My mother starved, my sisters and other brothers – " He broke off, quivering with rage. "All thanks to the
Cyclan. Damn the red swine!"
Dumarest looked at the tall figure with fresh interest.
He had passed deeper into the field but now it was obvious he was not alone. Two others accompanied him,
acolytes wearing simple robes. The ship to which they headed stood in isolation at the far edge of the field.
"What are they doing here?"
"Who knows? Who cares?" As the guard lowered his arm Dorph headed towards the gate. "Hurry! Let's get
moving!" Through the gate, past the guards, the cluster of loungers, the curious, the hopeful, the desperate.
"Mister!" One grabbed at the steward. "You from a ship? I need passage, I can work, do anything, I just have to
get away."
Dorph was curt. "Forget it."
"I don't want much. Just a passage."
"You willing to ride Low?"
"Anything, mister. Anything!"
"Got cash?"
"Some. Look."
"Not enough." Dorph waved aside the handful of coins, "It's no deal."
"Mister! I'm begging you!"
As they left him behind Dumarest said, "Shouldn't Jesso have made the decision?"
"Why waste his time? You know the rules—no cash, no ride. Anyway, he would never have made it."
" Je s s o — "
"Damn it, Earl, forget Jesso. He would have done the same. Now let's get on with what we came to do."

***

The apothecary was housed in a building adorned with the depiction of great flasks of varied colors. Lamps
hung between them, now lit against the growing darkness, casting swathes of cerise, orange, lavender, ruby,
golden yellow, lambent emerald. The man himself was small with darting eyes in a creased and puckered face.
Around him reared shelves bearing an assortment of containers. Dumarest stared with interest at glowing heaps
of crystalline dusts, mounds of elaborately convoluted seeds, phials of enigmatic fluids, the mummified corpses
of insects and fish, worms, things like spiders and tadpoles, others like the substance of nightmares.
"Ears," said the apothecary. "Culled from those executed at dawn, steeped in bile and blood and dried in the
heat of a noonday sun. And these—" his finger rapped against another container – "eyes. Plucked from the living
sockets of those condemned to end their days in torment. Basted in the effluvium of seared and living fat,
chilled, left to shrink in the glow of a gibbous moon. Are you interested, young sir? Have you a problem? Here,
within these walls, all can be solved. A subtle poison. A strong aphrodisiac. A rival disposed of and a woman eager
to fall into your arms. Could paradise offer more?"
"Forget it," snapped Dorph. "He may be young but he isn't stupid."
"Young, yes, but the future comes closer with each second and each second we age. A year, two, who can tell?"
The apothecary's shrug was as old as time. "Yet, perhaps, the aphrodisiac will not be necessary. Many maidens
would be eager to make a gift of their charms. But the poison is another matter. A defense carried against a time
of need. A ring, hollowed, shedding a lethal drop into a goblet of wine, feeding the tip of a needle so that a touch
would be sufficient. I can supply such a device capable of both means of execution."
"You're wasting your time," said the steward. "He can't afford it. Anyway, what would he want with poison?
He's just a boy."
"No," said the apothecary softly. "In that you are mistaken. Your companion is not a boy. He is a young
man. One, I would wager, who has seen more than most. Done more than most. Would you swear I am
wrong?" Again he shr ugged at the lack of an answer.
"Well, if I have nothing he can use, how can I serve you?" He squinted at the paper Dorph slapped down
before him. "It seems, my friend, you are in trouble."
"Never mind that. Can you supply what I need?"
"Be patient." Again the apothecary studied the list. "The one coughing blood—how long has the condition
lasted?"
"Did I say someone was coughing blood?"
"You ask for a drug designed to combat just such a condition. Naturally, it could have many causes,
some relatively harmless. Others could be of far greater concern." The apothecar y tapped a finger on the
list. "Now this item, Slowtime, expensive but—"
"I didn't come for a lecture," snapped Dorph. "Can you give me what's listed? If not I'll go
somewhere else."
"To the field infirmary, perhaps?" The apothecary's smile held nothing of humor. "To a registered
physician? An officially authorized pharmacy? If so do not let me detain you." He waited then, "No? Then
let us get down to business. You have money? These items are not cheap."
But the price would include more than the product; silence gained and anonymity provided.
Dumarest wondered at the need. Before he could ask the steward snarled his impatience.
"Look at that rubbish." He gestured at the assembled containers. "Did you believe what he told you?"
 "About the eyes and ears?"
"They are fungi and galls. The rest a collection of seeds, pods, roots, fruits, twigs—hell, you name it. Stuff the
ignorant believe will bring health and cure their ills."
"Like those leeches?" Dumarest pointed to a jar in which slender shapes drifted in a murky fluid. "Those
maggots?"
Both, he had learned, of worth in the treatment of wounds and a variety of ailments. Despite appearances
the apothecary had knowledge of medicine. Dorph must have known that. But why had he chosen to deal with
such a man?
A question unanswered as he returned bearing a parcel. Dorph checked the contents. Money changed hands.
Bolts grated as the door slammed shut behind them.
"Here." Dorph handed Dumarest the package. "Let's get back to the ship."

***

Night had fallen, clouds shielding the stars, the sky a pattern of reflected light from the distant smelters. On
all sides patches of brilliance illuminated the shuttered buildings, lanterns set behind panes of glass glowing a broad
spectrum of color. Shapes moved across them, the figures of pedestrians, cloaked, hooded, some masked against
the acrid wind. Coughs merged with the rasp of boots, the tapping of canes.
"Be careful." Dorph slowed as they neared the glow of illumination from the field, head moving as his eyes
quested the dimness. "There could be thieves. We don't want to be robbed. Killed, even."
"So close to the field?"
"What's to stop them?"
"The guards —"
"—are tough when in the company of their own kind. Alone they watch their skin, but you never see them
alone. The steward halted, "This is close enough. You can make your own way from here. Go down that street,
turn right at the end, left at the next turn and the field will lie directly ahead. Get to the ship and hand over
the parcel. If the others aren't there Raistar will manage."
"What about you?"
"That's my business."
"You're the steward, " said Dumarest. "You should conduct any medication. It isn't Raistar' s job."
Dorph said, thickly, "Listen, boy! I've had enough of your mouth. Just remember who you are and do as
you're told." He added, as Dumarest drew in his breath, "If you want to keep riding with us just do as I say.
Deliver the parcel. I've other things to do."
He vanished into the writhing mist and Dumarest resisted the urge to follow him. The man had never been a
friend and now he'd shown his true colors. Later he would decide what to do about it. Now he had the drugs to
deliver and a friend to save.
A shadow loomed before him as he neared the gate. A thick arm clamped his chest and a hand rose to cover his
mouth.
"Don't move! Don't make a noise!"
Zander. Dumarest froze in obedience. A hand tore the cap from his head.
"Earl? Where's Dorph?" The engineer snarled as Dumarest told him. "Walked away? Threatened you? Took off
while he was safe. The bastard! He won't be safe for long!"
"What's happening? Zander! Tell me!"
"Something you won't like hearing." The engineer loosened his grasp and Dumarest turned to face him. The
man's face was drawn, marred by an ugly bruise on the left cheek. A trail of blood ran from the corner of his
mouth.
"What's happened? You've been in a fight."
"Did you see the cyber?"
"Yes. On the way out."
"With Dorph." Zander's voice thickened. "The bastard! It all adds up. He was in a hurry, right? Eager to go
about his own business?"
"Yes."
"He would be. Damn him! He—" The engineer snarled his impatience as a pair of guards sauntered towards
them. "This is no place to talk. Let's find somewhere private." A tavern with a low roof and thick, acrid, smoke-
filled air. A rough place with furniture to match. One catering to field-workers, transients, those with too
much time and too little money. A slattern bought wine and stained beakers. She waited to be paid, studying
them both before moving away to serve others.
"Here!" Zander poured wine and pushed a beaker towards Dumarest. "Pick it up. Pretend to drink. That slut is
still watching." As Dumarest obeyed, the engineer continued, "Things have turned bad. The captain's dead,
Raistar too. I left them, both after you'd gone and tried to find Jesso. I heard talk and—"
"The captain is dead?"
"As I told you." Zander gulped some of his wine.
"Bazan, Raistar and from what I heard you can add Jesso to the list. They caught up with us. Someone helped
them to do it. "
Dumarest thought of the captain and felt an aching sense of loss, "How?" he said. "Why?"
"Listen," said Zander, "and try to understand. When you found us we were somewhere we shouldn't have
been. We'd taken a gamble on making a quick profit and lost. It was a mistake. Now we are paying for it."
Dumarest said, "You stole the ship?"
"You could call it that," Zander drank more wine, "We decided to operate as a free-trader and managed to
scrape a living by carrying cheap cargoes for low profit. We were living on borrowed time." Again he gulped at
the wine. "Taste the stuff," he urged, "That bitch is still watching. I don't want her to get too curious."
The wine was rough, raw, and thick with floating particles. Dumarest spat the little he had taken back into
the beaker.
"Now the owners have caught up?"
"Someone has. After I'd heard about Jesso I returned to the ship. A stranger was waiting. He tried to kill me."
Zander touched his cheek, coughed, looked at the blood staining his hand, "He had taken care of the captain and
Raistar, maybe Jesso too. The entire crew gone aside from me and Dorph."
"And me?"
"No, Earl, not you. You were never crew. Never listed as such. Stay clear and you'll be safe."
"Dorph knows."
"Too much. I think he betrayed us. That's why he insisted you wear a cap matching his own. You dress alike
and are much the same size. It would be easy to take you for him. Kill you instead of him." He coughed again and
fought for breath. "Did you get the drugs you were after?"
"You're hurt, Zander, let me get help."
"Forget it. Just give me what you collected from the apothecary." The engineer studied the items.
"Antibiotics, sedatives, salves, inhalants, pain-killers, Slowtime—" He lifted the small containers and shook a half-
dozen painkillers into his palm. Swallowing them he said, "This should hold me. I'll keep the Slowtime. Take the
rest. They might be worth something." Abruptly he added, "Goodbye, Earl."
"Goodbye?"
"We're parting company, I've something to do and I don't want you involved. Don't return to the field.
Don't even ask about the ship. Just go and keep going. Here." Zander put coins on the table. "It isn't much but
it's all I have. Now go and keep moving."
Dumarest said, "Don't talk rubbish! If you're hurt I want to help."
"You can't." The engineer's face twisted in pain. "I'm bleeding inside. Dying. You're on your own. Now get the
hell away from me." Zander rose and staggered and clutched at the table for support. A moment which betrayed
his weakness, then he straightened and raised the phial of Slowtime to his lips. "Take care, Earl. Now I'm going
to fix Dorph and then take care of the captain. Move, boy! Move!"

***

The night had turned savage with sharp winds carrying the bite of stinging vapor and noxious gasses. Things
ignored as he moved down the streets away from the field, obeying Zander's instructions because he could think
of no better alternative. Overwhelmed by the sudden realization that the comfort and security he had enjoyed
was over, that those he had known as family and friends had gone, vanished as the engineer bad vanished when
he had taken the Slowtime. But Zander hadn't died. He had simply jerked into an accelerated state of existence
in which, for him, time had slowed so that minutes became hours and he could walk safe and unseen through
lurking dangers. To find the man who had betrayed them. To kill him. To close his mouth before he could do more
damage and then to destroy the ship and the dead it contained.
To create a pyre in which he also would perish.
It blossomed as he reached an intersection; wide avenues crossing to create an open circular area ringed with
the glow of accumulated lanterns casting an assortment of vibrant hues embracing the entire spectrum of the
universe. Glows which faded in the sudden burst of searing brilliance from the field to become smears set against
drab stone and stained concrete, moldering bricks and cracked flags. In the brilliance scattered figures stood out
in sharp relief and clomps of vegetation dotting the central area took on the visage of carved ebony in intricate
array.
As the searing brilliance died the gusting wind carried more than the rustle of stirring leaves.
"There! I saw him! There facing Eastlane! Let's get him!"
The voice of a predator scenting an easy prey. One accompanied by the thud of racing boots and, hearing them,
Dumarest ran across the intersection, aiming for a patch of scrub, which marred the smooth contours of the
area. Reaching it he halted, crouching so as to hide in its shadow. Listening he heard only the sough of the wind.
He had seen guards in the glare of the pyre but to call for their aid would be to invite attention and, if they
chose to ignore him, he would have betrayed his position. If he froze, waiting, those after him might tire of the
hunt. Or, knowing the area better than he, they might even now be creeping forward to take him unawares.
He reached out, hands flat, fingers and palms searching for stones, He found nothing but grit and loam. He
gathered a handful of each and crouched, staring at the hues now again staining the buildings, watching for a
silhouette to break their pattern.
Too late he heard the crunch of dirt beneath a boot.
"Well, now, what have we here?" The voice held the purr of a sadistic beast. "A smart little runner—but not
smart enough. On your feet, scum! Stand so we can see you!" The impact of a boot emphasized the command. It
slammed into his side with brutal force, turning him to sprawl on his back, arms spread, legs bent at the knees.
Above him a figure stood with shadowed menace.
"Up, I said! On your feet! Move!"
Again the boot, the flare of agony from his side, the sick feeling of helplessness, the mounting terror. He
was a victim, the prey of a sadistic psychopath. A bully who took pleasure in tormenting the helpless.
Dumarest moved, rolling, shifting his legs so as to gain mobility, his hands emptying, pressing against the
ground as he used the muscles of back and shoulders to lift his weight, Pain made it hard and he guessed at broken
ribs.
He cried out as the boot lifted and swung towards him.
"No! Don't!"
"So you've got a voice. That's nice. Let us hear more of it. The boot swung again, this time slamming into his
side. "Talk scum! Talk!"
Talk and be kicked to death for a joke, a momentary thrill, or stay silent and receive the same treatment.
Either way he couldn't win. Yet if he didn't win he would die.
"I've got stuff," he panted. "Drugs. Kick and you'll break the containers. You want them, you can have them."
"Drugs?"
"That's right. Enough for you both." Dumarest looked to see if his assailant was alone. He'd given the
impression that he had company but, like the threats and intimidation that could have been a part of the
ritual. "Here!" He swung back to rest on his heels as he delved into his tunic.
"Not so fast! What you got in there? A gun? A knife?"
"Nothing. Just these—" He broke off as the boot swung towards his face, catching it at toe and heel, twisting
it outwards from the body, rising as the man cursed then, thrown off-balance, fell backwards.
And screamed as Dumarest slammed his own boot into his groin. Screamed again at a second kick then fell
silent as his larynx pulped beneath a third blow.
"Hold it!" A harsh voice rapped the command from beyond the vegetation. "Halt or I shoot!"
"Save your breath." His companion hawked and spat. "We'll get him another time, Let's see what he was up
to."
Dumarest dropped before the two men came into sight, Guards from their equipment and uniforms.
Flashlights illuminated the scene focusing on Dumarest as he groaned.
"What the hell's been going on here?" One stooped over the limp figure of the predator lying to one side. "Dead.
Throat-blow by the look of it. Did you do it?" He glared at Dumarest. "Come on, talk, was it you?"
"No." Dumarest blinked in the glow of the flashlight. "I'm not too sure what happened. I was with him,"
he pointed at the sprawled figure. "We were talking. Then a man came along and hit me. I think he ran away."
"The one we heard, " said the other guard. "He must have been lurking in the bushes waiting for someone to
pass by. This one couldn't have done it. Hell, he's only a kid. So the man who ran was on the prowl or knew the
dead man. He knocked hell out of the kid then when the dead man tried to protect him he went berserk."
"Maybe." His companion wasn't as certain. "What were you doing here, anyway?" he said to Dumarest. "Where
were you going?"
"I was looking. Someone told me there was a place where I could get something to eat and stay the night."
 "And this guy offered to take you then? Is that it?" The guard grunted as Dumarest nodded. "I'd say you've
been lucky. You hurt bad?"
"Bruises. I can manage."
"You got a home? Family? No?" The guard turned away the beam of his flashlight. His companion was
examining the dead man. "Anything?"
"Maybe. What are we going to do about the kid?"
"We should take him in, make out a report! Get him checked for injuries."
"He says he's only bruised." Leaving the sprawled corpse the guard rose and leaned towards Dumarest. "That's
right, isn't it boy? Just a few bruises."
"Yes, sir."
"So you don't really need medical attention and a lot of questions. We can all do without trouble, right?"
Trouble and unwanted interest. The dead man probably carried items of value that the guards intended to
steal. He was a nuisance they could do without. Unless he was careful they could easily smash in his skull in order
to free themselves of an unwanted witness. Who would care about a dead stranger?
Fighting his pain Dumarest said, "That's right, sir. It's just as you say. I want no trouble. I just want to find
that place I was told about."
"That must be the church. They're always taking in the dregs." The guard pointed down a street. "It's down
there a ways. Maybe ten minutes walk. The monks will look after you."
Ten minutes which took him an hour and he was reeling and staggering in a spinning world when he saw the
glow of a lantern suspended over the open door of a shabby building and the cowled figure standing outside. A
figure which seemed too swell then shrink and then was suddenly close as, doubled, Dumarest coughed blood.
"Brother!" The arms supporting him were thin but strong. "Be at ease. You are with those who will help you."
The Monks of the Church of Universal Brotherhood who would save his life.

The Winds of Gath

Chapter One
He woke counting seconds, rising through interminable strata of ebony chill to warmth, light and a growing
awareness. At thirty-two the eddy currents had warmed him back to normal. At fifty-eight his heart began beating
under its own power. At seventy-three the pulmotor ceased helping his lungs. At two hundred and fifteen the lid
swung open with a pneumatic hiss.
He lay enjoying the euphoria of resurrection.
It was always the same, this feeling of well-being. Each time he woke there was the surge of gladness that once
again he had beaten the odds. His body tingled with life after the long sleep during which it had been given the
opportunity to mend minor ills. The waking drugs stimulated his imagination. It was pleasant to lie, eyes closed, lost
in the pleasure of the moment.
"You okay?"
The voice was sharp, anxious, breaking into his mood. Dumarest sighed and opened his eyes. The light was too
bright. He lifted a hand to shield his face, lowered it as something blocked the glare. Benson stood looking down at
him from the foot of the open box. He looked the same as Dumarest remembered, a small man with a puckered face,
an elaborate fringe of beard and a slick of black hair, but how much did a man have to age before it showed?
"You made it," said the handler. He sounded pleased. "I didn't expect trouble but for a minute back there you had
me worried." He leaned forward, his head blocking more of the light. "You sure that you're okay?"
Dumarest nodded, reluctantly recognizing the need to move. Reaching out, he clamped his hands on the edges of
the box and slowly pulled himself upright. His body was as expected, nude, bleached white, the skin tight over
prominent bone. Cautiously he flexed his muscles, inflated the barrel of his chest He had lost fat but little else. He
was still numb for which he was thankful.
"I haven't lost a one yet," boasted the handler. "That's why you had me worried. I've got a clean score and I want
it to stay that way."
It wouldn't, of course. Benson was still fresh at the game. Give him time and he would become less conscientious,
more time and he would grow careless, finally he wouldn't give a damn. That's when some of his kind thought it cute
to cut the dope and watch some poor devil scream his lungs raw with the agony of restored circulation.
"I'm forgetting," he said. He passed over a cup of brackish water. Dumarest drank it, handed back the cup.
"Thanks." His voice was thin, a little rusty. He swallowed and tried again. This time he sounded more like his
normal self. "How about some basic?"
"Coming right up."
Dumarest sat hunched in the box as Benson crossed to the dispenser. He wrapped his arms about his chest,
conscious of the cold, the bleakness of the compartment The place resembled a morgue. A chill, blue-lighted cavern,
the air tainted with a chemical smell. A low place, shapeless with jutting struts and curved beams, harsh with the
unrelieved monotony of unpainted metal.
There was no need for heat in this part of the ship and no intention of providing comfort. Just the bare metal, the
ultraviolet lamps washing the naked, coffin-like boxes with their sterilizing glow. Here was where the livestock rode,
doped, frozen, ninety per cent dead. Here was the steerage for travelers willing to gamble against the fifteen per cent
mortality rate.
Such travel was cheap—its sole virtue.
But something was wrong.
Dumarest sensed it with the caution born of long years of experience. It wasn't the waking. He had gained
awareness long before the end of the five-minute waking cycle. It wasn't Benson. It was something else—something
which should not be.
He found it after he had moistened the tips of his fingers and rested them lightly against the bare metal of the
structure. They tingled with the faint but unmistakable effect of the Erhaft field. The ship was still in space.
And travelers were never revived until after landing.

***

Benson returned with a pint of basic. A thin vapor rose from the cup, scientifically designed to stimulate the
appetite. He smiled as he passed it over.
"Here," he said. "Get this down while it's still warm."
The fluid was sickly with glucose, laced with vitamins, thick with protein. Dumarest swallowed it with caution,
taking small sips, careful of his stomach. He handed Benson the empty container and stepped from the box. A drawer
beneath held his clothes and personal effects. He dressed and checked his gear.
"It's all there," said Benson. His voice was hollow against the echoing metal. "Everything's just as you left it."
Dumarest tightened his belt and stamped his feet in their boots. They were good boots, A wise traveler looked
after his feet.
"I wouldn't steal anything from you people." The handler was insistent on his honesty. "I don't blame you for
checking your gear but I wouldn't steal it."
"Not if you've got any sense," agreed Dumarest. He straightened, towering over the other man. "But it's been
tried."
"Maybe. But not by me."
"Not yet."
"Not ever. I'd never do a thing like that."
Dumarest shrugged, knowing better, then looked at the other boxes. He crossed to them, checking their contents.
Three young bulls, two rams, a solid block of ice containing salmon, a dog, a plethora of cats—the general livestock
cargo of any starship traveling at random and trading in anything which would yield a profit. Animals but no people
—despite all the empty boxes. He looked at the handler.
"There were other travelers wanting passage at your last port of call," he said evenly. "Why only me?"
"You came early."
"So?"
"We had a last-minute charter. The Matriarch of Kund and party. You were already in freeze or you'd have been
dumped out with the other passengers and freight." Benson crossed to the dispenser and refilled the empty cup.
"They took the whole ship."
"Big money," said Dumarest. The only way to break the Captain's Bond was to buy off anyone who could claim
prior right. "Didn't she have a ship of her own?"
"She did." Benson rejoined Dumarest. "I heard one of our engineers talking and he said that their drive was on the
blink. Anyway, the Old Man took the charter and we left right away."
Dumarest nodded, taking his time over the second pint. A spaceman could live on four ounces of basic a day and
he was beginning to feel bloated. Benson sat close, his eyes on the big man's face. He seemed eager to talk, to break
the silence normal to his part of the ship. Dumarest humored him.
"A matriarch, eh? Plenty of women to liven things up."
"They're traveling High," said Benson. "All but the guards, and they don't want to play." He hunched even closer.
"What's it like being a traveler? I mean, what do you get out of it?"
His eyes were curious and something else. Dumarest had seen it so often before, the look of the stay-put to the
mover-on. They all had it and the envy would grow. Then, as the prison of their ship began to close in, that envy
would sour into hate. That's when a wise traveler waited for another ship.
"It's a way of life," said Dumarest. "Some like it, some don't. I do."
"How do you go about it? What do you do between trips?"
"Look around, get a job, build another stake for passage to somewhere else." Dumarest finished the basic and set
down the empty cup. "Broome is a busy world. I won't have too much trouble finding a ship heading for somewhere I
haven't yet seen." He caught the handler's expression. "We're going to Broome? The place you told me was the next
port of call?"
"No." Benson retreated a little. Dumarest caught his arm.
"I booked for Broome," he said coldly. His hand tightened. The handler winced. "Did you lie?"
"No!" Benson had courage. "You booked the usual," he said. "A passage to the next port of call. I thought it was
Broome. It was Broome until we got that charter."
"And now?"
"We're three days flight from Gath."

***

Close your eyes, hold your breath, concentrate. On Gath you can hear the music of the spheres!
So claimed the admen and they could have been telling the truth—Dumarest had never wanted to find out. Gath
was for tourists with a two-way ticket. It was an "attraction" with no home industry, no stable society in which a
traveler could work to build the price of get-away fare. A dead, dumb, blind-alley of a world at the end of the line.
He stood at the edge of the field looking it over. He wasn't alone. Down past the leveled area, crouched in the
scoop of a valley running down to the sea, squatted a huddle of ramshackle dwellings. They reflected the poverty
which hung over them like a miasma. They gave some shelter and a measure of privacy and that was all.
Further off and to one side, on some high ground well away from the danger of the field and the smell of the
camp, sat a prim collection of prefabricated huts and inflatable tents. There sat the money and the comfort money
could provide—the tourists who traveled High, doped with quick-time so that a day seemed an hour, a week a day.
Those in the camp had traveled like Dumarest—Low. Those who rode Middle stayed with the ships which were
their home. They would stay, so Benson had said, until after the storm. Then they would leave. Others would return
for the next storm. On Gath that was about four months. An age.
Dumarest walked from the field, thrusting his way past a handful of men who stared at the ships with hopeless
eyes, feeling his boots sink into the dirt as he left the hardened surface. It was hot, the air heavy, the humidity high. He
opened his collar as he entered the camp. A narrow lane wound between the dwellings, uneven and thick with dust. It
would lead, he knew, to a central area—common to all such encampments. He was looking for information. He found
it sooner than he hoped.
A man sat before the open front of one of the dwellings. It had been clumsily built from scraps of discarded
plastic sheeting supported by branches, weighted with rocks. The man was bearded, dirty, his clothing a shapeless
mess. He stooped over a boot trying to mend a gaping rip in the side. He looked up as Dumarest approached.
"Earl!" The boot and scraps of twisted wire fell aside as he sprang to his feet. "Man, am I sorry to see you!"
"Megan!" Dumarest's eyes probed the dirt, the beard, the shapeless clothing. "As bad as all that?"
"Worse." Megan stooped, picked up his boot, swore as he thrust a finger through the hole. "Just arrived?"
"Yes."
"How was the handler on your ship?" Megan was too casual. "A decent type?"
"Couldn't be better. Why?"
"Decent enough to trust a man?"
"He isn't a fool." Dumarest sat down before the hut. "You know the rules, Megan. No cash, no ride. How long have
you been stuck here?"
"Over a year." Viciously he flung down the damaged boot. "Four times I've seen the ships come in and four times
they've left without me. If I don't get away soon I won't be able to get away at all. Even now I'd be taking more than a
normal risk."
He was optimistic. Beneath the dirt Megan was gaunt, his clothes hanging from a skeletal frame. For him to travel
Low in his condition was suicide. He looked enviously at Dumarest.
"You're looking fit," he said. "For a man who's just landed."
"I had luck," said Dumarest, and smiled at the memory. "The handler stepped out of line and got himself
disciplined. He woke me three days early for the sake of company. He wanted someone to talk to. I let him talk."
"And got well fed for listening." Megan scowled. "I bet he wanted to know all about being a traveler."
"You know?"
"It happens all the time. Damn yokels! They can't understand that it takes guts to operate on your own. They get
to hate us for being what they can't and they vent their spite any way they can. Damn them all to hell!"
He sat down, lacking the strength for sustained anger.
"I got here by mistake," he said quietly. "A lying handler said the ship was bound for Largis. I didn't know he'd lied
until I was outside the ship. At first I wasn't too worried. I'd heard about Gath and was curious. I wanted—well, never
mind that. I even had a little money to tide me over before settling down to earn a stake. That's when it hit me."
"No work," said Dumarest. "No loose money lying around. I know how it is."
"You were always smart," said Megan dully. "I remember you talking about it that time on Shick. The worlds a
traveler had to stay away from if he didn't want to get stranded. Well, what good did it do you?"
"None," said Dumarest flatly. He explained how he came to be on the planet. Megan nodded, moodily examining
his boot.
"I saw the party land. Big, well-armed, enough stuff to stock a store."
"They've got money," agreed Dumarest. "Maybe they came here to hunt."
"Then they're wasting their time." Megan spat his disgust. "There's no game on this planet—not here at least. And
people don't visit Gath to hunt."
"Then the guns must be for something else." Dumarest was thoughtful. "A big party, you say?"
"That's right. They didn't look like a bunch of tourists and didn't act like ones. More like a military detachment
than anything else. Female guards everywhere, tough as nails and as ugly as sin. They've set up their tents in
Hightown." Megan picked up the scraps of wire and began to fumble with his boot. His hands were shaking. "I offered
to carry some of their stuff. One of them pushed me aside. That's how I ripped my boot. I tripped and almost busted
an ankle." He pursed his lips. "Nice people."
"I know the type." Dumarest reached out and took the boot and wire. "Here, let me do that."
Megan didn't object. He sat watching, trying to pluck up his courage. "Earl. I—"
"Later," said Dumarest quickly. "After I've finished this you can show me where I can get us something to eat." He
didn't look at the other man, concentrating on the repair. "Now let me see," he mused. "The problem is to last it tight
enough not to yield but leave it flexible enough to give."
But that wasn't the real problem.

Chapter Two
There was no cycle of night and day on Gath. Always the swollen ball of the sun glowered over the horizon,
tinting the leaden sea the color of blood. To the east there was darkness, cold, mysterious. Between light and dark ran
a strip of bearable temperature but only here, on this waterlogged world, did it touch both land and ocean. The
accident of distribution had helped to make the planet unique.
"A dying world," said a voice. It was soft, carefully modulated. "Angered at the knowledge of its inevitable end. A
little jealous, a little pathetic, very much afraid and most certainly cruel."
"You are speaking of Gath?" Seena Thoth, ward of the Matriarch of Kund, stayed looking through the window set
into the wall of the tent. There was no need for her to turn. She had recognized the voice. Synthosilk rustled as the
tall figure of Cyber Dyne stepped to her side.
"What else, My Lady?"
"I thought it possible you spoke in analogy." She turned and faced the cyber. He wore the scarlet robe of his class;
beneath its cowl his face was smooth, ageless, unmarked by emotion. "The Matriarch is also old, perhaps a little
afraid, most certainly cruel—to those who oppose her will."
"To be a ruler is not an easy thing, My Lady."
"It can be worse to be a subject." She turned from the window, her face pale beneath the black mound of
lacquered hair. "I saw one before we left Kund, a man impaled on a cone of polished glass. They told me that his
sensitivity to pain had been heightened and that he would take a long time to die."
"He was a traitor, My Lady. The manner of his death was chosen so as to serve as an example to others who
might be tempted to rebel."
 "By your advice?" She tightened her lips at the inclination of his head. "So. You oppose rebellion?"
"I do not oppose, I do not aid. I take no sides. I advise. I am of value only while I remain detached." He spoke his
credo in the same soft, even modulation he would use to announce the arrival of battle, murder, and sudden death.
She hid her repulsion as she heard it. It was instinctive, this dislike of hers for the cyber. As a woman she was
proud of her sex and the power it gave. She liked to read desire in the eyes of men but she had never read it in the
eyes of Dyne. She would never read it. No woman ever would.
At five he had been chosen. At fifteen, after a forced puberty, he had undergone an operation on the thalamus. He
could feel no joy, no hate, no desire, no pain. He was a coldly logical machine of flesh and blood, a detached,
dispassionate human robot. The only pleasure he could know was the mental satisfaction of correct deduction.
"It seems to me," she said slowly, "that your logic is at fault. To make a martyr is a mistake. Martyrs make causes."
"Not unless there is a cause to make," he corrected.
"The man was a paid assassin. He knew the risk he ran and accepted it. The opposition on Kund, My Lady, is not
of the masses. It is common knowledge that the rule of the Matriarch has been benevolent."
"That is true."
"It is also well known that she is no longer young and has still not named her successor."
She nodded, impatient with him for laboring the obvious.
"That is why the site of the execution was chosen so carefully," he murmured. "It was no accident that the man
was impaled before the residence of the Lady Moira."
The suggestion was outrageous. Seena both knew and liked the woman. "You say that she would employ an
assassin? Ridiculous!"
Dyne remained silent.
"The Lady Moira is rich and powerful," she admitted. "But she is a woman of honor."
"Honor, My Lady, can mean many things to many people."
"But assassination—"
"Is an accepted political instrument. It is feared that the Matriarch is no longer at her prime. There are those who
are concerned about the succession. That," he added, "is why I chose the place of execution."
"I know," she said impatiently. "Before the residence of the Lady Moira." Her eyes widened. "Whose house is next
to the Halatian Embassy!"
Dyne made no answer, his face bland, his eyes enigmatic, but Seena was no fool. She had lived too long in the
hothouse atmosphere of court intrigue not to be able to see the obvious. Kund was wealthy, Halat was not. Many
thought that the Lady Moira had a better claim to the throne than the Matriarch. Gloria was old.
But to assassinate her?
"You misunderstand, My Lady," said Dyne in his soft modulation. "The assassination was not aimed at the
Matriarch. It was aimed at yourself."

***

A bell chimed from an inner room of the complex of inflated plastic which was their temporary home. A curtain
swept aside and Gloria, the Matriarch of Kund, stood in the opening. She was very old but as a tree is old, grown
tough with age and battle, hard and determined and drawing strength from that determination. Two of her guards
attended her, hard-faced, mannish women, dedicated and fantastically loyal. She waved them aside as she moved
toward a chair.
"I can manage. I'm not so old that you have to carry me about!"
Her voice, she knew, was too thin, too querulous but it was something that couldn't be helped. Not even the
cosmosurgeons could revitalize delicate tissues which had aged too much. But it was a fault which, normally, she
managed to control.
"All right," she snapped at the guards as she sat down. "Wait outside—out of earshot." She waited until the
curtain had fallen behind them. They would not go far, perhaps not far enough, but she could trust their discretion.
She looked at Dyne. "Well, did you tell her?"
"Yes, My Lady."
"And she was scared?" She chuckled as the cyber made no answer. "She was scared. So was I the first time I
realized that someone wanted to kill me. That was a long time ago now. A long time ago." She was repeating herself,
she realized, another attribute of age. Irritation made her cough.
"My Lady!" Seena swept toward her, hovering at her side. "Can I get you something? A drink? Anything?"
"Relax, girl, and don't fuss." Gloria swallowed, easing her throat. "You can't run away from unpleasant facts by
forcing yourself to be busy with trifles. It's time you grew up and faced reality. Someone wanted you dead. Can you
guess why?"
"No, My Lady."
"You can't even venture a guess?"
"Not that, My Lady—I don't believe that anyone would want to assassinate me at all."
Then you're a fool!" Irritation made the old woman sharp. 'Take my word for it that they did. Now can you guess
as to why?"
"Yes, My Lady." Her eyes were very direct, "To eliminate me from the possibility of succession."
"Good!" Gloria smiled her pleasure. "You're not as stupid as I hope some people think. Now you can get me the
pomander."
She sat back, relaxing in the chair as she sniffed the ball of golden filigree stuffed with exotic spices. She had
always loved the scent of spice but the pomander held more than that. Liberated by the warmth of her hand
microscopic particles of chemical magic rose from the ball to be absorbed by the mucous membranes of nose and
mouth. Beneath their influence her body grew fractionally young again. Later she would pay for the demands made
on her metabolism. Now it was important that she should not appear a senile old woman with a fogged and aimless
mind.
"Tell me," she said gently. "What made you think that you could be considered as my heiress?"
"I don't think it," said the girl. "You asked me to give you a reason why I should be killed. I gave you one—but I
don't believe that I was the target of the assassin."
"You were," snapped the old woman. "Later you shall see the proof. Someone, somehow, guessed something they
shouldn't and took steps to eliminate what they must have considered to be an obstruction. I would like to have those
responsible in my power." Her voice deepened, reflecting something of the cruelty of which she was capable. "Do
you know why you are a possible choice?"
Seena nodded, her face pale.
"Do you know what it means to be chosen?"
"Yes, My Lady, I do."
"I wonder." Gloria looked at her ward with probing eyes. She was a beautiful female animal. Perhaps too beautiful
—but she would not have had her otherwise. "Listen, girl," she snapped. "And understand. A Matriarch cannot be a
slave to the emotional stress stemming from her reproductive organs. There is a cure—but it means the end of
natural succession. A Matriarch can never be a mother. You see the problem?"
"Yes, My Lady. Without a natural heir you have to choose your successor. In this you have advice." Seena
gestured towards Dyne. "It is a matter of selecting the one best to rule."
How simple the girl made it seem! The scent from the spice filled the room as the old woman lifted the pomander
to her nostrils. This was no time for impatient anger.
"Best—for whom? For the great houses that wait like hungry dogs ready to snap up a bone? For the masses who
have nothing but faith? For the cabals who seek power?" She shook her head. "The one who takes my place must not
be the tool of any such group. She must be without affiliation and misplaced loyalty. Above all she must be strong
enough to hold the throne."
"And," reminded Dyne softly, "she must be able to live long enough to collect it."
"Right!" Gloria leaned forward in her chair, her eyes burning at her ward. "Ten times in the past seven years I have
seemed to favor a successor. Ten times an assassin has struck." Her lips writhed in sardonic amusement. "I found it a
convenient way of disposing of the over-ambitious." She read the girl's expression. "You don't like it? You think that
any woman can rule with lily-white hands? Girl, I've held the throne for eighty years and it didn't come as a gift. I've
fought for it every minute, pitting one house against another, letting them weaken themselves when to allow them to
unite would have meant the end of my rule. I've killed and maneuvered and done things no woman should ever have
to do. But Kund is more important than any woman. Remember that!"
She was talking, thought Seena, as if to the next Matriarch.

***

The face was a mask of pain, the eyes enormous, the mouth a lipless hole of silent pain. Sweat ran down the
deep-graven lines in the tormented face. She could almost smell the rank odor from the masculine body.
"He was conditioned," said Dyne quietly at her side. "In order to overcome the instilled death-directive we had to
bypass the nervous system to the heart." His arm was a shadow against the screen, his finger tapping softly on the
glass as he pointed to where thick tubes ran from the chest to a squat machine. "The conflict caused a revival of the
birth trauma. He wants to die and cannot and so feels psychological pain."
"Must I watch this?"
 "It is the Matriarch's order." He did not look at her. In the light from the screen his face was a kaleidoscope of
color. "It is important that you understand that you were the target of this assassin."
"Why?"
"That, My Lady, is not for me, to say." He stepped back as the scene diminished, showing the interior of the
interrogation laboratory of the palace. "I predicted that there was an eighty-two per cent probability of such an
attempt being made. Watch was kept as I advised and the man was captured. His story was obviously false. Warned
of what to expect, the guards prevented his self-murder. Precautions were taken before his interrogation. He admitted
that you were his target."
"I don't believe it!" She was shaken by the sight, by the reminder of what went on behind the outwardly innocent
facade of rule. "Is this some kind of trick?"
"For what purpose, My Lady?" He waited courteously for her reply and, when none came, reached out and
touched a control. The scene blurred, expanded to show the tormented face, the lipless, gaping mouth. This time
there was sound, a horrible rasp of breath, a whimpering threnody, a name. Her name.
"Enough!"
The face diminished, the sound died, the screen went blank. A curtain rustled and light poured into the room.
Dyne turned from the window.
"It proved impossible to elicit the name of his employer and it is doubtful if he even knew it. There are ways to
arrange these things. But I advised steps to be taken so that those probably responsible would know of their failure—
and our knowledge of their implication."
"By impaling him!"
"Yes, My Lady."
She shuddered, remembering the tormented face turned toward the sky, the ugly stains on the polished glass, the
empty gropings of the hands, the aimless movements of the feet. And the screams—she could not easily forget the
screams.
But she no longer blamed the Matriarch.
The room oppressed her with its too recent memory of pain. It was a bare, bleak chamber used by the guards in
attendance, empty now but for the cyber and herself. Impulsively she walked across the floor, through hangings of
shimmering crystal, through an annex piled deep with rugs and to a narrow door opening on the world outside. She
pressed the release and the panel folded to one side, letting in the tropic heat. She stood feeling the glare of the sun
on her face, looking out to where the heavy waves of the ocean rolled sluggishly toward the shore. Some men in a
crude boat fought the swell.
A rustle and Dyne was beside her. She pointed to the men, tiny in the distance.
"What are they doing?"
"Seeking food, My Lady."
She nodded, uninterested in the problems of others, her mind stained with thoughts of danger and death.
Someone had tried to kill her—it was not a comforting thought.
"Why are we here?" She gestured toward the outside world. "Why the sudden journey from Kund, the
transshipping, the charter?"
"You were considered to be in grave danger, My Lady. And the engines of our ship were not safe."
"Sabotage?"
"It is possible."
She felt a chill run down her spine. The great houses had wealth and power and their influence could reach far. In
the struggle for the succession who could consider themselves safe? Impatiently she shook her head.
"Even so, why are we here? What does the Matriarch hope to find?"
"Perhaps an answer, My Lady." He paused, looking at her, recognizing her beauty as a mathematician would
recognize the beauty of an abstract equation. In her, art and science had united with the original germ plasm to
produce something exceptional. "You know of Gath?"
"I have heard of it. This is the planet on which you are supposed to be able to hear the music of the spheres." Her
laugh was brittle, humorless. "Did we come here to listen to music? If so we have wasted our journey. There are more
pleasing sounds on Kund."
"We are not in the right place, My Lady. And this is not the right time. We must wait for the storm."
"And?"
"Prior to the storm we will go north, to a place where the coast swings east toward the cold and dark of the night
hemisphere. There stands a tremendous barrier, a mountain range fretted and carved by endless winds, worn by the
passage of time. Hard stone remains while soft has been weathered away. Buried deep in the rock are masses of
crystal which respond in a wide range of harmonics to pressure and vibration. In effect the range is the greatest
sounding board ever imagined. When the winds blow during a storm the results are—interesting."
"You have been here before?"
"No, My Lady."
"Then—?" She broke off the question, knowing the answer. Given a pair of facts Dyne could find a third. Given a
set of circumstances, the cyber could extrapolate the most probable course of events. It was enough for him to know
what had been experienced by others. But still a question remained.
"Why?"
"Why are we here? What is there about Gath which drew the Matriarch all the way from Kund?" He made no
pretense that he didn't grasp her meaning. "I told you, My Lady. It could be that she hopes to find an answer."

Chapter Three
The boat was crude, rough planks lashed with scraps of wire, plastic, plaited vines. It had no sail, no keel, only
thwarts for the rowers, a rudder, a pointed prow. An outrigger had been added as an afterthought but even so the
vessel was as seaworthy as a coracle.
"Row!"
The skipper, bare feet hard on the bottom, bare chest reflecting the sun, yelled the order. His voice was bigger
than it should be… too big when compared with the stark cage of his ribs, the skeletal planes of his face.
"Row, damn you!" he yelled. "Row!"
Dumarest grunted as he threw his weight on his oar. Like the boat itself it was crudely fashioned by men who had
scant knowledge and less skill. A boat, to them, was something which floated. They knew nothing of balance, correct
ratios, the art which turned dead wood into a thing alive. They had simply built a platform from which to raid the sea.
He grunted again as he tugged at the stubborn pole with the flattened end. Water oozed from between the planks
and wet his bare feet. The sun was hot on his naked back. He had won his place because he was big, because he
seemed fit, because he could swim. Megan was guarding his clothes.
"There!" The skipper pointed and leaned his weight against the rudder. Something had broken the surface and he
headed toward it. "Faster!" he yelled. "Faster!"
They did their best. None of them were strong; strength needs food. None of them were fat; travelers could never
be. All were desperate—starvation was too real a threat. So they flung their weight at the oars, gasping in the heat,
fevered in their hunting frenzy.
The skipper tensed as they drew close to the spot he had marked. He would get two shares of whatever they
caught. Three would go to the owner of the boat safe on shore. The rest would get one share each.
"Steady!" He eased the rudder and dashed sweat from his eyes. He was over-anxious and knew it but it had been
too long since he'd made a catch. Small fish, sure, with half of them going back for bait. Skinny, fleshless things of
little nutritional value, costing more strength to get than they gave. But whatever had broken the surface had been
big. "Carl!" he ordered. "Get set!"
A tall, thin, caricature of a man nodded, dropped his oar, took up his place in the prow. He hefted a harpoon
attached to a coil of rope. He looked over his shoulder at the skipper.
"All set, Abe."
"Watch it!" Abe squinted against the sun. The leaden surface of the sea broke, roiled, something hard and gray
flashing in the ruby light. "There, Carl! There!"
The harpoon darted forward, the barbs biting deep. Immediately Carl dived for his oar. Dumarest knocked him
aside.
"The rope, man! Watch the rope!"
"Get out of my way!" Carl clawed for his oar as the rope ran out. The boat jerked, began to move. Desperately the
skipper yelled orders.
"Back! Back for your lives!"
The water threshed as the crude oars lashed the swell. It was like trying to halt the movement of a glacier. The
rope thrummed as the prow began to tilt forward. Water streamed over the gunwale.
"The rope!" Dumarest reached out, snatched a knife from the belt of the harpooner, and dragged the edge across
the fiber. It parted, the short end lashing back, the prow rising. Beneath them something moved and broke the surface
beyond the stern.
"You fool!" Carl snatched back the knife. "You've lost us the rope."
"Better that than our lives." Dumarest looked at the skipper. "Is this how you go fishing?"
"Do you know of a better way?" He was on safe ground. He had fished this sea before, Dumarest hadn't. "Without
nets how else do you think we can catch the big ones? We stick them, tire them, drag them to shore. Without a rope
how can we do that?"
His anger was justified. The fish had been big, perhaps three days eating for them all and with some left over. He
opened his mouth to vent more of his rage then closed it as a man yelled.
"Look, Abe. Blood!"
A thin red film darkened the surface. A thin something trailed across it and Carl shouted his recognition.
"The rope!"
He dived before anyone could stop him. He plunged smoothly beneath the waves and rose swimming, heading
toward the thin strand of the rope. He grabbed it, turned, began to swim back to the boat. He reached it, clawed at
the gunwale, and began to heave himself aboard. He couldn't make it and clung gasping to the rough wood.
"Help him." Abe searched the sea with anxious eyes. "Hurry!"
Dumarest reached the clinging man, clamped his hands around Carl's upper arms, adjusted his weight for the
upward pull.
"Thanks," said Carl. "I guess—" He broke off, a peculiar expression on his face. It lasted for about three seconds;
then he began to scream.
Dumarest realized why when he dragged the man into the boat. Both his legs had been severed above the knees.

***

The wakening was strange. There was a booming rhythm with a repetitive beat and a liquid, sucking gurgle that
he had never heard before. The eddy currents seemed to be working for he could feel heat on his body but his mouth
was filled with an alien taste and the gritty sensation beneath his body was something outside of his experience. But
the light was the same—too bright. The light was always too bright.
He rolled and was immediately awake. He wasn't in a box. He wasn't in a ship which had just ended its passage.
He lay on a beach of gritty sand with the sun a ruby glare over the water which rolled and thundered on the sloping
shore.
He rolled again so that he was face downward and rose to all fours. Immediately he was violently sick. He backed
like a dog from a suspicious odor and felt wetness beneath his hand. It was a pool of water left by the receding tide
and he washed his face and mouth in the saline liquid. Only when he had swallowed a little did he realize that he
burned with thirst.
The booming of the surf did nothing to relieve his craving for water.
He rose to his knees and fought a wave of giddiness. His weakness was terrifying. He sat down, staring out to sea,
waiting for the giddiness to pass. He was naked but for his shorts—somehow he had lost his trousers and belt. His
skin was caked with salt and something had removed a strip of skin down the side of one thigh. He pressed the
wound. Blood oozed from the place which looked as if it had been flayed.
After a long while he rose to his feet and turned to stare at the shore.
The beach was narrow, a strip of sand caught in the arc of a bay ending at high walls of eroded stone. Boulders
lay at the foot, a green slime reaching to well above his head, while trapped pools of water reflected the red sunlight
like pools of blood. To either side the surf pounded against the jutting sides of the bay.
He was sick again before he reached the cliff, his stomach emptying itself of swallowed salt. He paused to rinse
his mouth at one of the pools, resisted the temptation to slake his thirst with the saline poison, then stared at what he
must climb.
For a fit man it would have been difficult; for a traveler it would always have been hard; in his present condition it
was almost impossible. Yet he had no choice. He had to climb or drown. He looked at the sea. He had lain longer than
he suspected; already the waves were lapping higher. Stepping back he surveyed the cliff, chose his route and began
to climb.
He reached a height of twelve feet before his hand slipped on green slime and he fell. He tried again, this time
further along the cliff, but fell almost at once. The third time he was almost stunned, lying and wondering if he had
broken a bone. He hadn't. The next time he tried he knew it was his last attempt.
He was sweating as he passed the level of the slime, his heart pounding as if it would burst from his chest. He
clung to the rock, wishing that he had his boots, driving the tender flesh of his toes against the unyielding stone. He
crawled higher and found a long, slanting crack that had been invisible from below. It carried him to within ten feet of
the edge before it petered out. He craned his head, trying to see beyond the overhang, trying to ignore the cramped
agony in his hands and feet. Vegetation had overgrown the edge; tendrils of it hung low but too thin to offer
assistance. A gnarled root caught his eye.
It was too far to reach, a foot beyond the tips of his fingers and awkwardly placed. He gauged the distance and
jumped without hesitation. His right hand missed, his left caught and he hung suspended by one hand. The root gave
beneath the strain. He twisted, clawing upward with his right hand and felt it hit a snag of hidden rock. He heaved,
scrabbling with his feet. He grabbed upward with his left hand, rested a foot against the root, thrust himself
desperately upward. A trail of dirt fell to the beach as he rested his elbows on the edge. One final effort and he was
out of danger.
He walked twenty feet before he realized it and then his legs simply collapsed. He fell to the ground, sobbing for
breath, his body a mass of pain.
And, after a long while, Megan found him.

***

"I saw what happened," he said. He sat beside a small fire, a can over the flames, an appetizing smell coming
from the can. "At least I saw the boat capsize and all of you flung into the sea. I don't know the details."
Dumarest told him. Megan nodded, busy over his fire. Carefully he fed a handful of dried grass into the flames.
Smoke rose about the can and plumed into the sky.
"The blood would have attracted the big ones," he said. "Maybe the one you'd harpooned. They come in close to
shore quite a bit, especially before a storm." He dipped a spoon into the can, tasted it, added more fuel to the fire.
"From what I could see it was a real mess. You were lucky to escape."
The luck had been incredible. Dumarest remembered a time of confusion with the skipper yelling orders. There
had been a scrabble of men trying to reach oars. Carl's screams had faded as the carmine fountain carried away his
life. Then something had risen from beneath, smashing the boat, overturning it as the outrigger collapsed.
Then had come the water, the struggle and stomach-knotting fear, the final state of near unconsciousness when
he had lain on his back and floated and concentrated on the single necessity of breath.
"I thought you might be washed ashore," said Megan. He didn't look at the big man. "I bought a few things and
came looking. I used your money."
He could have stolen it with far less effort.
"Here." Megan lifted the can from the fire. "Get this down while it's still hot."
It was good food, expensive, probably bought from the Resident's store. Dumarest spooned it down, savoring
every drop. When the can was two-thirds empty he handed it to Megan.
"Finish it."
"No, Earl. You need it more than I do."
"Finish it and don't be a fool. I'm not strong enough to carry you back to camp. Now eat up and let's get moving."
Megan had brought more than food. He knew what could happen to men tossed into the sea. Dumarest dressed
while the other ate, packed the things and stamped out the fire. Together they set off across a rolling field covered
with stunted vegetation.
"We're about halfway between the camp and the mountains," said Megan. They walked slowly, taking care where
they set their feet. "We'll hit the path soon and then the going will be easier."
Dumarest nodded, making no comment. Megan must have followed the coast every foot of the way from the
camp. It was a long, hard trip. Dumarest slowed his pace a little. He froze as something rustled to one side. A small
animal, lithe, sleek, darted across his path and away from his feet. Another, larger, followed it, catching it as it reached
cover. There was a brief flurry, white teeth flashed in the shadows, red stained the ground.
Neither creature had made a sound.
Dumarest walked past the spot, wondering why those in the camp had neglected this source of food. Megan
shrugged when he asked the question.
"We can't catch them. You set a snare and go away. You come back to find the snare tripped but the body stolen.
You set up nets and wait and never see a thing, some of us made crossbows and tried to shoot them on sight. We
wasted our time."
"Guns?"
"If we had them, which we haven't, they wouldn't do any good. Some of the tourists have tried. All have failed."
He saw Dumarest's expression. "Sure, they can be caught," he admitted. "You could set up a line of nets and use sonic
guns to drive them into the traps, but who the hell is going to all that trouble for a handful of rats?"
"Has anyone?"
"It was tried a couple of storms ago. Some professional hunters set up a camp and managed to collect a few.
They did it the way I said." Megan stumbled and almost fell. "Damn it," he swore. "Where the hell's that path?"
They reached it a short while later. It was broad, well-traveled, lined with boulders which had apparently been
rolled aside to permit an easy passage. The ground was springy underfoot, the grass showing signs of recent growth.
Megan halted and pointed toward the north.
"The mountains are up there," he said. "You might just be able to see them."
Dumarest climbed a boulder, narrowed his eyes and saw a distant hump against the purple sky. He looked higher
and saw the pale crescent of a moon. A second showed against the pale stars far to the east. He turned and the sun,
low on the horizon, burned into his eyes. Sun, moons and stars mingled in this strange region of the twilight zone. He
stood for a long while studying the scene. A painter would have envied him. Gath was a strange planet. He said so
and Megan shrugged.
"It's a ghost world," he said as Dumarest rejoined him. "There's a place up near those mountains where the dead
rise to walk again."
Dumarest looked at him. The man was serious.
"I'd heard about it," said Megan. "When I landed I wanted to investigate. I did. Now I wish to hell that I hadn't."
"Sounds," said Dumarest. "Noises. A trick of acoustics. Since when have you been scared of an echo?"
"It's more than that." Megan was no longer dirty but even the chemical concentrates Dumarest had bought
required time to build tissue. His eyes were brooding shadows in the hollows of his face. "Maybe you'll find out for
yourself."
"Now?"
"Not until the storm. The conditions aren't right until then. When they are—you hear things."
"Celestial music?" Dumarest smiled. "That's what the admen say."
"For once they tell the truth," said Megan shortly. He started down the path away from the mountains.

Chapter Four
A ship landed as they returned to camp. From it stepped a group of tourists, gay, laughing, an assorted batch—
the entourage of the Prince of Emmened who had ruined a world by his whims and would ruin more unless stopped
by an assassin; three cowled monks of the Universal Brotherhood, two musicians, an artist, four poets, an
entrepreneur. All had traveled High. Some were still slow in movement, slower in speech from the lingering effects of
quick-time.
Three had traveled Low: a man, little more than a boy; a withered crone stronger than she looked; a fool.
He came staggering from the ship bowed beneath the weight of a fibroid box as large as himself. He was
grotesquely thin and his eyes burned like coals from the gaunt pallor of his face. Ribs showed prominent against the
flesh of his chest bare beneath the ragged shirt. The rest of his clothing matched the shirt. He was a shambling
scarecrow of a man.
"Gath!" He cried out and fell to the seared dirt of the field, pressing his cheek against the soil. The box which he
carried by means of a strap over his shoulders gave him the appearance of a monstrous beetle. "Gath!"
His companions ignored him. The tourists looked and saw nothing of interest. All travelers were mad. The
handler stood at the door of his ship and spat after his late charges.
"Gath!" yelled the man again. He tried to rise but the weight of the box pressed him to the ground. Eel-like he
wriggled from beneath, slipping the strap from his shoulders, kneeling by the box. He parted it, crooning inarticulate
sounds. Saliva dribbled from his mouth and wet his chin.
"Mad," said Megan positively. "Insane."
"In trouble." Dumarest was interested. Megan shrugged.
"So he's in trouble. So are we. Let's go and see if we can earn something by making ourselves useful to the
tourists."
"You go." Dumarest strode toward the kneeling man. Megan scowled, then followed. Dumarest halted beside the
crooning man.
"You need help," he said flatly. "Do you want us to help you?"
"Help?" The man looked up. His eyes were yellowish, muddy. "Is this Gath?"
Dumarest nodded.
"Then everything's all right." He rose and clutched Dumarest by the arm. "Tell me, is it true what they say about
this place?"
"The voices?" Megan nodded. "It's true."
"Thank God!" Abruptly the man grew calm. Slowly he wiped the saliva from his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve.
"I—I never thought that I'd get here." He swallowed. "My name is Sime. I've very little money but if you will help me
I'll—"
"We ask no pay." Dumarest nodded to Megan and together they stooped over the box. It was over six feet long
and shaped like a coffin. Megan grunted as he felt the weight.
"What's in here? Lead?"
"Just some things," said Sime. He looked anxious. "Just carry it from the field. I'll be able to manage it after I rest
for a while. Just carry it from the field."
Slowly they moved toward the camp. Megan stumbled, swore as his ankle turned, and sprang clear as his end of
the box fell with a thud. The vibration tore the box from Dumarest's hands. The lid, jarred by the fall, began to swing
open.
"Careful!" Sime flung himself on the lid. His hands trembled as he secured the fastenings. "You'll hurt—" He
caught himself. "Please be careful."
He hovered to one side as they carried the box into camp. Both men were sweating as they eased down their
burden. A handful of travelers looked on with dull curiosity and Megan, straightening his back, glared at one who
laughed.
"Something funny?"
"I think so." The old crone who had traveled with Sime cackled all the louder. "Why be so careful, dearies? You
can't hurt what's in there."
"Shut your mouth!" Sime stepped forward. "You hear me? Now you just shut your mouth!"
"Try and shut if for me!" She cackled again at the thin man. "Maybe they'd like to enjoy your joke. Maybe they'd
like to hear it."
"Tell us, mother," urged Megan. Immediately she flew into a rage.
"Don't you call me that! Do it again and I'll stab out your eyes!"
Megan recoiled from the long needle in her hand. "No offense, My Lady, but why did you say what you did?"
"About this?" She kicked at the box. "About this coffin?" She leered at Sime. "He's got his dead wife in there,
dearie. You can't hurt the dead."

***

The monks had set up their church in the camp leaving Brother Angelo in charge. He sat in the close confines of
the booth feeling the turgid heat from outside penetrate his rough, homespun habit, prickling his skin with a thousand
tiny discomforts. He dismissed them as of no importance, thinking instead of the never-ending task of his order, the
continual striving to turn men from what they were into what they should be.
He was, he realized, verging into the sin of pride and jerked himself back to the immediate present. Through the
mesh he could see a pale face, wide-eyed, trembling with released emotion. The litany of sin was all too familiar, the
human animal being capable only of certain emotions, certain acts which dull by constant repetition. But sin was too
heavy a burden for any man to carry.
"…and, Brother, one time I stole a ration of food. I went to the pot twice and lied when questioned. It was fish
stew, I ate what should have gone to another—but I was so hungry."
Hunger of the spirit more than that of the body—yet could a man be blamed for wanting to survive? Brother
Angelo considered the question as the list of petty sins grew. If man was animal, as he basically was, then survival
was all-important and yet if he was more than animal, which he undoubtedly was, then he should not yield to his base
appetites.
And yet, if he died because of consideration to his higher self, what then?
Was the Universal Brotherhood only to be achieved in the communal negation of death?
Such thoughts verged on heresy and Brother Angelo recognized the insidious attraction of theological
disputation. It was not for him to question—only for him to act. If he could ease the burden of one man then his life
would not have been in vain. The Universal teaching of complete Brotherhood held the answer to all pain, all hurt, all
despair. No man is an island. All belong to the corpus humanitatis. The pain of one is the pain, all hurt, all despair. No
man is an island. All of the credo, there, but for the grace of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.
He would never see it. Men bred too fast, traveled too far for that. But it was something for which to live, a
purpose for his dedication.
The thin voice from beyond the mesh ceased its litany of sin. The pale face was tense, the eyes hungry with
anticipation. Brother Angelo switched on the benediction-light. In the swirling kaleidoscope of colors the face
seemed less animal, more ethereal.
"Look into the light of forgiveness," he said softly. "Bathe in the flame of righteousness and be cleansed of all
pain, all sin. Yield to the benediction of the Universal Brotherhood."
The light was hypnotic, the subject subservient, the monk a trained master of his craft. The pale face relaxed, the
eyes lost their hunger, peace smoothed the features. Subjectively the man was undergoing stringent penance. Later he
would receive the bread of forgiveness.

***

Brother Benedict looked back as he reached the rise on which stood Hightown. He could see the pennant of the
church and could imagine the file of men waiting to enter the booth. A younger monk would have been pleased at the
display of religious fervor; Brother Benedict knew that the majority of them wanted only the wafer of concentrates
which followed the communion.
Yet first they had to pass beneath the benediction-light. It was a fair exchange.
The streets of Hightown were wide, well-paved, free of dust and dirt. His sandals made little scraping noises as
he trod the crushed stone surrounding the prefabricated hutments. A tourist, supine in a figure-chair, lifted a lazy
hand in greeting.
"Welcome, Brother. Have you come to convert the heathen?"
"I come so that men may have the opportunity of indulging in the virtue of charity." Brother Benedict held out his
symbolical begging bowl. It was of cheap plastic, chipped, scarred, as rough as his habit. "Of your charity, sir."
"Why?" The tourist was willing to be amused. "Why should I throw away what I have?"
"Men are starving within sight. Is that not reason enough?"
It wasn't and he knew it but he had played this game so often that he knew the expected responses by heart. His
habit would command a certain amused indulgence. His request would stimulate jaded wits. His arguments were the
prelude to reluctant disbursal. The trick was in making the hearer want to give. Therefore he must never be made to
feel inferior, mean or small.
"Men are cheap," pointed out the tourist. "Tell me, Brother, is it just that the weak should live at the expense of
the strong?"
"No, brother, it is not," agreed Benedict. His eyes were sharp as they examined the man. Smooth, rosily fat,
dressed in luxurious fabrics. A glint of bright metal shone from a finger. A ring, curiously engraved, flashed in the sun.
Benedict recognized the symbol. "You play, brother?"
"Gamble?" The tourist looked startled. Many had so looked before Benedict's direct gaze. They didn't realize how
they betrayed themselves. "How did you—? Yes, I gamble."
"And therefore you believe in luck." The monk nodded. "Life is a lottery, my friend. We are born—in
circumstances over which we have no control. Some inherit wealth, others poverty. Some have the gift of intelligence
and the power of command. Others have nothing and die with what they were born. In the game of life not all can
win."
"True." The tourist looked thoughtful. His expression deepened as Benedict continued.
"At the tables, when you win, do you not toss a chip to the croupier? Do you not spend a little so as to assuage
the lady you worship? The Lady Luck."
"You know gamblers, Brother."
"Then, in this game of life in which you have been so fortunate, why not toss a little to those who have nothing?"
Benedict extended his bowl. "To the losers, brother, to those who are born to fail."
He felt no pride as the tourist threw money into the bowl. The man had been generous but pride was a sin. And a
beggar had no cause to be proud.
Piers Quentin, Resident Factor of Gath, moodily rubbed his pattern-shaved face and stared at the bloodshot orb
of the sun. Slowly it was sinking toward the leaden waves of the ocean. Irritably he wished that it would hurry up.
It was always the same before a storm, this feeling he had of mounting tension and growing irritations. Bad traits
for a man who had to soothe the rich and powerful. Worse when he had to tread the narrow path between ensuring
their comfort and safety and risking their displeasure. Yet each time the storm came due and the ships began to arrive
he felt the same: as if each storm was a crisis which had to be met and surmounted… as if one day the crisis would
prove too great. He didn't like to think of what could happen then.
"You are troubled, brother." Brother Ely, old and shrewd in the ways of men, looked at the resident's rigid back
from where he sat at ease in a padded chair. A cool drink stood by his hand, ice tinkling in the limpid depths. The
resident, while not religious, was not ungenerous. "Is it the storm?"
"It's always the storm." Piers turned from the window and began to pace the floor. "Out there"—he gestured
toward Hightown—"is probably the greatest assembly of wealth and power to be found in the uninhabited worlds.
Traditional enemies, entrepreneurs, place-seekers and time-servers, opportunists and the rest, all crammed cheek to
jowl, all waiting—all spoiling for trouble."
"Surely you exaggerate?" Ely picked up his drink and sipped the contents. His mouth constricted to the tart flavor
of lime. "Are things so bad?"
 "Worse." Piers halted beside the dispenser and poured himself a drink. It was almost pure alcohol. He swallowed
it at a single gulp. "This storm is something special, Brother. Already the solar flare has closed the space lines. Above
the atmosphere is a hell of naked radiation which would penetrate the strongest shield carried by a commercial
vessel. That is why the ships arrived early. That is why the tension is so high."
"I hadn't noticed," said Ely. "But then, I lack your experience."
"You'll sense it soon enough," promised the resident, "The air is full of stray ions, heavy with undischarged
electrical potential. Nerves are overtense and tempers are too thin. The Devil is loose among us." He helped himself
to another drink. "Trouble," he mourned. "I stand on the brink of a volcano. A touch is enough to destroy me."
The monk said nothing. He had come to pay his respects; he had stayed to listen to the outpourings of a
tormented soul.
"The satellites are moving into position," continued the resident. "Soon their juxtaposition will affect the stability
of Gath and then—"
"The storm?"
"The storm." Piers swallowed his drink, poured another. He felt the impact of the monk's eyes, recognized their
displeasure, and irritably set down the glass. "By that time everyone will be north, standing before the mountains.
God knows what will happen then—I can only guess. We have never had a storm quite like this before. It is time for
you to pray, Brother."
"Always it is time to pray," corrected the monk gravely. "The psychological effect of channeled thought cannot be
overestimated." He hesitated. "Neither can adherence to the Supreme Ethic."
"I am not my brother's keeper," snapped Piers sharply. He took up his drink, looked at it, gulped it down. "You're
thinking of Lowtown, of course."
"The camp? Yes."
"I didn't ask them to come here. Penniless travelers swept up by the vagaries of space. Do you think I want them
around?"
He strode to the window and looked through it, staring toward the camp. He had never minimized the danger of
starving men, the strength of desperation. On this planet wealth and poverty were too close; they had nothing but a
little distance between them. One day, perhaps during a storm, that distance wouldn't be enough. Even now a strong
man could… He shuddered at the prospect.
"They are a part of humanity," said Ely gently. He was accustomed to the sight of poverty. "Remember, brother,
there, but for the grace of God, go you."
"Spare me the sermon, monk."
"Not a sermon, brother. Facts. They are here. You are the resident. They are your responsibility."
"No!" Piers was emphatic. "I refuse to accept your moral judgment. In law they are nothing. They came here by
their own free will. They can leave the same way or stay until they rot. I am not responsible." Irritably he again paced
the floor. He hesitated by the dispenser then moved away. He refused to meet Ely's eyes. "I do what I can," he
protested. "Each storm I arrange for a passage and run a lottery. The winner gets the passage. Sometimes, if the
money is enough, more can win the prize."
"Money?" Ely raised his eyebrows. "Here?"
"They can earn a little from the visitors." Piers didn't want to go into details. "Between storms I employ them at
various tasks. I pay them in chemical concentrates."
"Charity, brother?"
Piers didn't miss the irony. "I do what I can," he insisted stubbornly. "I can do no more."
Brother Ely made no comment. He'd had long practice in hiding emotion; almost as long in learning how to read
it. The resident would end a very rich man. But he was an unhappy one. The ice in his glass rattled as he held it to the
spout of the dispenser. He had much about which to feel guilt.
"Damn it, Brother," he said plaintively. "I do my best."

***

Ely met Dyne as he left the resident's quarters. The monk stiffened as he saw the cyber. Both felt the reaction of
strange cats to each other. The Universal Brotherhood had no trust for the Cyclan. The cybers had no love for the
monks.
They looked at each other, Dyne in his rich scarlet, Ely in his drab homespun. One could feel no emotion, the
other dealt with little else.
"A fine day, brother," said Ely gently. The silence once broken Dyne could not ignore the monk. It would be
illogical to arouse irritation. Cybers made no enemies and tried to make everyone their friend.
 "It is always day on Gath," he said in his soft modulation, the trained voice which contained no irritant factors.
"You have just arrived?"
"On the last ship to reach this world before the storm." Ely sensed the other's dislike as a dog would scent anger
or fear. "You are alone?"
"I serve the Matriarch of Kund."
"Naturally." Ely stepped to one side. "I must not detain you, brother. Go in peace."
Dyne bowed, a slight, almost imperceptible inclination of his head, then swept on his way. Two of his retinue
guarded his private quarters, young, sternly molded men, novitiates to the Cyclan, officially his personal attendants.
"Total seal," ordered Dyne. Even command did not harden his voice. There was no need of aural emphasis. "No
interruption of any kind for any reason."
Inside his quarters he rested supine on a narrow couch. Touching the bracelet locked about his left wrist he
stepped up the power. The device ensured that no one could ever spy on a cyber, no scanner or electronic ear could
focus in his vicinity. It was a precaution, nothing more.
Relaxing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formula. Gradually he lost the senses of taste,
smell, touch and hearing. Had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Locked in the womb of his skull his
brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. It became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness its only
thread of life. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements become active. Rapport soon followed.
Dyne became really alive.
Each cyber had a different experience. For him it was as if every door in the universe had opened to let in the
shining light of truth. He was a living part of an organism which stretched across space in countless crystalline
droplets each glowing with intelligence. Filaments connected one to the other so that it was as if he saw a dew-
scattered web stretching to infinity… saw it and was a part of it; was it while it was himself, sharing yet owning the
tremendous gestalt of minds.
At the center of the web was the headquarters of the Cyclan. Buried beneath miles of rock, deep in the heart of a
lonely planet, the central intelligence absorbed his knowledge as a sponge would suck the water from a pond. There
was no verbal communication, only mental communion in the form of words; quick, almost instantaneous, organic
transmission against which even supra-radio was the merest crawl.
"Verification received of anticipated development of situation on Gath. Continue as directed."
That was all.
The rest was sheer mental intoxication.
There was always this period after rapport during which the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and
the machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental control. Dyne floated in a black nothingness while he
sensed strange memories and unlived situations—scraps of overflow from other intelligences, the throw-away waste
of other minds. The power of central intelligence of the tremendous cybernetic complex was the heart of the Cyclan.
One day he would be a part of that intelligence. His body would age and his senses dull but his mind would
remain as active as ever. Then they would take him and rid his intelligence of the hampering flesh so that he could
join the others, hooked in series to the naked brains pulsing in their nutrient fluid, thousands and thousands of such
brains all tuned to a common end.
Millions of such brains, perhaps. Millions of freed intelligences working to solve the problems of the universe.
A gestalt against which there could be no resistance.

Chapter Five
Megan left the church, the taste of the wafer strong in his mouth, the euphoric drug with which it had been
treated banishing his depression. It was always like this after he had been cleansed. He felt strong and fit and full of
inner quietude. The mood would last for a time and then would begin to fade. Then, if the church was still around, he
would go back for another wafer.
He found Dumarest sitting on a dune by the shore staring out to sea. He held a great bunch of grass in one hand
and slowly pulled each stem between his teeth. After every dozen or so stems he swallowed the collected pulp.
Discarded grass lay in a mound between his feet. He lacked the digestive system which would have converted the
cellulose into nourishment.
Megan squatted beside him. He found stones and idly tossed them into the water. Dumarest spat out a stem of
grass.
"Well, are you cleansed, fed and of sound mind?"
"You shouldn't joke about the Brotherhood," protested Megan. "The monks do a lot of good work." He felt the
sudden need to share his contentment. "Why don't you go along, Earl? The wafer's worth getting at least."
"You think so?" Dumarest busied himself with more grass. "I didn't know that you were religious."
"I'm not." Megan was quick to deny the accusation. "Well, not really. I first went while I was on Lund. More for a
joke than anything else." He looked at Dumarest. "No, that isn't true. I thought that I needed some help. I wanted
comforting. The monks gave me what I needed."
"And you've been going to church ever since?"
"In a way. Nothing special, you understand, but if there's a church and I've got the time—" Megan dug the toe of
his boot into the sand. "It doesn't do any harm."
"No?"
"Well, does it?"
Dumarest didn't answer. He was thinking of the long walk along the coast, the spending of the last coin for the
benefit of a man Megan had every reason to think dead. In him the Supreme Ethic had bitten deep. It amused
Dumarest to realize that, in a way, he owed the Brotherhood his life. One day he might thank them.
He dragged more grass between his teeth and swallowed the tasteless pulp. His eyes were somber as he stared
out to sea. Out there, beneath the waves, was all the food a man could wish but he couldn't get it. The only boat was
gone and none would sail with him if they could. He had gained the reputation of being bad luck.
It could be true. Maybe he had done wrong in cutting the rope but he didn't waste time thinking about it He was
not a man who regretted the past.
Not when the future looked so black.
Irritably he flung away the grass, conscious of the hunger clawing at his stomach. The pulp had done nothing but
accentuate his appetite. Unless he got food soon he would begin the slide into malnutrition, actual starvation together
with the weakness and killing apathy which made it hard to think, harder still to act.
Rising he looked down at Megan. "I'm going to find something to eat," he said. "Want to come along?"
"The Brothers will feed you." Megan sprang up, smiling as if he had solved the problem. "They'll give you a wafer
and maybe something later if they can beg it from Hightown." He fell into step beside the big man. "You going to try
them, Earl?"
"No."
"You got something against them?"
"Not if they've got food to give away—but I'm not going to church."
"Then—?" It was a question. The camp held no spare food. Everything had a price and food the highest of all.
Dumarest had no money and nothing to sell other than his clothes. But he had his hands. Instinctively they clenched
at Megan's question.
"I don't know yet," he said sharply. "I've got to look around and see what's going. But if there's food to be had I'm
going to get it. I'm not going to sit and starve while I've the strength to go looking."
Or, thought Megan dully, the strength to take. He hurried ahead hoping to find one of the monks and enlist his
support. Dumarest was in a dangerous mood and it could kill him. To rob Lowtown was to invite later reprisal. To risk
Hightown was to beg the guards to shoot him dead for his effrontery. For his own sake he would have to be stopped.
Dumarest caught up with him as they reached the camp. The place was deserted. Even the central fire had lost its
usual group toasting scraps of food over the flames.
The pennant on the plastic church hung limply from its standard. The monks were not to be seen. Megan looked
suddenly afraid.
"No," he said. "It's too soon. They couldn't have started for the mountains yet." He was afraid of the loss of
potential employment.
"They're up near the field," said Dumarest. He stared at a cluster of distant figures. "Let's go and see what's
doing."

***

The Prince of Emmened was bored and had taken steps to relieve his boredom. He sat at the edge of a cleared
space toward the perimeter of the field, safe among his sycophants, venting his displeasure with a languid yawn.
"Why do they hesitate?" he complained. "Moidor will stiffen."
He beamed at his favorite standing, almost nude, in the center of the cleared space. Muscles rippled beneath
oiled skin marred only by the brand of Emmened high on one shoulder. He was a creature of the prince, a trained
fighter of animals and men.
"They are weak, My Lord." A courtier leaned close to the prince's ear. "These travelers are starved and of no real
sport. It is a pity that the Matriarch did not accept our challenge."
 "One of her guards against Moidor?" Emmened pursed his lips with disappointment. It had seemed a good idea
when Crowder had first mentioned it. It still seemed a good idea. A mixed-sex battle always held spice. "Did she
receive the suggestion?"
"She ignored it, My Lord." Crowder knew better than to relate the exact words in which Gloria had spurned the
offer. "It could be that she fears for the safety of her followers."
Emmened nodded as he stared at his royal guest. The Matriarch had condescended to attend his diversion.
She sat beneath an awning of brilliant yellow, her ward at her side, Dyne a scarlet shadow to her rear. Her guards
ringed the party, staring cold-eyed at the crowd.
"Moidor has a reputation," mused the prince. "It could be that she was afraid of the outcome." He leaned forward
a little, eyes glowing as he studied the lithe figure of the girl. "Her maid?"
"The Lady Thoth, My Lord."
"I have a thought," whispered the prince. "If you could arrange for me to have a private, personal match with her
you would be the richer by the wealth of a city."
"You have excellent taste, My Lord. She is indeed a lovely woman." Crowder took care not to look at the subject
of their discussion. The woman-guards had keen eyes and were jealous of the honor of their charges. "Stir her
passion with the sight of blood and—who knows?"
Emmened smiled and Crowder felt a sudden chill. His prince was a creature of cruel whims and sadistic notions.
Should he order the courtier to deliver the girl to his bed, and should he fail as fail he must, then it would be wiser for
him to swallow poison.
"Raise the offer," said Emmened abruptly. "Tempt the fools to fight—and tell Moidor not to be gentle. We need
the sight of blood." He looked deliberately at the girl, his eyes hot with anticipation.
Dumarest followed the direction of his stare. He saw the old woman, the girl at her side. His face hardened as he
recognized the scarlet robe of the cyber. Megan whispered at his side.
"That's the party which arrived with you."
"I know." Dumarest had nothing to thank them for. He tightened his stomach against its emptiness. Sweat ran
down his face. The heat was that of an oven.
Crowder came forward, walking the perimeter of the cleared space.
"A traveler's passage to any who can win a single fall," he shouted. "High travel to anyone who can kill."
Dumarest swayed forward.
"Earl!" Megan clutched at his arm. "Has that grass sent you crazy? You wouldn't stand a chance against an animal
like that."
Crowder had noticed the slight movement. He came closer, smiling, repeating the offer and adding a little more
bait.
"A passage for a single fall. High travel if you kill. A hundred units if you try." Coins shone hypnotically in his
hand. His smile widened as Dumarest stepped forward. "You?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to strip, oil, prepare yourself ?"
"No." Dumarest was curt. "Give me the money."
"A moment. Would you prefer to fight armed? Knives, perhaps?"
"As I am." Dumarest held out his hand. "Give me the money."
Crowder shrugged and passed over the coins. Dumarest threw them to Megan, rubbed his hands on the sides of
his shirt, then stepped toward the fighter, Moidor smiled.
He was a beautiful animal and he knew it. He postured, flexing his muscles so that the sun gleamed on lumps and
ridges of tissue, throwing shadows into the hollows and concave places. He had spent his life developing his body. He
looked indestructible.
"Come," he smiled as Dumarest stepped forward. "Come into my arms, my brave one. Feel my embrace—and
die!"
His voice was a little slurred, his smile and gesture a little slow. His eyes needed time to change focus. Quick-time
still lingered in his blood and compressed the passing seconds. His reflexes were not operating at their normal speed
but he was still dangerous. Dumarest didn't have to look at the two dead men to remind himself of that. But it gave
him a thin chance, whereas, if the fighter were normal, he would have had no chance at all.
"You wait," purred Moidor. "You hesitate. Do not be afraid. I bring death as a friend."
He stepped forward, smiling, his arms raising to shoulder height.
"Now," he whispered.
Dumarest kicked him in the knee.
 ***

He lashed out with his full force, throwing his shoulders back from the reaching hands, pivoting on his hip. He
knew better than to aim for the groin. His foot would have had to travel twice as far; it would have given twice the
time to dodge. And he doubted if such a kick would have been effective. The target was too small, the spot too
vulnerable not to have been protected.
He felt something yield beneath the impact of his heavy boot. He let himself fall backward, not fighting the
natural movement, rolling as he hit the ground. He scrambled back on guard, ducked as a hand reached for his throat
and winced as its companion slammed against his side. He backed quickly. Moidor followed him, stumbling as he
rested his weight on his injured knee. Dumarest kicked again as the fighter gripped his shoulder. Moidor sucked in his
breath.
"Quick," he applauded. "Vicious. You make a worthy opponent, my friend." His hands clamped around
Dumarest's throat. "You have damaged my knee," he purred. "For that I shall not be kind. I will hurt you in return—
badly. You will take a very long time to die."
His hands began to close. Dumarest flung himself backwards, jerking up his knees and pressing them against the
oiled barrel of the fighter's chest. He exerted the strength of his thighs, forcing himself backward against the
throttling hands. He was trying to utilize the whole power of his body against the strength of the fingers around his
throat. Blood began to pound in his ears and his lungs to burn. Reaching up and back he found the little fingers.
Taking one in each hand he pulled outward, levering them from his throat. Moidor opened his hands.
Impelled by the pressure of his thighs Dumarest fell backward, landing heavily on his upper shoulders. He
grunted as a naked foot, as hard as stone, kicked him in the side. He rolled as the same foot lashed at his kidneys. He
staggered to his feet, the taste of blood in his mouth, sweat running into his eyes. He dashed it away, looking for the
fighter. Moidor stood a few feet away, watching.
"A taste," he said, "of what is to come."
Dumarest gulped for breath. Red welts marked his throat and the shirt he had retained as protection against the
fighter's nails hung in shreds. He dared not take the time to rip it off. Cautiously he backed, panting as he filled his
lungs to oxygenate his blood. He circled so that his back was toward the sun.
Moidor lunged forward and stumbled. "My knee!" His teeth shone in the cavern of his mouth. "You will pay for
that!"
He hopped forward and Dumarest moved barely in time. He stooped and snatched up a handful of dirt. He
darted forward, hurling it into the snarling face, the gleaming eyes. He might as well have thrown a handful of mist.
He threw himself down and to one side as his rush carried him within reach of the fighter's grasp, his right hand
hitting the dirt. He pivoted on his stiffened right arm, swinging his boot in a slashing arc toward the damaged knee.
Bone yielded. Off-balance he tried to roll, to spin away from danger.
He was too slow. Moidor, balanced on one leg, caught his as he scrambled to his feet. Dumarest twisted as hands
gripped his shoulders, slamming the edge of his palm across the fighter's nose. Blood spurted, mingling with the
sweat and oil, staining the bared teeth vivid crimson.
"Now!" snarled Moidor. "Now!"
His hands were steel traps as they closed on the biceps, the fingers digging in to rip the muscle from the bone.
Dumarest groaned, tore himself free with maniacal strength of desperation, flung himself behind the gleaming body.
Savagely he kicked at the back of the uninjured knee.
Moidor fell.
Immediately Dumarest was on his back, one arm locked around his throat, knees grinding into his spine, his free hand
clamped on his other wrist. He forced strength into his arms and shoulders and pulled upward against the chin.
The watching crowd sucked in its breath.
He pulled harder. His ears began to sing and blackness edged his vision. From somewhere he could hear yells of
encouragement but they sounded thin and distant. Beneath him Moidor stirred, hands groping at the dirt for leverage.
A moment and he would be free. Dumarest lifted his eyes toward the sun. He heaved.
Bone snapped.
The sky turned the color of blood.

Chapter Six
The room was very quiet, very cool, the light soft and restful to the eyes. A faint scent of perfume hung in the air,
gentling the more acrid odor of antiseptics, almost killing the elusive hint of spice. Something made tiny, metallic
sounds to one side and he could hear the sound of breathing. Dumarest turned his head. A woman, no longer young,
sat on a low stool before a squat machine. She was simply dressed in green, a caduceus emblazoned on her breast.
She smiled as she saw the opened eyes.
"You are in the tents of the Matriarch of Kund," she said. "I am her personal physician. You are safe and have
nothing to fear."
She was efficient. She had answered his anticipated questions. Her voice was dry, a little precise, but softer than
he would have guessed. Dumarest looked past her at the soft hangings of the room, the thick carpet on the floor, the
squat machine beside his couch. From it came the tiny, metallic clicking. The woman frowned.
"Did you understand what I said?"
"Yes." Dumarest swallowed, surprised that he felt no pain. He touched his throat; it was unmarked, unswollen. He
looked at his arm. It was covered by the sleeve of a shirt. The shirt was of a silken, metallic fiber. He was fully
dressed, even to his boots, but the clothes were not his own.
"You made no comment."
"There was no need." He sat upright and swung his legs over the side of the couch. "I assume that I have been
given some kind of medication."
"You know?"
"I guessed." He stretched, wondering a little at his feeling of well-being. He felt as he did after waking from a
passage. He had been bathed, of course, and drugged and dressed in new clothes. He must also have been fed with
intravenous injections of quickly-assimilated concentrates. He wondered why the old woman had treated him so well.
"The Matriarch is no lover of the Prince of Emmened," said the physician. She seemed able to read his mind or
perhaps it was simply the extrapolation of the obvious. "It pleased her to see his fighter die."
"I killed him?"
She leaned forward a little, her eyes watchful. "You remember?"
Dumarest nodded, wondering just what had happened after he'd made his final effort. Bone had snapped, that he
could remember, and it must have been Moidor's neck. Then Megan had rushed forward, his face distorted with
excitement. But after?
"You were an automaton," explained the woman. "You stood and moved but without conscious awareness. The
final exertion had thrown you into metabolic shock. You had overstrained your resources. Left alone you would have
collapsed and, without proper treatment, could have died. The Matriarch recognized what had happened and took
you under her protection."
And, thought Dumarest grimly, had undoubtedly saved his life. The treatment he had needed was unavailable in
camp and no one else would have risked the enmity of the prince by supplying it.
"How long have I been here?"
"I put you under slow-time. Subjectively you have been unconscious for a week. In actual time it has been a little
under four hours."
She turned to study the machine. Lights glowed from behind transparent windows, flickering to the rhythm of the
metallic clicks, casting small splotches of color over her face. Thoughtfully Dumarest massaged his throat. The
equivalent of a week's skilled medication would more than account for his fitness. But slow-time is expensive. The old
woman had been more than generous.
"I would like to see the Matriarch," he told the physician. "I want to give her my thanks for what she did."
"That will not be necessary."
"I think that it is."
"What you think," she said flatly, "is of no real importance." She did not turn from the machine. "Later, if she
should wish, you may have the opportunity of meeting her."
Her meaning was crystal clear. He had been reminded that while the Matriarch ruled a complex of worlds he was
nothing but a penniless traveler. Her generosity had been impersonal, the satisfying of a whim. She no more expected
thanks from him than she would from a starving dog she had ordered to be fed.
The machine ceased its clicking. Stooping close the woman read the symbols in the transparent windows and
frowned. Impatiently she pressed several buttons and slammed her hand on the release. The clicking began again,
this time at a higher tempo.
"A diagnostic machine?" Dumarest had reason to be interested. She guessed his concern.
"Partially, yes. I have been giving you a routine check. You may be interested to learn that you have no contagious
disease, virus infection, malignant growth or organic malfunction. Also that you have no trace of any foreign objects
implanted in or on your body." She hesitated. "And I was totally unable to discover any sign of any post-hypnotic
suggestion or mental conditioning impressed on your subconscious."
He relaxed, smiling. "Did that machine tell you all that?"
 "That and more." She glanced at the windows again as the machine fell silent. She frowned, then turned to face
him. "There are some questions I would like to ask. I have been studying your physique and encephalogram together
with the constituents of your blood and your glandular secretions. I am somewhat puzzled. Where were you born?"
"Are you saying that I am not wholly human?"
Impatiently she brushed aside the suggestion. "It isn't that. This machine contains the encoded data of all known
physiology down to the molecular level. With the information I have introduced, it should be able to tell me on which
world you originated. It has failed to do so. Therefore the machine is either malfunctioning or you originated on a
world of which it has no knowledge." She paused. "It is not malfunctioning."
"Therefore, by your logic, I must originate on a world of which it has no knowledge." Dumarest smiled. "Is that so
incredible? There are countless inhabited worlds."
"Not quite so many—and the machine embraces all that are known."
Dumarest shrugged. "Assuming that to be true, haven't you overlooked the possibility of mutation?"
"No. That is not the reason. What is the name of your native world?"
"Earth."
She frowned, her lips thinning with anger. "Please do not jest; I am serious. Many races so call the substance of
their planet as they call it dirt or soil. What is the name of your primary?"
"Sol."
"This is ridiculous!" She rose to her feet, insulted. "I ask you the name of your sun and you reply with a word
meaning exactly the same. Sun!" She almost spat the word. "What sun?"
"The Sun." He rose and smiled down at her, amused by her anger. "I assure you that I am telling the truth."
She snorted and left the room. After a while he tried to follow and a guard blocked his passage. She was almost as
tall as himself. Massive doses of testosterone had accentuated her masculine characteristics. She faced him, one hand
resting lightly on the butt of her bolstered weapon.
"No." Her voice was deep, as strong as her determination. "You are to wait here."
"Wait? For what?"
She didn't answer and Dumarest returned to the couch. He lay down, enjoying the softness of the bed, idly
studying the motif on the ceiling. He had no objection to being detained in such luxurious surroundings.

***

The wine was a living emerald flecked with drifting motes of ruby. The goblet was blown from lustrous glass
veined with gold. The sweat of condensation clung to the outside in minute droplets of moisture. The liquid was as
frigid as polar ice.
"From Woten," said the girl carelessly. "You have been there?"
"No." Dumarest sipped at the wine, feeling the chill of it bite his tongue, the potency of it sear his throat. Released
by the warmth of his hand the bouquet rose to fill his nostrils with a cloying scent. "It seems a rare vintage, My Lady."
"Many use it for perfume." Seena Thoth was not interested in the wine. She left her own untouched as she sat
facing her guest, her eyes roving over the hard planes of his face, the firm yet sensuous mouth. He seemed different
from the ragged savage she had seen kill a man with his bare hands. "You have traveled far?"
"Yes, My Lady." He wondered why he had been detained for her pleasure. To satisfy her curiosity, of course, but
what else? "I have been traveling most of my life. Ever since I left my home planet."
"Earth?"
"Yes." He caught her smile. "I told the truth, My Lady."
"The physician does not think so." She was not really interested in his planet of origin. "You risked your life when
you fought Emmened's creature," she said abruptly. "What made you do it?"
"The prize, My Lady."
"A thing so small?" Her doubt was genuine. "To risk your life?"
"Wealth is relative," explained Dumarest patiently. It was obvious that she had never known the desperation of
poverty. "It is not a pleasant thing to be stranded on a world such as this."
"But surely better to be stranded than to be dead? Moidor was a trained fighter of men. He killed the others as I
would snap a twig." Her eyes grew speculative. "Are you also a trained fighter of men?"
"No, My Lady."
"Then you must have a secret skill. How else did you succeed when the others failed?"
"The others made mistakes." Dumarest looked at her with critical eyes. She was as beautiful as the goblet, as
exciting as the wine. The jewels she had braided in the ebony of her hair must have cost a hundred High passages,
the ring on her finger the same. He grew thoughtful as he studied the ring. "They thought it was a game and tried to
win according to the rules. That was their mistake. It killed them. In combat there are no rules."
"Is that why you kicked at his knee?" She smiled, remembering. "I wondered why you had done that."
"It is hard for a man, no matter how strong or well-trained, to stand on a broken leg. It gave me an advantage the
others did not have." Dumarest sipped more of his wine. He could have told her of his other great advantage over the
men who had died: they had been conditioned under the benediction-light to respect the Supreme Ethic; they had
entered the fight psychologically unable to kill. Instead he said, "Have you ever killed, My Lady?"
"No."
"Or caused the death of others?"
"No." She remembered a tortured face staring at an empty sky; blood on a cone of polished glass. "No!"
He sensed her trouble and picked up her goblet of wine. "You are not drinking. My Lady."
She waved aside the goblet. "Tell me what it is to kill," she demanded. "Do dreams come to haunt your sleep? Do
you regret having taken a life?" He sipped wine, watching her over the rim of the goblet.
"Tell me," she ordered, "what it is like to hold a living creature in your hands and—"
"To kill it?" Dumarest turned and set down his glass. The base made a small sound as it hit the surface of the
inlaid table. "It is a matter of survival. You kill because you have no choice. Having no choice makes it unnecessary to
regret the inevitable."
He heard the sudden intake of breath and wondered if he had guessed wrongly. If she had wanted him to supply
the vicarious thrill of blood and pain then he had failed. But she hadn't seemed like so many of her class, a depraved
animal craving sexual stimulation—and liable to take an unpleasant revenge if she didn't get it. Then he saw her
smile.
"You are right," she said gratefully. "The necessity of killing must be dictated by the needs of survival. I'm glad to
hear you say it."
He knew better than to ask why or question what ghost he had laid to rest. She had wanted to meet a man who
had risked his life for what she considered to be a trifle. She had expected nothing, an alleviation of boredom at the
most, but Dumarest had surprised her with the impact of his personality. She found herself strangely reluctant to let
him go.
He could have told her why. Despite her wealth and culture she had lived all her life in the narrow strata of a
single society. He had trod a hundred worlds, lived a varied life, seen a thousand things of interest. Seena was like the
handler on his ship. Her walls were invisible but they existed just the same.
"You must have more wine," she decided. "Not that cold stuff from Woten but a warmer vintage from the slopes
of Segalia on Kund." She rose to fetch the flagon and fresh glasses. "Have you ever been to Kund?"
"No, My Lady." He watched the grace of her movements across the floor, wondering why she hadn't called a
servant to fetch the wine. As she poured he watched her hands.
"Here!" She handed him a glass with her ringed hand. He took it, then looked sharply into her face. Her eyes were
bright, her breathing rapid. "We'll drink a toast," she said. "In celebration of your victory. To the dead—they won't
bother us!"
Deliberately he set down the untouched wine.
"You don't like the toast?" She looked at the wine and then at his face. "Is something wrong?"
"Your ring, My Lady. It reminded me of something."
"So?"
"You asked if I'd ever been to Kund," he said evenly. "I haven't, but I've been to Quail. They too have a
matriarchy."
She sat down, watching him.
"I had a very good friend on Quail. He attracted the attention of some rich and idle women. One of them wanted
to have some fun and so she invited him to her house. She had her fun and then decided to have more. She accused
him of rape." He looked steadily into her eyes. "Can you guess at the penalty for rape on a world like Quail?"
"Kund also protects its women."
"Naturally. The man of course, had no defense. The accusation was enough and they found what they regarded as
conclusive evidence. So they removed his eyelids, his nose, lips, ears and tongue. They also made quite certain that
he could never again be accused of the same crime. The woman attended the place of punishment."
"As was her right as the victim." Seena looked uncomfortable.
"I wonder." Dumarest reached out and took her hand into his own. He touched the ring with the tip of one finger.
"She wore a ring exactly like this. I saw it at the trial. Later I learned that they are made by the artisans of the
Kullambar Sea. They are hollow and a slight pressure will release a little of their contents. Sometimes it is poison.
The women of Quail get a great deal of sport from them. Sometimes they fill them with a powerful aphrodisiac."
He smiled and released her hand and, somehow, knocked over his wine.
 ***

In a room heavy with the scent of spice and rich with the brilliant tapestries spun by the spider-folk of a distant
star, an old woman spoke softly to her mirror.
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall—who is the fairest of us all?"
Once it had been Gloria's pleasure to have the mechanism respond in terms of the purest flattery to the fragment
of verse half-learned as a child. Now the sonic lock no longer pandered to her conceit. The surface clouded as the
scanners sought their target. It cleared to show the diminished figures of Dumarest and her ward. He was telling her
the story of his friend.
Gloria thinned her lips as she heard it, wondering if Seena recognized the implied insult. Probably not. The girl
needed the help of no drugs to find herself a lover but she couldn't blame the man for his caution. She knew of the
harridans of Quail and their spiteful ways. It was natural for him to be suspicious. She nodded as he spilled the wine.
"A clever man, My Lady."
Dyne stood behind her, the scarlet of his robe subdued against the vivid tapestries. He had thrown back his cowl
and his shaved head glowed in the soft lighting. Gloria shrugged.
"Clever, but safe."
"Are you certain of that, My Lady?"
"He's clean inside and out. Melga made sure of that before I allowed Seena to venture into his reach. She is bored
and needs someone to amuse her. Dumarest is more capable than most and safer than any." She looked at the screen.
They sat close as he told her a story of his traveling. Now, she noticed, he did not hesitate to drink the wine. But then,
she thought cynically, he had poured it himself.
For a moment she wished that she were young again so that she could teach him how hard it was for any man to
resist a determined woman.
"I am not sure that I trust him, My Lady." Dyne looked thoughtfully at the screen. "It could have been arranged
for him to be here at this time."
"How?" She was impatient with his excessive caution. "He rode with us by accident—I have checked with the
handler of our ship. And his fight with Moidor, that was real enough. He would have died had I not taken him under
my protection. Could he or anyone have anticipated that?"
"Perhaps not," admitted the cyber. "But there is something mysterious about him."
"His planet of origin?" She looked sidewise and up at the tall figure. "Didn't Melga tell you? He claimed to have
originated on Earth."
"Earth?"
"Yes. Melga thought he was having a joke at her expense and he probably was. She was not amused but then she
lacks humor. If he wants to keep the planet of his origin a secret why not allow him his mystery?" She smiled at the
figures on the screen. "A strange person," she murmured. "And no fool." She snapped her fingers and the scene
dissolved, the mirror returning to a plain, reflecting surface. "Is everything progressing as planned?"
"Yes, My Lady. I have arranged to hire bearers from the camp. The factor tells me that such work is their only
means of employment. The dispersal of the guards is as agreed."
"And the ship?"
"The captain has his orders. He will not fail."
"If he does he will pay for it if I have to offer a principality for his head!" For a moment naked cruelty showed
from beneath the cultured facade. It vanished as the Matriarch turned to other matters. "You think,then, that we are
safe?"
"I cannot be sure, My Lady." He met the sudden anger of her eyes. "I am not infallible. When the subject was
mentioned I gave certain advice. It was the best means possible to achieve the desired end. But I cannot be certain
beyond all question of doubt. There is always the unknown factor."
"An excuse?"
"An explanation, My Lady." Her anger left him unmoved. "Would you have me lie? If so then I am not needed
here. Any courtier could do as much."
She looked away, conscious of her helplessness as far as he was concerned. Anger, promises, threats, all were
useless against a machine. She could dismiss him and that was the full extent of her power. If she did more the
Cyclan would take their revenge.
But there always remained the tiny seed of suspicion, the shadow of doubt. Advice, like luck, could be of two
kinds.
"Is there anything more, My Lady?" Dyne was anxious to be gone. Cynically she wondered why.
 "No." She dismissed him with a gesture, waiting until he had left the room before daring to relax. Then she sighed,
her shoulders rounding with fatigue. At times like this she felt her age. Felt too the waves of savage ambition
threatening the things she loved. They were few enough.
Her palace on Kund. A small garden, some jewels, a lock of once-bright hair. The Lady Seena.
A small showing for a lifetime of rule.
She whispered at the mirror and again it showed Dumarest and her ward. They had not moved from the room.
Their movements had been in space and time. The girl was a little flushed and seemed to have grown even more
feminine as she sat close to the traveler. So close that he could not help but breathe the scent of her perfume. The
Matriarch nodded her approval.
Dyne had his cold predictions based on known data and logical extrapolation, but she had better than that. She
had the age-old intuition of her sex which could confound all logic. She had relied on it to carry her along a
bloodstained path to the throne. She relied on it to safeguard her ward.
Her face softened as she looked at the girl, feeling the bittersweet tug of memory, the determination to protect
her at any cost. The man could be of use in that despite the cyber's doubts. What did he know of the magical power
of emotion?
The old woman smiled as she looked at the couple; then the smile froze on her face. She felt a sudden pounding
of her heart, the terrible paralysis induced by overwhelming fear. The couple was no longer alone.
Death had joined the party.

Chapter Seven
It came on a blur of shimmering wings, a thin, finger-long body tipped with triangular jaws strong enough to
sheer through metal, to penetrate the toughest hide. It ripped through the plastic of the room, poised for a moment in
the corner, then swept toward where the couple sat.
Dumarest saw it barely in time. The Lady Seena was very close, her perfume an enticing scent in his nostrils, the
warm, white velvet of her flesh radiating its feminine heat. She was attentive and had a trick of staring into his face as
if seeing there something special to herself. Cynicism kept him detached. Such a woman would be sated with empty
flattery and the easy conquest of desirous males. She was only amusing herself, unable to resist the challenge of his
maleness, playing an age-old game with tired indifference.
So he told himself and managed to negate her charm.
"In your travels," she said softly, "you must have met many women. Tell me of them."
"Is that an order, my lady?"
"No. You will tell?"
"No. I—" He sensed rather than saw the darting shape and reacted by pure instinct. "Down!"
She screamed as he threw himself against her, knocking her from her chair, sending them both to the carpet.
There was a thin whine, a faint plop as the thing hit the wall behind them, merging instantly into the background with
a chameleon-like change of protective body-tint.
"Guards!" She thought that he had attacked her, that he was intent on rape. He rapped a command.
"Shut up! Listen!"
He rose, crouching, eyes scanning the wall. A patch of color flickered and he flung himself down, throwing his
weight hard against the woman, rolling her over the carpet. Again came the thin, spiteful hum, the soft plop of
landing. His ears caught the sound and directed his eyes. He reached behind him and groped for a chair. He found
one and clamped his fingers around the backrest.
Something flickered on the wall.
He swept up the chair, holding it as a shield as he lunged toward the woman. Something tugged at his hair. He
spun, feeling sweat bead his face, eyes searching the wall. He caught a glimpse of a jeweled eye before it vanished
into the background. He watched the spot. The thing was fast—too fast for the eye to follow once it was in flight. The
only chance was to intercept it before it struck.
"What is it?" Seena half rose from her knees, her initial fear forgotten. "I can't see—"
"Shut up!"
He caught the shift of color and jerked the chair up just in time. The thing hit the seat, drilled through, scored a
deep groove across the backrest and caromed off the metal fabric of his shirt. Wings a tattered ruin, it thrashed on
the carpet then scuttled forward on multiple legs.
Dumarest crushed it beneath the heel of his boot.
"A phygria," said Melga. The physician was very pale. She had come running at the heels of the guards. "You
recognized it?"
"No." Dumarest looked at the chair still in his hand. The scar on the backrest almost touched his skin. He set the
chair down and looked at the corner of the room. A hole gaped in the plastic. "I saw something move," he explained.
"The rest was instinct."
"You must have very unusual reflexes," said the physician thoughtfully. "The attack speed of a phygria is over fifty
miles an hour. That would give you,"—she paused, measuring the room with calculating eyes—"about a third of a
second to see it, recognize its danger and take necessary action based on that recognition. You know of them?"
"Yes."
"That would account for your subconscious recognition. You simply didn't have the time for conscious thought."
She stooped, picked up the crushed body in a pair of forceps, and examined it through a glass. "A female, gravid,
searching for a host." Her lips tightened. "A human is not its natural host. That means—"
"It was primed," said Dumarest harshly. He looked down at his hands; they were trembling a little from reaction.
He remembered the tug at his hair, the scar close to his hand. Death had twice come very close. "It was primed," he
repeated. "We all know what that means."
He looked at the beauty of the girl and wondered who wanted her dead.

***

Gloria was tormented by the same thought. A phygria was an assassin's weapon. Primed with the scent of the
victim it would unerringly seek out the target to use as its host. Like a bullet it would smash through the skin into the
flesh beneath to vomit forth a gush of tiny eggs. Swept by the bloodstream they would scatter throughout the body to
hatch and grow there. Too numerous for surgical removal, too tough for chemical destruction, they would bring an
inevitable and horrifying end.
The thought of Seena dying, the unwilling host to a thousand hungry larvae, made her want to retch.
"Who?" she snarled at the cyber standing at her side. "Who would want to kill her on this Godforsaken planet?"
It was a stupid question but she was too distraught to realize it. An assassin needed no reason other than his pay
but Dyne didn't remind her of that. Instead he countered her question with another.
"Not who, My Lady, but how? The phygria was primed—how did the assassin obtain her scent?"
The old woman snorted her impatience. It was simple enough, a clipping from a nail, a strand of hair, some
perspiration, a trace of blood—there were a dozen ways in which a host could be identified. Then she grew
thoughtful as his meaning penetrated her anger and fear. Seena was guarded, isolated from common contact. To be
effective a scent had to be reasonably fresh. She felt the sudden chill of her blood, the overwhelming weight of
despair, but the possibility had to be faced.
"Treason?"
"It is a possibility," he admitted, "but of a very low order of probability. It seems impossible that there could be a
traitor in your retinue."
"Seems?"
"No human action can be predicted to one hundred per cent certainty, My Lady. But there is an alternative
explanation: the target need not have been the Lady Seena."
"Dumarest?"
"Yes, My Lady. From the evidence it seems that the phygria attacked him, not the Lady Seena. He naturally
assumed that she was the target but he could have been wrong. The probability is high that he was. His scent would
not have been difficult to obtain."
"From Moidor?"
"Yes, My Lady, or from his discarded clothing." Dyne paused. "We can even guess the motive."
She nodded. It made sense and the Prince of Emmened was known to be a vengeful man. It would be like him to
avenge the death of his favorite, and simple if he had the means at hand. And yet it all seemed to fit too neatly. She
had long since learned to distrust neat solutions to important problems.
"In my view," said Dyne, "it would be wise to ensure that he never again comes into close contact with the Lady
Seena. The risk, if he is the target of an assassin, would be too great."
He echoed her thoughts but, by echoing them, stiffened her earlier resolution. Dumarest had proved his worth
and Seena could do with the protection of such a man. And, despite the cyber's logical explanation, she still had
doubts. The possibility of treachery could not be overlooked.
A communicator chimed, a fairy-bell in the spice-scented chamber. She threw the switch and Melga stared at her
from the screen.
"My Lady," she said, and paused waiting for the Matriarch to speak.
 "Well?" The old woman had little use for protocol in times of emergency. "Did you isolate the scent?"
"No, My Lady. It was impossible to distinguish who was the actual target."
It was a disappointment; she had hoped the physician could settle the matter and guide her into appropriate
action. Now there was only one thing to be done.
"Nullify them both." She broke the connection and sat brooding over the set. She reached for a button then
hesitated. It wouldn't take long for the physician to inject both Dumarest and her ward with scent-masking chemicals
but they would have to be guarded until all danger from further attacks was past. Deciding, she pressed the button.
"My Lady?" Elspeth, the captain of her guard, looked from the screen.
"Prepare for departure. We leave in two hours."
"For the north, My Lady?"
"For the north."

***

The tourist was in a flaming temper. He slammed his hand on the counter hard enough to bruise the flesh. If
there was pain he ignored it.
"Listen," he snapped. "I was given to understand that you would look after me. I haven't come all this way to be
given the brush-off. If you can't do your job here then your main office ought to know about it and I'm the man to tell
them. Now tell me just why I can't hire a plane."
"Because there isn't one on the planet." Piers Quentin fought the jumping of his nerves. For the past two hours,
ever since the Matriarch of Kund had left Hightown, his office had resembled a madhouse. "There's no need for
them," he explained. "The only place anyone wants to see is the mountains and they aren't far. You could walk it
comfortably in a couple of days."
"Walk?" The man purpled. "Walk!"
"Or you could hire a nulgrav raft," said the factor quickly. "I think that there is one left." There wasn't but someone
would have to double up. "An appreciation of the scenery is an integral part of the attraction," he continued.
"Mechanical noise would disrupt the harmony and ruin that you have come so far to experience. You can hire bearers
to carry supplies and to provide motive power, of course. I assure you, sir, it is the normal custom for people like
yourself."
The man grumbled but allowed himself to be convinced. He grumbled even louder at the hiring costs. Piers
spread his hands at the objections.
"I can't help it, sir. The bearers are free agents who will not work for less. The supplies are on sale or return and
there is a deposit on the raft. If you will sign here, sir, and here. Thank you. If you take this slip to the warehouse the
quartermaster will attend to your needs."
He relaxed as the man left the office, relaxing still more as he realized that the man was the last. There would still
be chaos outside but his staff could handle that. Now he was going to shut the door and take a long, cold drink.
Brother Ely smiled at him as he was about to close the panel.
"Alone, brother?"
"I was," said Piers shortly, then relented. "Come in and keep me company. I've had a hell of a time this past few
hours." He closed the door after the monk and crossed to the dispenser. "Something to drink? No. Well, you won't
mind if I do." He helped himself regardless and downed the drink in two long swallows. "The old woman started it,"
he said waiting for a refill. "I told them all that she was far too early but they wouldn't listen. Not that it matters, at
least they're out of my hair now."
"And, of course," said the monk quietly, "they will use more than normal supplies in order to maintain their
bearers and themselves. There is no water by the mountains?"
"No."
"Nor food?"
"No—everything has to be carried." The factor tasted his second drink. "Food, water, tents—everything. The
Hightowners ride on rafts which the bearers pull along. It works pretty well."
For himself, naturally, but it went deeper than that. There was a perversity in human nature which gloried at the
bestialization of its own kind. There was a romance clinging to the concept of slavery which appealed to the rich.
They would like to ride high and move by the muscle-power of desperate men. As the factor well knew those who
had started by demanding planes would end by regretting the loss of slaves. Their use gave a sense of personal
power lacking in the employment of machines.
Brother Ely knew that only too well. He said one word loaded with contempt. "Pander!"
"What!" The factor jerked so that some of the drink spilled from his glass. "What did you call me?"
 The monk repeated it. Quentin set down his glass. He crossed to the door, opened it, pointed outside. His face
was white with rage beneath the dark pattern of his beard. "Get out!"
Deliberately the monk looked for a chair, found one, sat down. "Spare me your outraged pride, brother. We both
know exactly what I mean by the word. Why did you remove the engines from the rafts? Such craft normally contain
their own motive power. Are you trying to add to the attraction of Gath?"
Irritably Quintin slammed the door and returned to his drink. The old monk was shrewd but it would not do him
much good. "What would you have me do?" Quentin swallowed the rest of his drink. "The tourists are rich and to
travel like that is a novelty which they appreciate. And it gives work to the travelers. Without it they would starve."
"Do they have to lower themselves to the level of beasts of burden in order to live?"
"That is your judgment," snapped Quentin irritably. "Perhaps they do not think the same. A starving man cannot
afford the niceties of your ethics. At least," he added spitefully, "they do not beg."
"And we of the Universal Brotherhood do," said the monk gently. He smiled. "I get your point, brother."

***

Piers was not amused. He had done nothing beyond the scope of his duties and had to answer to no one but his
superiors. But the Brotherhood had friends in peculiar places. He stood to lose nothing by caution.
"What's on your mind?" The factor helped himself to another drink. He felt a little sorry for himself. No sooner
had he rid himself of the incubus of the storm than this had to happen. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Shall we start with Dumarest?"
"The man who killed the Prince of Emmened's fighter? What of him?"
"Has the wager been paid?"
"The price of a High Passage is in my keeping."
"And if Dumarest should die?" The monk didn't wait for an answer. "He has no one to call you to account. You
would keep the money."
Piers didn't answer.
"A quick way to make a tidy sum," mused the old man. "More. If Dumarest should die you would be free of a man
you may have reason to fear."
Piers laughed in the monk's face. "Brother, you're crazy! I have no need to kill Dumarest for the reason you
mention. He will leave on the first ship. His passage is safe. Why should I want him dead?"
"Greed." Ely was bland as he smiled at the factor. "You are a greedy man, brother. It is a carnal sin and could
prove fatal." His lifted hand stilled the other's protest. "I do not threaten but simply point out the obvious. You cannot
be certain that Dumarest will leave Gath on a High passage. He is strong and accustomed to traveling Low. He might
choose to take others with him. The strongest, naturally—only they could survive. Could you spare so many willing
bearers, brother?"
"I'd be glad to see them go. All of them!" Piers gulped at his drink. "The penniless scum! The sooner they go the
better!"
"So you keep saying—I don't believe you." The monk grew stern. "Let us not fence with words, brother. You set
the fee for their hiring. You put the price on their food. You know that every penny they earn will find its way into
your pocket. You may not have initiated the system but you are taking full advantage of it. Brother, I would not have
your conscience for the wealth of a world!"
"There is an old saying," said Piers quietly. "The man who rides a tiger finds it hard to dismount."
"He could have help, brother."
"What do you want? Facilities for a church in Hightown? You can have them but what good it will do I don't
know. It is hard to preach ethics to those who value nothing but money. A church in Lowtown? You can have that too
and I'll put you on the roster for regular food. You may break your heart but you won't starve." Piers finished his drink
and put down the empty glass. "You may be able to persuade them to be content with their lot. What else you can do
I can't imagine."
"Perhaps you underestimate the power of the Brotherhood," said the monk evenly. "It is not beyond speculation
that the travelers might take a hand in their own destiny. Who then would tend the field, clear the path, act as bearers
for the tourists who come to Gath?"
"A Union!" The factor made no secret of his disgust. "Are you threatening me with a Union? A man of your
calling to deal in a thing so vile!"
"By the pattern on your face I see that you belong to a Guild," said the monk sharply. "What else is that but a
union of people engaged in serving their common end?"
He had expected an outburst of rage but the factor surprised him. Quentin could see no relationship between the
professional guild of which he was a member and a union of unspecialized types the thought of which aroused only
disgust. The professional men had ethics, the others did not. If anything he was amused by the old man's analogy.
Deliberately he helped himself to another drink, taking his time, adjusting alcohol, flavor and ice until it was to his
satisfaction.
"An entrepreneur arrived on the same ship as yourself," he said casually. "We get at least one every storm. All get
the same idea. They want to organize the travelers into a composite whole and then dictate the terms under which
they will allow them to work. Only one has tried to do it."
"And?"
"He accomplished what he set out to do. He had money and could provide food. For a time, at least; then the food
grew too expensive. Then came the time of storm and the ships began to arrive. By that time the travelers were very
hungry." He paused and took a sip of his drink. His eyes were amused as they stared at the monk over the rim of the
glass. "And then guess what?"
"You are telling the story," said the monk evenly.
"I tell it to every entrepreneur who arrives. They invariably see the point. All I did was to go among the travelers
and hire twelve of the strongest men. I fed and armed them. I replaced the engines in the rafts. They were able to do
all the work that needed to be done. The rest got nothing. After the storm there was no more talk of conditions."
"And you continued to ride your tiger." Brother Ely was thoughtful. The factor was a more complex character
than he had guessed. The man was driven as much by fear as by greed. "Tell me, brother, are you so in love with the
beast that you cannot bear to be parted?"
Piers looked at his hand. It was trembling with memories of nightmared sleep. The dream was always the same:
himself lying crushed and bleeding beneath the boots of a ravening mob. It could happen at any time, more so during
the period of storm when nerves jerked to electric tension. And there was nothing between him and the mob but a
handful of guards.
"Well, brother?" The monk was patient The factor shook his head.
"No."
"I am glad to hear you say it." The old man's face expressed his joy. "The Brotherhood has always striven for the
greatest good for the greatest number while maintaining established rule. Here it would take so little. A simple
adjustment of the fees charged the tourists. A system to provide and distribute natural food among the travelers.
Some medical care—we are good at such things. We could rid you of your tiger."
And, thought the factor gratefully, provide a barrier between the travelers and himself. Well, why not let them
have their way? Let them take charge, wear the face of authority while he remained innocently in the background.
They could do it and instill obedience to the Supreme Ethic at the same time.
His life, at least, would be safe.

Chapter Eight
They camped halfway to the mountains, an irregular sprawl of rafts and tents and weary travelers. The rafts had
no weight—their nulgrav plates kept them a level three feet from the ground—but they had mass and had to be
towed every inch of the way.
It was growing darker, the air dim and filled with shadows as the path swept toward the eternal night of the east.
The sun had almost vanished below the horizon, only the upper rim remaining visible, painting the west with the
color of blood. The air was heavy, brooding, filled with invisible forces. Above, the pale light of stars shone in a purple
sky.
Megan groaned with the pain of his shoulders. He eased the clothing from his back and cursed in a low
monotone. He looked up as a tall figure occluded the sky.
"Megan?"
"Is that you, Dumarest?" Megan tried to stand, groaned, made a second attempt. He relaxed as the tall man knelt
beside him.
"What's the matter with you? Are you hurt?"
"My back." Megan winced. "Could you get me some salve or something? That Emmened!"
"I heard." Dumarest's hands were gentle as they bared the thin shoulders. He stared grimly at the welts
crisscrossing the pallid flesh. "You fool, Megan! What did you want to take service with him for? You had enough
money to take this trip easy."
"It isn't my money."
"So what? There's more than I need. You didn't have to get yourself half killed for the sake of a few units."
 "I needed the money." Megan was stubborn and Dumarest could appreciate his pride. "How was I to know the
devil would use the whip?"
It had been a hell of a trip. The Prince of Emmened, savage at having been left behind in the rush to follow the
Matriarch, had tried to make up time and forge to the lead. His method had been simple: force the towing travelers to
run and whip them until they did.
And continue whipping them all the way to the present camp.
His guards had helped but the fear of being left behind without employment had helped even more. Starvation, as
the factor had cynically pointed out, made ethics and pride of minor consideration to food. Even so two had died and
five had been left on the journey.
"You've finished working for him." Dumarest had salve and he applied it with a gentle hand. "Don't worry about
losing your money. You don't need it. None of you need it. I've enough to buy off all his bearers. He can use his
guards and courtiers to pull instead."
"Take it easy." Megan relaxed as the pain in his shoulders yielded to the soothing action of the salve. "Do that and
you'll get yourself killed. You can't treat a man like the prince that way and you know it."
It was the truth but none the more palatable because of it. Dumarest had the money but it wasn't enough. He
needed more than money. He needed the power and protection he didn't have.
"All right," he admitted. "So we forget the others. But don't let me see you working for Emmened again."
He rose and left the other man, wandering over the camp, feeling restless with unvented anger. A group of
travelers sat around a blanket rolling dice for their day's pay. The cubes clicked and bounced and called forth groans
and cheers as they came to rest. Someone would be the winner but, in the end, there could only be one who collected
the money. Quentin would take it all.
His irritation grew. Striking out he left the camp, walking toward the night side, his feet noiseless in the grass. He
walked for maybe half a mile and then dropped as he saw dim figures in the gloom. Hugging the grass he watched
them pass. There were four of them, tall, broad, masculine even in the way in which they walked. They carried nets
and the bell-mouthed shapes of sonic guns. One of them carried a small bag in which struggled some form of life.
He wondered why guards of the Matriarch should be so far from camp and what they could be hunting here in
this place. The small animals, obviously; they were the only form of life, and Megan had said that the only way to
catch them was with nets and sonic guns.
He was thoughtful on his return to camp.
The place had a more festive air. Small fires glowed in the ruby dusk and the scent of cooking food reached his
nostrils. The scent stimulated his appetite. Megan would have food or he could get some from the kitchens of the
Matriarch. He could even buy food which had been stolen from the tourists—for this brief time they were fair game.
He lengthened his stride.
And almost died beneath the blaze of a laser.

***

Luck saved him. A tufted root twisted beneath his foot and threw him to one side, away from the blast of energy
which came from behind. Common sense kept him alive. He continued to fall, letting his body grow limp, hitting the
ground face down, pressing the left side of his head against the grass so that it's supposed injury was hidden, masking
the right side with an upflung arm. He remained motionless, not moving even when the whisper of footsteps came
very close. They stopped, too far away for him to reach, and he held his breath. The scent of the grass was in his
nostrils, the damp odor of the ground. The tingling between his shoulders grew almost unbearable but he knew that
to move was to die.
The assailant was watching, reluctant, perhaps, to attract attention with a second shot, but certain to fire again in
case of doubt. Then, after an eternity, the footsteps rustled away.
After a long while he rolled and sat upright.
He was alone. No silhouette blocked the sky, no shape stood in near-invisibility against the purple of the east. He
could see nothing but the loom of tents and the tiny glow of fires bright against the red-stained sky of the west.
Whoever had fired had vanished as quietly as he had come. Or as she had come. There was no way to tell.
Dumarest wondered who had wanted him dead.
The guards, perhaps? One could have spotted him and have circled to cut him down and shut his mouth. A
creature of the Prince of Emmened seeking revenge for the death of his favorite? A traveler bribed by the factor to
burn him down so that he could keep his passage money? There was no way of telling.
The camp had settled down by the time he returned. Weary figures hugged the ground, watchful figures guarded
the tents, and even the tourists had gathered in little clumps for mutual protection. One of them waved to him as he
passed. He was a smooth, rosily fat man wearing bright clothes and with a peculiarly marked ring on his finger.
"Hey, friend, care for a game?"
"Of what?" Dumarest halted, wondering if they knew who he was. His dress was not that of the rest of the
travelers.
"You name it, well play it." The man riffled a deck of cards. "Highest, lowest, man-in-between. Best guess—
straight or two out of three. Starsmash, olkay, nine-card nap. Your choice, friend." The cards made a dry rattling as he
passed them from one hand to the other. "Come close and have a drink."
"I'll take the drink." After his narrow escape Dumarest felt that he could do with it. The man handed him a bottle
and he lifted it to his lips. He swallowed, a gulp of a full three ounces. It was good liquor. "Thanks." He handed back
the bottle. The man's eyes widened as he took it.
"Say, I know you! You're the one who beat the prince's fighter. That was something I wouldn't have wanted to
miss." He became confidential. "Listen, if you want to turn professional I could fix you up all the way."
"No."
"Maybe you're right." The gambler wasn't annoyed at the abrupt refusal. "A pro gets known too fast. Tell you
what. Let me handle things. I know quite a few places that have a liking for blood. We can kid them to back their local
and then you step in. Get it? Just like you did with Moidor but this time you'd get plenty of gravy." He chuckled. "I
forgot. You didn't do so bad. A High passage is plenty of loot for a—" He broke off. Dumarest finished the sentence.
"For a stranded bum of a penniless traveler?" His voice was very gentle. "Is that what you were going to say?"
"No!" The man was sweating. "Look, no offense. Have another drink."
"I'll cut you for a double-handful of units," said Dumarest. He leaned close so that the man could see his eyes.
"High man wins." He watched the deft way in which the man shuffled the cards. "I've got the feeling I'm going to win,"
he said evenly. "It's a pretty strong feeling. I'll be annoyed if it's wrong."
He won. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't ashamed either of the way he had forced the result. A man had to learn
to pay for a loose mouth. The gambler had got off cheap.
He left the tourists and headed across the camp, carefully stepping over slumbering figures huddled around the
fires. A small line had formed where the Brothers Angelo and Benedict had set up their portable church and he
wondered at the energy of the monks. His eyes narrowed as he found what he was looking for. Sime, apparently fast
asleep, rested beside his coffin.
Dumarest looked around. It was still too bright for him to be totally unobserved if anyone were watching but
details would be blurred by the dim light. He dropped to one knee very close to the sleeping man. His hand touched
the coffin and he leaned forward—and saw the gleam of watchful eyes.
"Sime?"
"What is it?" The man lifted himself on one elbow. His gaunt chest was bare beneath the ragged tatters of his
shirt, his face skeletal in the ruby glow. "What do you want?"
"I've got a proposition." Dumarest leaned close so that the man could smell the liquor on his breath. "Remember
me? I helped you carry this thing from the field." His hand rapped the coffin.
"I remember."
"Well, I can get you a lift with it. A couple of units will do it."
"No."
"Are you stupid? We've got as far again to go. You want to pass out before we reach the mountains?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then how about it?" Dumarest sounded impatient. "A couple of units to one of the guards. Its worth it."
"Thank you, but I can't." Sime reared upright and rested one arm on the lid of the box. "I know that you mean
well but it's a personal matter. Please try to understand."
Dumarest shrugged. "Suit yourself—it's your funeral."
He rose to his feet, half turned and caught a glimpse of movement. He lurched toward it and almost trod on the
recumbent body of the old crone who had traveled with Sime. She appeared to be fast asleep.
Melga adjusted the hypogun and held the nozzle close to the furry hide of the small animal which Dyne held
writhing in his hands. It was desperate with terror. Its mouth gaped and its eyes bulged but it made no sound aside
from the harshness of its breathing. She watched it for a moment then pressed the trigger. Air blasted a charge of
anesthetic through the hide and into the bloodstream. Immediately the animal went limp.
"I have changed the dosage and chemical content of the anesthetic," said the physician. She took the animal from
the cyber's hands and fastened it to the surface of her dissecting table. "On the next specimen I shall, if necessary,
simply sever the sensory nerves to the brain." She sat down, picked up a heavy scalpel and bared the skull with a few,
deft strokes. She had had much practice. The dissected remains of half a score of the creatures stood in plastic
containers. She had concentrated on the skull.
 "Perhaps it would be as well to dissect without undue concern for the creature's pain," suggested Dyne. Like the
woman he wore a surgeon's gown and mask. Elbow-length gloves covered his hands. "It could be that any anesthetic
used will destroy what we are trying to find."
"Possible," agreed the woman, "but very unlikely." She cut and snipped and discarded. A saw whined briefly as
she sliced through the top of the skull. A suction device removed the circle of bone. Blood welled over the surface of
the living brain. "While I agree that chemicals may alter the metabolism they can hardly change the physical
structure. But I may have to make perfectly sure." The blood vanished into the maw of a sucking tube as she adjusted
the instrument. "However pain, in itself, can serve no useful end. The muscles will be tense, the blood cells engorged,
the entire glandular system in a state of abnormality." She swung a glass over the wound and selected a delicate
probe. "Fear is also an important consideration. It may be as well to gas the next collection of specimens to ensure
that they are uncontaminated by the effects of the emotion."
Dyne made no comment. He leaned forward, watching as the woman cut and probed into the mass of living
tissue, her expert fingers baring the innermost recesses of the creature's brain. He caught the faint sound of her
indrawn breath.
"Something new?"
"No."
She put down the probe and picked up a scalpel. Quickly she stripped the rest of the hide from the now-dead
creature. Again she cut and delved, this time with more speed but with no less skill. Finally she put aside her
instruments and leaned back in her chair.
"The same," she said flatly. Her voice was heavy with fatigue. "Exactly like the others."
"You regard the evidence as conclusive?"
"There can be no doubt. The random sampling would have shown any divergences if they existed. No
divergences were found. We must accept the logical conclusion."
Leaning forward she pressed the release. The disposable topsheet of the dissecting table sprang from the edges
into a cup cradling the unwanted remains. She threw it into a disposal unit. A gush of blue flame converted it to ash.
Dyne narrowed his eyes at the brief glare. "You are not preserving the remains?"
"It would be unnecessary duplication—the specimen yielded nothing new."
She leaned back, acutely conscious of the confines of the tent, the clutter of her equipment. She was a tidy
woman and such confusion caused mental irritation. Dyne didn't help. He stood, a watchful figure, to one side of the
table, the dissecting light casting hollows beneath his eyes. She wished that he would sit down or go away. She always
worked better alone.
"We can now be quite certain that these creatures have no functioning auditory system," she said, knowing that
he waited for her summation. "They have no outer ear—in itself not too important, but they have no ossicle and no
tympanic cavity. They have a membranous labyrinth containing otoliths and similar in structure to that of the
gnathosomes. This takes care of their sense of balance but it is not connected to anything which could be a
functioning auditory nerve."
"Could it be vestigial?" He was shrewd, she thought before answering.
"No. There is simply no recognizable nerve tissue present which it could be and no connection to the outer hide
or to any form of tympanic membrane. The conclusion is inescapable. These creatures are completely devoid of the
mechanism of an auditory system."
She closed her eyes, feeling waves of fatigue rolling over her like the waves of a sea, remotely conscious of the
dull ache in her hands and wrists. Once it would not have been like this. Once she had been able to sit at her table
and work and work and work… She caught herself on the edge of sleep and opened her eyes to the glare of the
dissecting light. Age, she thought wryly. It comes to us all.
Something brushed against one of the walls. A soft tread whispered beyond the plastic—one of the ubiquitous
guards of the Matriarch on her rounds. Dyne waited until she had moved away.
"So these creatures are completely deaf. Is that your summation?"
"I didn't say that they were deaf." The physician reached out and snapped off the dissecting light. The
comparative gloom was restful to her eyes. "I said that they had no auditory system."
The cyber could recognize the difference but he wondered why the woman was being so precise. "Exactly. But
with no auditory system they must be completely deaf in the sense that we use the word."
She nodded.
"Then they cannot receive and interpret external vibration." He was insistent. "You are positive as to that?"
She had been positive from the first. Scientific thoroughness had prompted the following dissections and now there
could be no doubt. Without an auditory system the animals were stone-deaf. The sonic guns used to trap them? They
operated directly on the nervous system and created a condition of panic fear. The victim had no choice but to run
from the point of maximum disturbance. Ground vibration? Perhaps they could sense it but in a manner she couldn't
yet tell.
But, without the ability to hear, how could they survive? How could they hunt, mate, elude ordinary means of
capture?

Chapter Nine
The path veered more to the east so that the upper rim of the sun fell below the horizon and only a dull, red glow
shone from beyond the sea. The stars were brighter now, limning the bulk of the mountains which waited ahead,
casting a thin, ghost-light on the grass and the boulders to either side. Far below, from the base of the cliffs, the
muted roar of the waves sounded like the pounding of a monstrous heart.
Gloria hated the sound. She sat beneath the canopy of her raft and felt her own heart pick up the rhythm and
adjust to its tempo. It was too slow. She felt her blood grow turgid, her thoughts dull. Irritably she sniffed at her
pomander and concentrated on other things: the line of the column stretching behind; the shorter line reaching
ahead. The Prince of Emmened was in the van, no longer whipping his bearers now that he was in the lead. The
lights on his rafts looked like miniature stars.
"An unusual sight, My Lady." Dyne sat beside her, his face shielded by his cowl. The scarlet of his robe looked the
color of congealed blood in the dim light. He looked at the cavalcade, the combination of pomp and pride and
poverty unique to Gath. The Matriarch was unimpressed.
"I have seen better," she snapped. "The installation of a matriarch of Kund is a sight I have yet to see equaled."
"Naturally, My Lady."
"You doubt?"
"No, My Lady. But this spectacle is of nature rather than man." He lifted his face to the heavy air. The tension had
increased so that it lay like a hot, crackling blanket over the area. Wisps of electrical energy glowed at the tips of
metallic protuberances. The storm was very close. He said so. The Matriarch shrugged.
"We spent much time in camp and killed our early advantage." The time had not been wasted. Gloria looked at
the cyber, breathed deeply of the chemicals rising from her pomander, and spoke what was on her mind. "You are
sure of your findings?"
"Yes, My Lady."
"And Melga?"
"She too, My Lady."
The Matriarch nodded, her eyes thoughtful at the expected answer. She had seen the physician later than Dyne,
sitting slumped in her chair, her face sagging with the weight of fatigue. She had shown her years—a great many
years, but they had given her skill as well as experience. Her body shaken with the effects of drugs, she had made her
report.
"Our findings are as expected, My Lady. I have verified the prediction and have made some attempt to isolate the
relevant factors. I…"
The Matriarch had been kind. She had permitted the physician to sleep. She was still asleep, lying in one of the
tented rafts, glucose and saline dripping into her veins, the magic of slow-time adding to her therapy. But her report
had vindicated Dyne's answer. They had found one of the secrets of Gath.
"The animals, then, are telepathic?"
"Yes, My Lady—as I predicted." His eyes shone with his sole pleasure. "Once it was clear that they had no
auditory system the logical extrapolation was obvious. No creature can be totally devoid of survival characteristics;
some breed with incredible fecundity, some can race the wind, or have amazing powers of vision or scent. Others
have the power of camouflage. None are wholly deaf."
A basket stood at his feet. He stooped, opened it, took out a small, furry creature—one of those captured by the
guards. It struggled for a moment then relaxed as he stroked the featureless head.
"There are historical cases of species being so defenseless that they are now extinct," he continued. "They are
rare. This animal has no special powers of scent or vision, hardly any camouflage and a relatively low rate of
reproduction. Also it is quite deaf. It should make easy prey." His hand continued its soothing rhythm. "The stranded
travelers have done their best to catch the creatures for use as food. They failed. Yet the beasts are numerous and
have little defensive equipment. Physical equipment, naturally."
The Matriarch was paying little attention. She concentrated on the animal. "Why isn't it afraid?"
"Because I am concentrating on harmless thoughts," said the cyber. "I mean it no harm. In a short while I shall
release it. But if I were to think of other things. Of killing it, for example—"
 His hand ceased its soothing motion. The animal tensed then, suddenly, and went wild with terror.
"You see?" Dyne released the creature. It jumped from the raft and was immediately lost in the undergrowth. "It
could only have sensed my thoughts. Not actual words, of course, it has no language or means of verbal
communication so could not have thought in a verbal sense. It sensed my intention. It must be very sensitive."
Gloria nodded, her forehead creased with thought, her heart beating to a rising excitement. Telepathy was not an
unknown talent in the cluster of worlds which had known the foot of Man but it was, at best, an unpredictable thing
spawned by sport mutations and wholly unreliable. If these creatures had compensated for their lack of hearing by
developing a telepathic ability then they were unique.
Unique because they were of flesh and blood and physiologically akin to the human race.

***

On a knoll toward the east of the curving path the Lady Seena stood and watched the slow progress of the
column. She had become bored with riding and had chosen to walk. Chosen, too, Dumarest to walk with her but they
were not alone. The Matriarch had seen to that. Beyond earshot but very much alert, a circle of guards accompanied
the couple.
"It looks like a snake," said the girl. She looked at the light-studded column etched against the dull red glow of the
western sky. "Or a centipede. Or an eltross from Vootan. They are composed of seven distinct types of creature
united in a common symbiosis."
Dumarest made no comment. His eyes were searching the column. He could see the Brothers Angelo and
Benedict, the structure of their portable church twin mounds on their shoulders. The laden figure of Sime, his burden
grotesque in the midst of the carnival-like throng, crept steadily along to one side. He could not see the old crone.
"That man!" Seena pointed to Sime. "What does he carry?" Dumarest told her. She stared in amazement. "A coffin
containing the dead body of his wife? You must be joking."
"No, My Lady."
"But why?"
"He is probably very attached to her," he said dryly. "I understand that some men do feel that way about their
wives."
"Now I know that you are joking." Seena was impatient. "It is hardly a subject for jest."
"I am not joking. My Lady. It is common knowledge among the travelers." He looked thoughtfully at the laden
figure. "I will admit that it is unusual to find a man so attached to a woman as is Sime."
"But why?" The question bothered her. "Why did he bring her to Gath?"
"That is the question, My Lady." Dumarest looked at the woman at his side. "I am not sure as to his reason but
there is a legend on Earth that, at the very last day, a trumpet will sound and all the dead shall rise to live again.
Perhaps he hopes to hear the sound of that trumpet—or that his wife shall hear it."
"But she is dead."
"Yes, My Lady."
"But—" She frowned her irritation. "You fail to make sense," she complained. "I have heard of no such legend."
"The Brothers would enlighten you, My Lady."
"Have they also been to Earth?" She laughed at his expression. "No, how could they? Do you really expect me to
believe there is such a place?"
"You should—it is very real." He began walking so as to keep abreast of the Matriarch's retinue of rafts. "I was
born there," he said abruptly. "I grew up there. It is not a pleasant place. Most of it is desert, a barren wilderness in
which nothing grows. It is scarred with old wounds, littered with the ruins of bygone ages. But there is life, of a kind,
and ships come to tend that life."
"And?"
"I stowed away on such a ship. I was young, alone, more than a little desperate. I was more than lucky. The
captain should have evicted me but he had a kind heart. He was old and had no son." He paused. "That was a long
time ago. I was ten at the time."
He shook himself as if shedding unpleasant memories, been traveling ever since, deeper and deeper into the
inhabited worlds. "That's all there is to it, My Lady. Just an ordinary story of a runaway boy who had more luck than
he deserved or thought existed. But Earth is very real."
"Then why haven't I heard of it? Why does everyone think of it as a planet that does not exist?" She stooped and
picked up a handful of dirt. "Earth! This is earth! Every planet, in a way, is earth."
"But one planet was the original." He saw the look of shocked realization followed immediately by forceful
negation. "You do not believe me—I cannot blame you for that, but think about it for a moment. Earth, my Earth, is
far from the edge of the inhabited worlds. No one now, aside from a few, has any reason to go there. But assume for a
moment that what I claim is true. Men would venture from that planet in which direction? To the stars closest to
home, naturally. And from there? To other, close stars. And so on until the center of civilization had moved deeper
into the galaxy and Earth became less than a legend." He paused. "No, My Lady, I can't blame you for not knowing of
Earth. But I do."
It made a peculiar kind of sense and held the seeds of logic. Add a few thousand years, the trials of colonial
enterprise, the distorting effects of time and what was once real becomes legend. And who, in their right senses,
believes in legend? The name, of course, didn't help. And how could he identify his sun?
Seena felt a sudden wave of sympathy as she recognized his problem.
"You want to go back there." Her eyes searched his face. "You want to and you can't because no one seems to
know where it is. That is why you told Melga of the planet of your origin—you hoped that she would be able to help
you."
"I thought that she, or someone, might know of it," he admitted. "I was wrong."
"A barren place," she murmured. "A desert scarred with the wounds of old wars. And yet there is life there?"
"Of a kind."
"And ships visit?"
"Yes."
"Then you have your clues. Someone must know the coordinates. Tell me of that life, those ships."
"No."
"But why not?" Her eyes lightened. "Dyne could help you. Sometimes I think he knows everything."
"Yes," said Dumarest tightly. "I think you could be right."
The column crawled on at two and a half miles an hour, an easy pace even for weak men loaded with half their
weight in supplies. Megan grunted as he threw his weight against the rope, feeling the pull at the cuts on his
shoulders, snarling in frustrated hate at the thought of the men who had plied the whip.
He still worked for the same man despite what he had promised Dumarest. There was pride in his decision and
something more. The Prince of Emmened had contracted to pay for his services and pay he would. Megan relished
the thought of the money, the best salve of all to his scarred back.
He grunted again as a passing guard scowled at him; he heaved on the rope and twisted his face into a sneer. The
guard passed on. Ahead lay only darkness relieved by the ghost-light of the stars but Megan needed no light. He had
been this way too often in the past. Ahead lay the mountains of Gath.
The Prince of Emmened could see them in fine detail.
He peered through the infrared binoculars clamped to his eyes then grunted with perulant irritation.
"Nothing." He lowered the glasses. "Just an ordinary mountain range, weathered but perfectly natural." He
slumped in his throne-like chair, ringed fingers drumming on one of the arms. "Why?" he demanded. "Why the
sudden move? I understood that the factor had assured you that there was plenty of time."
"He did, My Lord," said Crowder.
"Then he either lied or that old Bitch of Kund must know something. I doubt that he lied." His face darkened.
"What is she likely to gain, Crowder?"
"Nothing, My Lord. Whatever time she saved she lost while staying at the camp. Now you are in the lead. If there
is anything to find you will discover it first."
"If I knew what to look for."
"Perhaps there is nothing, My Lord."
"That is ridiculous! She must be here for a reason. She must have left early because of that reason. Perhaps she
found it at the camp and so could afford to delay; perhaps not. It could be important. I must know what it is."
"It could be that she merely wished to remove her ward from temptation," soothed the courtier. Crowder was
cunning in his diplomacy. "I was watching when Moidor died," he lied. "You were right, My Lord. She is a woman to
be stirred by the sight of blood. Had there been another such bout I doubt if all the old woman's guards could have
kept her from slaking her passion."
"You think so?" The prince had known many such women.
"I know so, My Lord." Crowder was emphatic. "And it is obvious to whom she would turn. Who else, other than
yourself, could she regard as an equal?" He caught the beginning of a frown. "Or her superior," he hastily amended.
"Such a woman needs to be dominated. A strong hand, My Lord. She has been pampered too long."
"Perhaps." The prince was thinking of other things. Again he lifted the binoculars and stared at the scene ahead.
Again he saw only what nature had fashioned: a high ridge of weathered and fretted stone bulking huge against the
stars. He swung the glasses to the west and saw only the sea and empty sky, then to the east. He paused as he
spotted the couple. The sight of the woman reminded him of the courtier's words; the man of the blood-bout in
which he had lost his favorite. "Crowder."
"My Lord?"
The prince handed him the glasses. "Over there. What do you see?"
"The Lady Seena and the man Dumarest."
"And?"
"The guards of the Matriarch."
"They attend her at all times," mused the prince. He was thoughtful. Crowder would have been surprised at the
expression on his face but the courtier was busy with the glasses.
"Guards can be circumvented, My Lord." Crowder handed back the binoculars. "The girl could be won."
And, thought the prince, with her the knowledge of the Matriarch's intentions which she must hold.
"You interest me, Crowder," he said blandly. "It would be intriguing to see if you were correct in your
assumptions. The girl could be won, you say?"
"Yes, My Lord. And, once the thing was accomplished, what could she do? She or that old woman of Kund?"
Crowder smiled as the prince pondered the question.
"Assassination," he said after a moment. "Those guards of hers would go through hell itself if so ordered. I have
no desire, Crowder, to live in constant fear of unexpected death. The suggestion displeases me."
"But if the thing could be so arranged that she could be proved to be willing—" Crowder was sweating but not
from the heat. "The Matriarch could hardly object to you as a husband for her ward. A monk of the Brotherhood
could tie the knot." His chuckle was a suggestive leer. "A knot which you could cut whenever you so decided, My
Lord. That goes without question."
The prince nodded, toying with the suggestion, seeing beyond the apparent simplicity of the courtier's plan. And
yet it was an intriguing concept. The girl was attractive, aligned to wealth; it would be a good match. It would kill the
monotony of the homeward flight if nothing else and give him the aura of responsibility the lack of which his
ministers so deplored. At the worst he could always pose as her savior and gain her confidence via the path of blood.
Crowder's blood, naturally. The secret of Gath was worth a dozen such as he.

Chapter Ten
They reached the mountains, the path opening onto a sickle-shaped plain which curved its narrow length
between the mountains and the sea. Megan guided them to the summit of the cliffs below which the sea roiled in
thunderous fury. He halted and dropped the rope.
"Here," he announced. "This is the best place to stay."
One of the guards stepped closer to the edge. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Megan's face was strained in the cold glow of the lights. "This is the place."
The Prince of Emmened looked down from his seat on the raft. He listened to the hungry roar of the sea and
spoke to Crowder.
"Did the factor say which place was best?"
"No, My Lord. But this man has been here many times before. He should know."
"He should," agreed the prince. "But he is one we whipped on the first part of our journey. We will go closer to
the mountains. Much closer."
He leaned back, smiling in ironical amusement as Crowder gave the order, smiling still wider as he saw how
Megan's shoulders flinched from the weight of the rope. It had been a brave attempt but it had failed and he could
gain satisfaction from the smallest of victories.
"That man," he ordered pointing to Megan. "When we camp give him nothing. If he argues tell him that he is
paying for his failure. He will understand."

***

The Matriarch of Kund had no need to make a decision. Her retinue continued to the base of the foothills, well
away from the sea, her rafts covering a generous expanse of ground. Too generous in view of the limited room and
the numbers wanting to occupy it, but she had no thought for the problems of others. As her guards set up the tents
and paid off the bearers she sat and brooded in the thick, warm darkness, her mind busy with a project which
admitted of no delay.
The telepathic principle of the local animals had to be isolated in order to be used. Melga, she knew, would waste
no time but such a thing was not quickly accomplished. There had to be time for testing, more time for experiment,
still more time to ensure that the thing not only worked but was harmless.
Only then would she really feel safe.
She didn't move as the guards surrounded her with the plastic fabric of a tent, stiffening the walls and roof with
inflatable sections, joining them to others so that she sat safe in the center of a growing complex of rooms. Later they
would unpack some of her possessions, the tapestries, the mirror, other things. Now they were racing to beat the
storm.
Dyne watched them with cerebral amusement. He knew to the minute exactly when the storm was due and
knew, despite the time spent on the journey, that it was far from imminent. There was still plenty of time for him to
do what had to be done.
"You will go to the mountains," he ordered two of his personal retinue, the stern young men who accepted him as
their master in all things. "I want samples of both the air and the stone. You will take them from the mountain before,
during and after the storm. I want a continuous sampling of the air. Do you understand?"
They bowed.
"Go now and set up your equipment. One other thing!" He called them when they were almost at the door. "You
will wear earmuffs at all times. Do you understand? You will not attempt to listen to the noises of Gath. Now go!"
Alone he stepped to the door of his tent and called to the remaining member of his retinue. "Total seal," he
ordered. His fingers were shaking a little as he boosted the power of his bracelet.
It was intoxicating, his communion with the gestalt of the Cyclan, and strong mental discipline was necessary to
ration the use of the Samatchazi formula, the activating of the Homochon elements; if the discipline was not strong
enough it would be enforced from without. But this time he had reason for contact. It was important that the central
intelligence should know of the latest events.
He thought about them while relaxing on his couch. Melga had verified his prediction and now there could be no
doubt as to the telepathic ability of the local animals. To isolate it and then to use it was simply a matter of time.
His brain was dazzled with the vision of it.
The creatures were physiologically akin to humanity. The operating segment of their brains containing the
telepathic faculty could be grafted into a living, human skull.
Such grafting had been accomplished before with the Homochon elements but they had been taken from
formless creatures brooding in eternal night, locked in darkness beneath the miles of their ebony atmosphere. They
gave instant communication and were instrumental in forming the gestalt of the Cyclan. But they did not give the
ability to read human minds.
This discovery could. With it, coupled to the Homochon elements, the Cyclan would be truly omniscient.
His own reward could scarcely be less than immediate acceptance to the community of brains resting in the
depths of their lonely world.

***

The narrow plain was alive with men, tents, guards, tourists and travelers. They were scattered thick on the
crescent of land between the mountains and the sea, the glow of their lights and the red eyes of their fires a mosaic
of living color in the sullen weight of the air.
"Those fires," said Seena. "When the wind blows won't they be dangerous?"
"With the storm will come rain," said Dumarest. He had learned as much from Megan. "Even if it didn't the
flames wouldn't last long. There is nothing to burn but the grass." And the clothing of the travelers and some of the
tourists, he thought, but didn't mention it. They were fools to have fires at such a time in such a place, but men have
always yearned for the comfort of a dancing flame.
"It's eerie," she said, and shivered slightly, but not from the cold. "It's as if something were about to happen at any
moment."
"The storm," he said absently. His eyes ranged from the stunted bulk of the mountains to where the plain fell into
the sea. At one time the plain must have been much wider, the mountains much higher. The ocean and the wind had
eaten at them both. Soon there would be no plain at all and only the sullen waves would hear the lauded music of the
spheres. He mentioned it and she shrugged.
"If there really is such a thing. It seems hard to believe."
"So?" He was curious. "Why else did you come to Gath?"
"I attend the Matriarch."
"And she?"
"Goes where she will." He recognized the tone; he had heard it from the physician, a reminder of their relative
positions. "I do not question the Matriarch," she said pointedly.
 "And I should not?" He was unimpressed. "Why are you here, My Lady? To listen to the sound of dead voices? To
stand with your face to the wind and hear the dirge of a dying world? These things are for tourists."
"I am the ward of the Matriarch!"
"Yes," he said softly. "And she is old and has not yet, so I understand, named her successor. Would that be you,
My Lady? Are you destined to be the next Matriarch of Kund?"
"You forget yourself !" She was rigid with anger. "What would you, a traveler, know of such things?"
"Are you, My Lady?"
He was on dangerous ground, more dangerous than he'd thought. A shadow grew from the gloom and thickened
into the face and form of the captain of the Matriarch's guard. Elspeth was coldly polite.
"You are needed, My Lady," she said to the girl. "You are not," she snapped at Dumarest. "Come, My Lady."
He watched them go then wandered slowly through the camp. He spotted where Sime had planted his coffin and
himself, hugging the perimeter of the Matriarch's tented area. The old crone, some way off, busied herself over a fire.
The dancing light made her look like a watch. She didn't look up as he passed.
Dumarest continued on his way, looking for Megan. He halted as someone touched his arm, recognizing one of
the monks by the light of a nearby fire.
"Yes?"
"Your name is Dumarest?"
"That's right. You want me?"
"A friend of yours has been hurt. He asked for you." The monk turned to lead the way. "If you will follow me,
brother?"

***

Megan lay supine on a couch of uprooted grass gathered in one corner of the portable church. He wore no shirt
and his back was marked with long, livid welts. They had not been caused by a normal whip. Dumarest knelt to
examine them. His face was hard as he stared at the monk in attendance.
"When?"
"We found him a short while ago close to the edge of the cliffs. He was scarcely conscious. He asked for you."
Brother Angelo tenderly applied salve to the welts. Dumarest knocked aside his hand.
"That stuff is useless. He's been beaten with a strag. He needs sedatives and neutralizes."
"I know, brother." The man was very calm. "But we can only use what we have."
It wasn't enough. The dried, flexible body of a sea serpent found in the oceans of Strag carried a searingly painful
nerve-poison in its jagged scales. Its use was much favored by overseers and the aristocracy for the punishment of
slaves and underlings. Dumarest felt his muscles knot with rage as he looked at the thin shoulders and fleshless back
of his friend.
"Go to the tents of the Matriarch," he said. "She is not unsympathetic. Buy what you need." He searched his
pockets for the bonus-money he had won. He spilled it all into the monk's hands. "Hurry!"
Gently he stooped over the moaning figure. A cold hand gripped his stomach as he exposed the face. A lash
across the eyes with a strag brought permanent blindness. Megan had been lucky. The lash which had marked his
cheeks had missed his eyes. The welts on the back of his hands showed why.
"What happened?" Dumarest leaned close to the other's mouth. "Who did this?"
"Crowder." The voice was a tormented whisper. "The prince refused to pay me—said that it was the price of
failure. Crowder added to the price." A spasm contorted the sweating features. "God! The pain!"
"Steady!" Dumarest gripped the thin shoulder. "Why did he refuse to pay you?"
"I tried to be smart." Megan sobbed in his agony. "Stay away from the cliffs, Earl. When the wind blows
sometimes people get the urge to run. Sometimes they run right over the edge. I've seen them do it."
"So?"
"I tried to get the prince to camp close to the edge of the cliff. I thought that, when the wind blew, he might go
over. Teach the swine a lesson… whips his…" The mumbling voice rose to a scream. "The pain! God, the pain!"
"Is there nothing you can do?" Dumarest glared up at the remaining monk. Brother Benedict spread his hands, his
face sympathetic in the glow of the single lamp.
"Strag poison lowers the pain level so that a scratch becomes almost unendurable agony. Until the poison has
been neutralized or dissipated that condition will remain."
"I know that." Dumarest was impatient. "What of your hypnotic techniques?" He snarled as the monk made no
answer. "Damn it, I know about your benediction-light. This man went to church back at the field. He must still be
prone to your suggestions. Work on him, damn it!"
 "Easy, brother." The monk was gentle but firm. "We have already tried that. Hypnosis requires the cooperation of
the subject. Strag poison makes that impossible." He paused. "We do not like to see the effects of pain, brother," he
continued gently. "There is too much suffering in the universe for us to wish for more."
"I believe you."
Dumarest hesitated. Humanity all belonged to the same root but there were many branches. What would be
harmless to one could be serious injury to another. Then Megan screamed and decided the matter.
"Steady," soothed Dumarest. "Steady."
He rested his hands on Megan's throat, his thumbs probing the flesh. He sought and found the carotids then
pressed, cutting off the blood supply to the brain. Brother Benedict stepped forward, his face anxious.
"Be careful, brother!"
Dumarest nodded, counting the seconds. A little pressure should bring unconsciousness, too much would result
in death. But he was unsure of the exact effect of strag poison on the body's metabolism, even less sure of what
mutational divergences Megan might carry in his body. It would take so little, a slight alteration in the oxygen needs
of the brain, a lowering of the reviving effect of fresh blood. Even an unsuspected weakness…
He removed his hands.
Megan screamed.
"I tried that, brother." The monk was quick to lessen his failure. "That and pressure on certain nerves of the spine.
We can do nothing; the poison has beaten us. Perhaps Brother Angelo will have better success."
They didn't have long to wait. Dumarest sprang to his feet as the monk returned from his errand. He was empty-
handed.
"I am sorry, brother." He handed back the money. "The Matriarch has sealed her area."
"Sealed?" Dumarest fought his anger. "Did you see the physician? The Lady Seena?"
"No one, brother."
"Damn it! Did you try?"
"I tried," said the monk with dignity. "But I could not get past the guards."
Dumarest winced as Megan began to moan.

***

The guard was a vague shadow against the bulk of the tent. He snapped up his weapon, his voice hard.
"Halt!"
Dumarest halted, then moved slowly forward. "I want to see your master."
"Who are you?"
"Dumarest. I killed his fighter."
"I saw it." The guard became more friendly. He lowered his weapon together with his voice. "A nice bout. It was
about time that pimp got what was coming to him but you were too gentle. Your footwork was fine but you took a
chance at the end. You should have—"
"I won," snapped Dumarest impatiently. "Are you going to announce me?"
"Well—" The guard was doubtful. "What is your business with the prince?"
"Personal. Now call his flunky and tell him that I want to see his master. Move!"
It was a gamble but he had nothing to lose. If the guard did his duty he would refuse even to announce the visitor
but Dumarest was banking both on his reputation and the factor of curiosity. He won the gamble.
"What is this?" Crowder came from the tent, his face puffed in the light of a torch he held above his head. A thin,
glistening tube almost a foot in length dangled from a chain about his right wrist Dumarest knew what it contained.
"What is it you want? Your prize? That is with the factor. What else?"
"I will tell that to the prince."
Crowder flushed and dropped his right hand, catching the tube and fingering the catch. A slight pressure and the
strag would spring from its sheath. One slash and the man would have reason to regret his insolence. Then he
hesitated, remembering where he had last seen Dumarest, and with whom. A man so friendly with the Lady Seena
could have his uses. He let the tube slip from his hand.
"You must tell it to me," he said mildly. "The prince cannot be bothered without good reason."
"I want drugs," said Dumarest harshly. Crowder had been the pressure of a finger away from death. "Is that
reason enough?"
"Of course." The courtier smiled. "Come with me."
The prince was at play when they entered his chamber. He sat staring at the focused image of a solidiograph, his
eyes glazed as he studied the variations of an age-old theme, entranced by the depicted skill. Not until the ephemeral
images had faded did Crowder urge Dumarest forward. He placed him on a selected spot before the throne-like chair
and hurried to his master's side.
Dumarest failed to catch his whisperings.
He looked around, noting the luxurious hangings, the subtle air of decadence, the expected appurtenances of a
sybarite. He could see no guards but guessed at their presence. The prince was not a man to trust himself with a
stranger.
"So." He had deigned to notice his presence. "You wanted to see me. Why?"
"For drugs, My Lord."
"So Crowder tells me. At least you are honest. Have you been addicted long?"
Dumarest restrained his impatience. Let the fool have his fun. "The drugs are for a friend of mine," he explained.
"A man your courtier there lashed to the brink of insanity with his strag. Was that by your order, My Lord?"
"The man had displeased me. I ordered him to be punished."
"With a strag?"
"No."
"So I thought. Will you give me leave to punish the one responsible, My Lord?"
"Crowder? Perhaps." The prince was amused. His full lips parted to show gleaming white teeth as he smiled. He
considered himself to be an attractive man. Physically he was. "You are a brave man," he mused. "Are you willing to
risk your life for a friend?"
"If necessary. He could have saved mine."
"And you are grateful." The prince was pleased with the answer. "Tell me," he said gently. "What will you give me
if I do as you ask?"
"Ten times the cost of the drugs, My Lord," said Dumarest promptly.
The prince shook his head.
"The High passage I won by defeating your fighter."
"So much?"
"If necessary, My Lord. A man is in pain."
"And you want the cure for his agony." The prince gestured to Crowder. "Find my physician. Have him give you
what is needed. Go!" he waited until the man had left. "Come closer," he ordered Dumarest. "Closer. That is better."
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You see? I trust you. I have placed myself within your power."
"Have you, My Lord?"
The prince caught the irony. "You are wise. Only a fool would wholly trust another. You are no fool and neither
am I. There is a thing you could do for me. If you agree I will give you the drugs and the cost of a High passage." He
paused. "The drugs now, the passage later. You could use it for your friend."
Dumarest nodded, waiting.
"I have seen you close to the Lady Seena," continued the prince. "She is an attractive woman. I would like to
know her better. You understand?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"Good. What I ask is simple. It could be that I shall need a friend who is close to the lady in question. You could
be that friend. If so you must obey my orders without question or hesitation. You agree?"
"Certainly, My Lord." Dumarest hesitated. "The High passage?"
"Comes when your work is done." The prince lifted his hand for silence as Crowder returned. The courtier carried
a small package.
"The drugs, My Lord."
"Give them to Dumarest and escort him from the area."
The prince was thoughtful as the men left the room. He felt a vague sense of unease—Dumarest had been too
willing to agree—then he shrugged off the feeling. How could he compare the values of a common traveler with
those of a cultured man? Dumarest had nothing; to him the Lady Seena was a woman as distant as the stars while the
price of a High passage was something which he could appreciate. No, he had reacted according to his type and
would prove to be a useful tool when the time came to act.
The prince smiled as he thought about it. Crowder had done better than he knew.
Outside the tent Dumarest wiped the sweat from his palms and tucked the package under his arm. He felt dirty,
soiled, yet there had been nothing else he could have done. Megan needed the drugs and, if he had to lie to get them,
so what?
He frowned as he walked to where the monks waited in the shelter of their tiny church. It was hard to see: thick
clouds had rolled from the east and covered the sky, blotting out the stars. They made the air even more oppressive, a
lid clamped down on the oven below, stifling with their presence.
 Dumarest didn't look at the sky. He was thinking about the Lady Seena and the Prince of Emmened. What did
they have in common? What plan had the prince in mind and what would be his part in it?
Something hit wetly on the back of his hand. Another drop followed it, and another until, in seconds, the air was
heavy with falling rain. At the same time a vivid flash of lightning ripped across the sky.
The storm had begun.

Chapter Eleven
It came with a continuous rolling of thunder which tore at the ears and numbed the senses. The lightning was a
web of electric fire across the sky, stabbing at the ground, searing wetly into the sea. The rain was a deluge, pounding
the ground into mud, turning the air almost solid with its moisture.
The fires died. Stretched plastic echoed the drumbeat of the rain. Tourists cursed and huddled beneath the
shelter of their rafts. Travelers fought to join them or scurried frantically to what shelter they could find. It was little.
The wise stripped their shirts off and covered their heads with them so that they could breathe at least. The stupid
drowned in the relentless downpour.
And still the air remained motionless. The winds had yet to come.
"I don't like it," said Megan. He sat, hunched in a corner of the church, his face pale from recent strain, "I've never
known it this bad before."
"But it rains?"
"Sure." Megan moved so as to give Dumarest a little more room. The church was crowded with desperate
travelers sheltering from the storm. They stood packed in an almost solid mass. The air was heavy with their heat and
smell after their long confinement. "It rains and sometimes there's thunder, but not to this extent." He listened to the
drumming of the rain. "This is something special."
He was shouting but Dumarest could hardly hear what he said. The thunder and rain seemed to fill the universe.
Suddenly he could no longer stand the cramped confinement, the heat and the smell.
"I'm going outside." He tried to rise to his feet and Megan caught his arm.
"Wait it out, Earl. You're safe in here."
Safety was relative. In the church Dumarest was safe from the immediate danger of the rain but the rain would
not last forever. Then would come fresh danger, perhaps from the Prince of Emmened, or Crowder, or the person
who had tried to kill him on the journey. The violence of the storm triggered a violence within so that he burned with
the need for action.
He jerked his arm free and tried to thrust his way toward the opening of the church. He failed; the press of men
was too great. He dropped to his knees and probed the lower part of the wall. The plastic was thin, merging with the
sea of mud outside. He dug and lifted and gasped as spattered rain lashed his face.
"Earl!"
"Wait here!"
Dumarest lifted the side wall, ignoring Megan's protest, flattening so that he could thrust head and shoulders
outside. The rain slammed at his skull and forced it into the mud. He reached out and clawed at the ground, dragging
the rest of his body from the tent. The side wall fell behind him and suddenly he was alone.
Alone in a peculiar world lit by the stroboscopic effect of vivid flashes of lightning, deafening with the roll of
thunder, the drumming of rain.
He turned and felt water drive into his nostrils, his mouth, slam with bruising force against his closed eyelids, run
wetly into his ears. He tried to breathe and choked as water reached his lungs. Coughing he turned to face the mud,
stooping low as he ran forward in a long, loping crouch.
He paused to get his bearings, conscious of the proximity of the sea and the cliffs falling to the waves. In such a
storm it would be easy to go over the edge. A lightning flash showed him his position. Ahead and to one side loomed
the tents of the Matriarch, black in the fierce glare. He could see no guards but had expected none. They would be
inside. Another flash and he could see the complex of the Prince of Emmened, equally black, equally lifeless. The
rafts of the tourists rested, well away from the sea, a cluster of crowded travelers devoid of shelter, some alive, some
dead, all inconspicuous in the mud.
He ran forward as darkness closed around.
It was hard work, harder still as he had to steal every breath, shielding his face and waiting as his gasping lungs
re-oxygenated his blood, retching as water reached where only air should go; waiting too as the vivid glare of
lightning etched the plain with stark clarity, running only when it was safe to move unobserved.
The rain eased a little. The rolling thunder moved seaward; the lightning was no longer directly overhead.
 Dumarest tripped and fell, slamming heavily into the mud, feeling the soft dirt splash into his eyes and mouth. He
rolled, face upward, so that the punishing rain could wash him clean, rolling again in order to breathe. He looked at
what had tripped him.
He looked thoughtfully at a boy, scarcely a man, the one who had traveled with Sime and the crone. He was quite
dead.
Drowned, perhaps, caught in the storm and not knowing what to do in order to survive. He lay face-up, his face
very pale beneath the patina of rain, his thin hands crossed on his stomach, his lips parted, his hair a dark smear on
his forehead. Dumarest reached out and turned his head, waiting for a flash of lightning before turning it to the other
side.
The sky crackled with a livid glare and he saw, quite clearly, the little red spot high on the cheek, just before the
ear and below the temple.
A spot which could have been made by the thrust of a heavy needle.

***

The rain ceased and the thunder muttered into silence. The lightning blazed on the horizon in a lambent
chiaroscuro. Far to the west the libration of the planet thrust a wall of cold air into the tropic heat of the sun. The
thermodynamic balance began to change. Equally far to the east a cold bank of frigid air began to move, drawn by
the vacuum of expansion. It speeded as it moved, rushing over the cold of the nightside toward the warmth of the
sun. It swept across plains of ice and hummocks of frost and streamed down on the mountains. It hit and surrounded
the obstruction, blowing up and over, forcing its way through cracks and crevasses, bathing the fretted and filigreed
mass of stone and crystal with the thrust of its passage.
The air became murmurous with sound.
Ghost sound. The distant skirl of pipes, the crying wail of strings,the heartbeat of rattling drums, all mingled and
faint, thin and unimpressive.
The wind blew stronger.
And the dead rose to talk again.
Dumarest rose from where he knelt beside the body.
Around him streamed a medley of voices, a cacophony of sound, a vibration which covered the audible range
and extended far beyond. He heard his name and turned and saw nothing. He caught the echo of a laugh, the snarl of
a curse, the thin tremolo of a baby's wail. He closed his eyes.
Immediately the sounds grew louder. A multi-toned murmur whispered past his ears and, buried within it, a voice
scratched with boneless fingers at the doors of memory.
"It's your turn next, Earl, Make it doubles—I want to celebrate."
"Carson!"
"Don't be a fool, Earl. Why don't you settle down now that you've got the chance? Take my advice and do it
before it's too late."

***

"Carson!" Dumarest opened his eyes, almost expecting to see the familiar shape of the man who had traveled
with him to a dozen worlds. Carson who had gambled against the odds once too often and was now five years dead.
There was nothing, only the mountains, the wind, the thin wavering of the unmistakable voice. That and the cries
of the others, the travelers and tourists, who had left their shelter to stand, entranced, exposed to the magic of the
winds of Gath.
Again he closed his eyes—the illusion was better that way, more complete. Now the voices were clear and strong,
ringing from the winds which blew about his head. Many voices, some of men who had tried to kill him, others of
men he had killed. Moidor sneered his challenge, Benson murmured his envy; he heard the spiteful whine of a
phygria, the hot snarl of a laser. The past unfolded and the dead became real:
The old captain who had taken pity on a scared and frightened boy.
"One thing, son. You must promise never to tell anyone of this. Never mention it or go into detail. If you do it will
cost my life. Do you understand?"
The promise he had kept until now and then only broken in part. But a man should know how to find his home.
Other voices, harsh, impatient, some appealing. A dizzying blend of sound containing within itself all the voices
he had ever known. And one voice, warm with sensuous passion, whispering with rising emotion, tearing at his heart
with painful memory: "Darling… darling… darling...."
 "No!"
He jerked open his eyes. The past was dead, she was dead, let it be. But the temptation was strong. To hear her
again, to thrill to her words of love, to recapture the joy of the past and warm his spirit in tender memory…
Savagely he shook his head. The voice was a lure, an illusion without flesh or real meaning, a ghost from the past
born in his own head from memories impossible to eradicate. Now he could understand Megan's warning. How many
had run to their death thinking that they ran to the arms of their lovers, family, friends?
Or ran from some imagined danger which tore at their sanity?
He gritted his teeth against the rising wind. Around him the plain was in turmoil. Men sat entranced, beating time
to invisible orchestras, walking as if in a dream, standing with tears running down their faces or cursing or holding
conversations with the empty air. They stood revealed in the flicker of the distant lightning, helpless in the grip of
their illusions.
The wind blew stronger.
High on the mountain a young man checked his instruments and felt the rising force of the wind. He heard
nothing, the muffs clamped to his ears deadening all sound, but he was curious. The instruments required little
attention and it was doubtful if he would ever again visit Gath. And, if he should listen, just for a short while, who
would ever know?
He lifted his muffs and listened and screamed and fell two hundred feet to his death.
On the plain the Prince of Emmened blanched as voices rang in his head, sharp, accusing, the words of men long
dead, the sobs of women long forgotten. He cried out and his physician came running, an old man, long deaf, the
electrodes of his mechanical ears glistening against the hairless dome of his skull.
"The voices!" screamed the prince. "The voices!"
The physician read his lips. He had turned off the power for his ears when the wind had first brought its pleasure
and pain and he could guess at what troubled his master.
"Think of pleasant things," he suggested. "Of the sighs of women, the laughter of children, the song of the birds."
"Fool!" The prince snarled his anger but the man made sense, more sense than the wind which carried the
tormenting voices. But he could not do it alone. "Bring drugs," he ordered. "Euphorics. Hurry!"
Drugged, dreamlike, drifting in illusion, the prince sprawled in his chair and thought of pleasant things. Of
combats and diversions yet to come. Of the richness which life had to offer and the painful joy of complex jests—
painful to the victims, of course, never to him. And he thought of the Lady Seena, the most pleasant thing of all.
He was not alone. Rigid in her chair, her room open to the wind, the Matriarch of Kund sat alone in a world of
memories. She listened again to the deep, strong voice of a man and could imagine his touch, firm yet tender, the
hands on her shoulders, her waist, the curve of her hips. Her lips pursed to his kiss, the blood running hot in her aged
veins.
"Darling!" she whispered. "Oh, my darling!"
"My love," echoed the voice in her mind. "Gloria, my love. I am yours for all eternity. We are meant to be together
—I cannot live without you. My darling, my love, my own!"
A man, dust for over eighty years, now talking and breathing at her side, his voice, his beloved voice, soft in her
ears.
"I love you, my darling. I love you… love you… love you… "
Another voice, thin, high, childish.
"Mummy! Look, mummy. See what I have!"
A scrap of root shaped in the likeness of a man, a doll drawn from nature. Arms and legs and the rudiments of a
face. With cosmetics she had drawn in the details, the eyes and lips and ears. With lace from her handkerchief she
had fashioned a dress. The sun had been warm that day, and the air full of tenderness. Her heart ached with the
memory of it.
And other voices, the thin, whispering echoes of ambition, the temptation of office and the knowledge that the
coveted prize was hers—for a price.
"Mummy." whispered the voice, the thin, girlish voice. "When am I going to see you again?"
The tears ran unheeded down her withered cheeks.
Dyne crouched over his recorder, his head grotesque under the muffs which covered his ears, his eyes burning
with the light of scientific dedication. Around him the wind moaned against the tents, the drumming of the plastic
adding to the medley, reinforcing rather than blanketing the catholic noise.
On the machine the tapes wound soundlessly from their spools, recording every note of the entire spectrum of
audible sound, recording even the sub- and ultrasonic vibrations beyond the range of normal hearing. It was a
sensitive instrument. It would miss nothing but it would solve nothing. It lacked the catalyst of the brain which could
transmute sound into imaginary image.
 The cyber leaned back, pensive, wondering at the world of emotion of which he knew nothing. The secret of
Gath was, to him, no secret. It was merely a combination of circumstances which had a cumulative effect: the mighty
sounding board of the mountains which, beneath the thrust of the wind, responded in terms of living sound; sound
which could trigger thought-associations so that the hearer would live in a world of temporary hallucination, sound
which could be filtered by the brain to form actual words, music, songs and declamations.
Sound which contained within itself the sum total of every noise that had been made or could be made in the
lifetime of the universe.
That was the unique attraction of Gath.
He shifted, a little restlessly, conscious of the sound without actually being able to hear it. Coldly his mind
evaluated the incident. There was nothing mysterious about it. There were only so many cycles to the range of the
human ear. There were only so many combinations of sound possible within that range. Given enough time, each of
those combinations must be played.
He made a slight adjustment to the recorder.
Dumarest gritted his teeth and clamped his hands over his ears. It made little difference. The blast of the wind
was not so easily beaten; the voices refused to be silenced.
He felt that he stood in the center of a shouting crowd, all yelling against the thunder of music, the accumulated
roar of factories. He heard the hissing whine of rocket engines, the rolling crescendo of atomic destruction, the
thudding blast of endless cannon. He heard the screams of burning men, the shrieks of ravaged women. The wail of
tormented children made a threnody of pain laced with hymns, paeans, the shanties of drunken seamen. The creak
of ropes blended with the sullen throb of engines.
"No!"
His shout was lost in the wind. The storm was too strong, the wind too powerful, human resistance too low.
Lightning cast its garish light over the plain. He could see a musician beating time, his eyes glazed with madness. A
tourist ran recklessly toward the sea. A traveler ripped at his clothes, his nails raking his flesh. Voices drummed within
his skull.
"Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit..."
"E equals MC squared…"
"The Curfew tolls the knell of parting…"
"No, Harry! For God's sake…"
"Two drops and…"
A million voices in a thousand tongues merging with the natural sounds, the factory noises, the music and songs
and sounds of peace and war so that they, like the mingled colors of the spectrum, formed a "white," a composite
noise.
Dumarest groaned with the pain of his ears.
Rational thought was impossible. It was hard to concentrate: words formed themselves to follow the trend of
thought; mental images flocked to dull logical sequence.
He stooped and grabbed handfuls of wet dirt. He lifted the mud and slammed it over his ears, piling it high,
adding to the sticky stuff until the impact of the wind had fallen to a low murmur. The dead man watched him from
where he lay.
Waiting for Dumarest to join him in the mud.
He turned barely in time, catching a glimpse of naked metal, the afterglow of a lightning flash on polished steel.
He jerked sideways, his skin crawling to the fear of poison. A small shape hit him as he grabbed at the wrist. He
missed and doubled as a foot drove into his groin. Half blinded with pain he backed and fell over the body of the
dead man.
The glare of lightning showed him the figure of the crone, eyes wild, ears muffled, the heavy needle poised over
his eyes.
He grabbed, rolling as the light died, managing to wrench the sliver of steel from her hand. The mud fell from his
ears and his head ached to the windborne hammer of sound. He felt a lithe body and gripped it, hands searching for
the throat. He missed, felt metal instead and ripped the muffs from her ears.
And lost her in the darkness.
He sprang to his feet as the next flash lighted the sky. He saw her running away from him, heading toward the
cliffs and the sea below. He followed, slipping in the mud, retching from the pain in his groin. He saw her once more,
a ragged figure silhouetted against the sky, then she vanished as the light died.
She was gone when the next flash came.
Slowly Dumarest walked back toward the mountains. He scooped up fresh mud to cover his ears, wondering how
long the storm would last, how intense it would grow. The limit must be very close. Sheer sound, alone, could not kill
but the accompanying ultrasonics could, if there were ultrasonics. From the pain in his ears he knew that the
possibility was high.
He reached the dead man, passed him, and continued toward the tents of the Matriarch. He was close to the
area, heading to where Sime had rested his coffin, when the storm reached its climax.
The wind fell, the lightning flared raggedly in the sky and nature seemed to hold its breath. Things took on a
peculiar clarity in the electric illumination, somehow unreal caught as they were in the stroboscopic effect of the
lightning.
Then, as if it had merely paused to gather strength, the wind returned in a savage gust which surpassed all that
had gone before.
And, in the eerie flicker of the lightning, Dumarest saw the lid of Sime's coffin rise, tilting, falling aside from the
rising figure below.

Chapter Twelve
Dumarest groaned and opened his eyes. He looked at a clear sky dotted with stars, the pale crescents of two
moons close to the horizon. He was cold, shivering, his head throbbing to a dull, monotonous ache. He lifted a hand
and felt his temple. It was swollen and sticky with congealed blood. He winced as he pressed the wound, feeling relief
in the discovery that it was only superficial.
A shape stooped over him, the face suddenly springing to life in the light of a torch held to one side, fading as it
was carried further away. Megan stooped lower, his breathing rapid, hands reaching to touch Dumarest in the region
of the heart. They halted as he caught the gleam of open eyes.
"What happened?"
"The rafts tore free from their moorings," said Megan quickly. "One of them must have hit you. I tripped over you
and thought you might be dead." He looked pale, his face ghastly in the thin light. "There was a dead man lying close
to where I found you."
"I know."
"There's a lot of dead." Megan leaned forward to help as Dumarest sat upright. "Too many dead, tourists as well
as travelers." He shuddered. "God! What a storm! I've never seen one like it and hope never to see it again."
He shuddered again, pulling sodden rags tight across his chest. The air was frigid with nightside chill and the
ground felt crusty as if coated with ice. Dumarest rose to his feet and looked around.
The plain resembled a battlefield. Only the tents of the Matriarch and those of the Prince of Emmened had
withstood the final gusts. The rafts had been blown out to sea. The remains of the church lay a tatter of plastic on the
ground. The two monks moved from figure to figure, their torches centering them in pools of light, narrowing as they
knelt. Sometimes they called for others to help them move a man in which they had found life. They did not call
often.
"The ultrasonics," said Megan quietly. "They didn't know enough to take care of themselves—or were too far
gone to care." He scratched at the sides of his head and caked mud fell from the region of his ears. His teeth
chattered from the biting cold.
"We need shelter and warmth," said Dumarest. He looked at the tents of the Matriarch; they blazed with light and
seemed ringed with guards. He looked toward those of the prince: the lights were few, the guards invisible. "Get the
men and follow me."
"To the tents of the prince?" Megan blanched with recent memory. "He's not going to like that."
"I don't care what he likes. If those men want to freeze they can stay here. If not they'd better follow."
The tents seemed deserted. Dumarest slowed as he approached, half expecting the challenge of a guard, the
searing blast of a laser. But nothing happened, no one stirred, no one snapped an order. He reached the tents and
cautiously pressed open the vent of the outer vestibule. He stepped inside. A solitary torch glowed from a bracket.
The place was empty.
He found Crowder in the second room.
The man lay sprawled on the carpet, naked to the waist, his upper body covered with the welts of the strag
hanging from its tube in his right hand. Blood showed at his ears, his nose, seeped from the corners of his staring
eyes. His jaws were clenched, the lips withdrawn so that, even in death, he snarled like a dog. The nails of his left
hand were buried deep in his palm.
Dumarest stepped over him, wondering what illusion had driven him to such extremes of self-punishment, what
guilt the man must have harbored… guilt or self-contempt. Or perhaps the inaudible vibrations bathing the area had
sent him insanely to his death. He would not have been alone.
 A guard was slumped at the entrance to the inner chamber. He too was dead. Another whimpered in a corner,
shrieking as Dumarest approached, running past him into the dark, the cold, the hungry sea. In the throne-like chair
an old man smiled a greeting.
"You are Dumarest," he said. "I have seen you before—when you killed Moidor."
"So?"
"I am Elgar, physician to the Prince of Emmened." He bowed, light gleaming from his naked scalp, the electrodes
of his mechanical ears. "You do not find us at our best. This camping site was unfortunately chosen. It appears to
have been at the focal point of harmful vibrations—as you perhaps have seen."
Dumarest nodded.
"They did not switch off their ears, you see," said Elgar seriously. "Not as I took the precaution of doing." Then,
abruptly: "You have a question?"
"Where is the prince?"
"Gone. Another?"
"Where has he gone?"
"Somewhere. Another?"
The man was either tottering on the edge of insanity or had a warped sense of humor. Then Dumarest saw his
eyes and knew there could be a third reason. The physician was loyal to his master.
"There are men outside who will die unless they get food and warmth," he said. "I had hoped the prince would
supply their needs."
"He will."
"But if he is not here?"
"You do not look like a man to be halted by such a flimsy barrier," said the old man shrewdly. "But force will not
be necessary."
"Have I threatened the use of force?" Dumarest wished the man would stop playing games. His head throbbed
and nausea filled his stomach. He needed food, a hot bath, medicines and massage.
"No," admitted Elgar. "But I think that, if it came to it, not even the prince would be able to resist your demands—
not without the help of his guards." His smile grew wider. "But this talk is foolish. I am in command. Bring the men
inside. Let the monks of the Brotherhood attend to their needs. They shall have food and warmth to the full extent of
my power."
And clothes from the dead, thought Dumarest grimly, and loot from the bodies of those tourists who had no
reason to object. This would be a rich occasion for the travelers who had been fortunate enough to survive.

***

The tapes spun on their spools, slowing to a stop, clicking as the loaded cartridges lifted from their pivots, sealing
themselves in adamantine plastic for travel and storage. Dyne watched the completion of the operation. He liked the
relentless efficiency of machines, the smooth workings of robotic devices. They were safe and predictable and could
be of valued employment. It was a pity that men were not like machines.
He lifted the cartridges and packed them into a small container blazoned with the Cyclan seal. Later he would
study them, break down their pattern of accumulated sound, run them through computers fitted with selector
devices. It would take years, a lifetime even, but he would find all they had to give. And if he did not, then others
would. The Cyclan had continuity.
He rose and swept aside a curtain, staring at the plain beyond the double wall of the window, automatically
checking the instruments which lined the sill. The wind had fallen almost to zero. The humidity was low, the electric
potential the same, the temperature as expected. A glance at the chronometer confirmed a previous estimate. The
storm had lasted longer than usual; far longer than others would have thought. He had predicted its duration to the
minute.
The knowledge gave him pleasure.
"Master."
He turned. One of his personal retinue stood at the entrance of the room. He looked pale, strained, his eyes
ringed with circles of fatigue. Dyne recognized him as one of the two he had sent to the mountains to gather data.
"Report."
"The air samples were taken as ordered, Master." The youth moved into the room. "The samples of rock from the
mountain—" He hesitated. Novitiates of the Cyclan were not expected to be wholly devoid of emotion but they were
expected never to display it. He drew a deep breath. "The one responsible failed in his task. He fell to his death. I
could not regain the samples attached to his body."
 "Do you know why he failed?"
"No, Master."
"But surely you are able to arrive at a conclusion based on known data?" The cyber's voice never altered from its
soft, smooth modulation but it brought no comfort. The Cyclan had no time for failure of any kind and Dyne less than
most.
"I conclude that he lifted his muffs so as to listen to the wind," said the youth in a rush. "I did not hear him fall. I
found him only after our task was accomplished."
"After your task was accomplished," corrected Dyne. He stood, thinking. The samples of rock were of little
importance—it had been worth their loss to discover a flaw in a member of his retinue. The youth was better dead.
The air samples were safe and of the greater interest. If hallucinogenic gases or particles had been carried by the
wind they would show it. "Give me the tapes," he ordered. Then: "You may go. Get food and rest."
"Master."
The youth bowed and left the room. Dyne locked the air sample tapes with the others, snapping shut the spinning
the combination lock. A flicker of light from beyond the window caught his eye. Outside scattered men with torches
moved slowly in the range of his vision. He studied them, assessed them, dismissed them as being of little
importance.
He drew the curtain and stood, head tilted a little, listening. He heard nothing; the walls of his room were too
thick. He crossed to the entrance and drew aside the barrier. Now he could hear it, very faint but clearly audible, the
soft tinkle of laughter, the murmur of voices, the thin, unmistakable tones of the old woman. A guard walked past. He
halted her with a gesture.
"Where is the Lady Thoth?"
"With the Matriarch." The woman was polite but curt. She had little time for anyone other than her captain and
her ruler. She frowned her impatience at his next question.
"Have you seen her?"
"I have."
"Recently?"
"I have just left the chamber of the Matriarch. They are together."
"I see." He thanked her with his mechanical smile. "That will be all."
The chamber was small, bright with tapestries, heavy with the scent of spice. A glowing lamp threw soft light
over the occupants. Gloria smiled as he entered.
"Dyne. You anticipate me. I was about to send for you."
Dyne looked closely at the couple. The old woman was glowing with happiness. Sitting beside her, very close, the
girl reflected some of that joy. The soft light warmed her black hair, the white velvet of her skin. Her lips were full and
very red, her eyes very bright. They met those of the cyber.
"The Matriarch is pleased with you," she said. "Because of your orders none have suffered so much as a burst
eardrum." She laughed. "But at one time I thought that I should never hear again."
"The storm was unusual in its violence, My Lady." The cyber turned to the old woman. "I came to report that the
storm is over. There may be occasional gusts but the main force of the wind is spent. We are ready to depart."
"Must we?"
"It would be best not to linger, My Lady. The external temperature is low and will fall lower. Delay will make our
return more arduous and there seems little need for us to extend our stay."
She knew that well enough but, for her, Gath held magic.
"I am reluctant to leave this place," she said slowly. "It has wakened many memories. For a time I was young
again and—" She swallowed. "Occasional gusts, did you say?"
"Yes, My Lady."
"Then we will stay," she decided. "Stay for just one of those gusts."
For one more contact with the dead she had loved; one more brief revival of the time when she had been young
and filled with the hunger of living. He recognized the lure, assessed it, realized both its futility and strength.

***

"Here," said Megan. He raised his torch even higher, widening the pool of light in which they stood. "This is
where I found you."
"You're sure?" Dumarest frowned as he tried to orient himself. In the dark all places looked the same, only the
tents of the Matriarch looked familiar.
"I'm sure." Megan was warm in his salvaged clothing; a ring with a peculiar device shone on one finger. Dumarest
had seen it before. The rosily fat man would never need it again. He had made his last gamble. "The young fellow was
over there." The torch dipped as he gestured. "You were here."
Dumarest nodded, dropping to one knee, his eyes narrowed as he peered into the darkness. The glimpse had
been brief and the blow on the head had jarred his memory but he was sure as to what he had seen: the lid of Sime's
coffin rising from pressure beneath.
His dead wife rising at the sound of the last trump?
The concept was ludicrous in the cold light of day but it wasn't day and that tremendous blast had carried a
disturbing medley of sounds. If there was such a thing as the final summons for the dead to rise then it could well
have echoed then.
"Over there." Dumarest rose and strode forward. He halted, waiting until Megan caught up with him with the
torch. They looked at a sea of torn and furrowed mud already glistening with heavy frost. "Further on."
They moved forward, spreading so as to cover a wider area, their breath pluming in the bitter cold. Twice patches
of shadow misled them and then Dumarest felt his foot hit something solid. Together they looked down at a familiar,
narrow box.
"It's closed," said Megan. "The lid—"
Dumarest leaned forward, gripped the lid, threw it to one side.
"God!" said Megan. The torch shook in his hand. "God!"
A dead woman stared up at them from the depths of the coffin.
She was no longer young, her age accentuated by the dehydrating effects of death. Sunken cheeks made waxen
hollows beneath the high bones of her face. The mouth was a thin, bloodless gash. The eyes, open and sunken,
looked like murky pools of stagnant water. The arms were crossed on the flat chest. She wore a simple dress which
reached from her throat to her ankles. The feet were thin, ugly, mottled with veins.
"He failed," breathed Megan. His face was white in the light of the torch. "He carried her all this way for nothing.
She didn't come back to life."
Dumarest was thoughtful, remembering what he had seen. He gripped one end of the coffin, lifted, let it fall with
a hollow thud. Leaning forward he gripped the sparse gray hair. He pulled.
"Earl!" Megan was shocked. His eyes widened as the body rose. "What—?"
It was a molded shell. It lifted with a faint resistance from magnetic clasps exposing the contoured compartment
beneath—a compartment lined with sponge rubber and shaped to hold a woman's body. From it rose a faint odor of
perfume.
"Clever," said Dumarest. He released what he held and it fell back to fit snugly over the compartment. The shell
stared up at them, mockery in the muddy eyes. "The perfect hiding place. Open the box and you'd see what you
expected to find—the body of a long-dead woman. There would be no reason to look beneath. Not unless you
spotted the difference in weight—that something had gone."
"Sime wouldn't let anyone touch the box," said Megan. He lifted his torch. "Sime! Where is Sime?"
He. was gone, vanished into the darkness, leaving nothing but the coffin behind.

Chapter Thirteen
The guard marched her twenty paces, turned, marched back again. She moved with a mechanical precision,
breath pluming in the cold air, her footsteps hard on the frozen ground. From the darkness beyond the fringe of light
thrown by the torches Dumarest watched, waiting.
"Halt!"
He heard the sharp challenge, the mumbled answer, the sudden commotion. Megan was playing his part well. For
a moment longer Dumarest waited, then, as the guard moved toward the disturbance, raced forward in a blur of
speed. He had reached the wall of a tent, crouched, frozen into immobility before the woman had time to turn. A
louder noise from where Megan argued with the guards distracted her attention long enough for Dumarest to squeeze
beneath the wall.
He was lucky. The room was deserted.
He rose, eyes wide as he searched the dimness. A solitary lamp cast a shadowy light. A bench littered with
instruments of metal and glass stood to one side. Something stirred in a head-high cage and he caught the gleam of
watching eyes. Small animals scurried as he moved toward the door. The air stank with the acrid odor of antiseptics.
Beyond the room ran a narrow corridor, equally empty. He stood for a moment, listening, then moved softly
down the passage. Footsteps echoed from around a corner and he backed into a room. It was dark, the air tinged with
perfume. He tensed as the footsteps came closer.
 "One of the travelers, madam. He wanted to see the Matriarch. Naturally I could not allow that."
"Did he give a reason?" The voice was deep, harsh, impatient. Elspeth, the captain of the guard, was not noted for
her tolerance.
"No, madam. He just kept saying that it was important that he should see her. He refused to leave and grew quite
heated." The voice rose, diminished as the speaker passed the room in which Dumarest was hiding. "I thought it best
to call you, madam."
Elspeth's answer was lost as they turned from the passage.
Dumarest stiffened, inhaling the ghost-scent lingering in the room, hand searching for the light control. He found
it, threw it, hastily reversed it as light stabbed at his eyes. The glare diminished to a faint glow. He saw a small room,
painfully tidy, almost bare of furniture. A youth lay asleep on a narrow couch. He turned, mumbling as the light struck
his eyes. Dumarest killed the faint glow and stood, waiting, as the man relaxed. Softly he left the room.
And felt something hard grind into his spine.
"Move and I will kill you," said a hard voice. "Now turn, gently, and let me see who you are."
He felt the gun leave his spine as the speaker stepped back, away from the reach of his arms. Slowly he turned
and smiled at the physician.
"You!" Melga stared her amazement. "How did you get here? What do you want?" The gun never wavered in her
hand.
"I wanted to test a theory," he said evenly. "Also it is important that I see the Matriarch. Will you take me to her,
please?"
"Why should I? How did you get past the guards?"
"I sneaked past." He answered her last question first. "I wanted to see if it could be done. It can. Now I must see
the Matriarch."
"Why?"
"Because she must know that the safety of her ward is threatened by the Prince of Emmened." He saw the grim
resolution of her face. "I have just left the tents of the prince," he explained. "His physician was kind enough to
extend help to those who had suffered from the storm. He is a man who is fond of his wine."
More than fond and he had also been loquacious. In Dumarest he had found a willing listener.
"The prince has been affected by the storm," Dumarest continued. "He has been interested in the Lady Seena
since the fight and was determined to win her. He has left his tents with most of his guards. There can only be one
reason."
"The Lady Thoth?"
He nodded, impatient with her lack of understanding, her apparent careless dismissal of his warning. Then she
revealed the reason for her attitude.
"Interesting," she said dryly. "Interesting and very ingenious. Your story, I mean." The gun lifted, centered on his
heart. "But we have seen nothing of either the prince or his guards. No one has entered here other than yourself. And
the Lady Seena Thoth is perfectly safe in the company of the Matriarch. Or was—until you came." The gun gave
emphasis to her words. "Assassin!"

***

He dropped, letting gravity pull him down, using his muscles to jerk him forward and up. He rose beneath the
gun, his shoulder lifting her arm, his hands steel traps as they closed on wrist and shoulder. He twisted and the gun
fell to the carpet. He doubled her arm behind her back and rested his right hand on her throat, fingers digging hard
against certain nerves.
"You didn't fire," he said calmly. "I gambled that you wouldn't. Not unless you were certain to hit what you aimed
at. The danger of loosing off a weapon in a place like this is too great for you to have overlooked."
She lifted a foot and tried to smash his kneecap with her heel. He moved deftly to one side and tightened the grip
on her throat.
"I could kill you," he said. "I could render you unconscious in a matter of seconds. Relax or I may do it."
"Assassin!" She was wild with fear.
"Fool!" His words reflected his anger. "You checked me, remember? Don't you trust your findings?"
She didn't answer.
"I came here to see the Matriarch," he said. "You can take me to her. Now be sensible and realize that I intend no
harm." He removed his hands and scooped up the weapon. "Here," he thrust it into her hand. "Let's go."
They checked him first. They stripped him and examined the orifices of his body and only when they were
perfectly satisfied did they allow him to dress. Even then the guards were watchful as they ushered him into the inner
chamber where the Matriarch sat with the cyber and her ward.
"Dumarest!" The old woman looked her surprise. "What are you doing here?" He told her; she shrugged. "The
man must have been having sport with you," she commented. "We have not been disturbed and my ward,"—her hand
reached for the slimmer one of the girl—"has not left my side."
"No?" Dumarest looked at the girl. She stared back.
"Not since the end of the storm," she smiled. "Did you enjoy it?"
"No, My Lady."
"Many did not. Such sounds can all too easily addle a person's brains. There are many dead, I believe?"
"Yes, My Lady." Dumarest sniffed at the air, the scent of spice was cloying to his nostrils but beneath it, very faint,
he could distinguish the perfume she wore. "And you, My Lady. Did you enjoy the storm?"
"It was amusing," she said casually, then seemed to lose all interest in the visitor. The Matriarch did not.
She studied him from where she sat, tall in the soft lighting which softened but could not remove the stamp of
fatigue from the hard planes of his face. The wound on his temple showed livid against the pallor of his skin. His
clothes showed traces of mud, the bright fabric dulled by grime. His eyes, she noticed, never left the face of her ward.
Inwardly she smiled.
Melga had jumped to the obvious conclusion that he was an assassin—she lacked any other explanation to
account for his presence—but the old woman knew better. If the physician had never known the power of love she
had. And Gath had reminded her of how powerful that emotion could be. Dumarest had come, not to wreak harm,
but because he needed to be close.
"Sit," she ordered abruptly. "Join us."
"My Lady!" The cyber was quick to protest. "Is that wise?"
"What is wisdom?" Her face softened with memories. "Your logic, cyber? Perhaps, but what has logic to do with
mercy? The man stays."
She waited until Dumarest had found a chair and lowered himself into its embrace. She liked the way he sat,
remaining poised on the edge of the chair, cat-like in his relaxation. He reminded her of someone she had known,
now long dead. The winds of Gath had resurrected his voice and wakened her memory. Now, somehow, Dumarest
seemed to make the pattern complete.
"You arrive at an opportune time," she said, and wondered if he could guess how much she intended to hurt him.
Emotional pain, of course, but as deep and as real as any physical agony. "I am about to name my successor."
"My Lady!"
"Be silent!" She didn't look at the cyber.
"But—"
"Enough!" Her thin voice was strong with anger. Eighty years of rule had taught her how to command. "It is my
will that he stays! My will that he listens!"
She softened a little at the touch of the girl's hand on her own, the firm, young flesh warm against the wrinkled
skin. She softened still more as she looked at Dumarest. It was important that he should understand.
"The Matriarch of Kund," she said gently, "must forego all the normal pleasures of being a woman. She can have
no children. She must not be too attached to any one person. She must devote herself, mind and body, to the good of
the worlds she rules. It is a high honor. The position commands vast power and vast responsibilities. The person
chosen can have no real life of her own. All she does must be for the good of Kund."
Her voice fell a little.
"No husband," she said meaningfully. "No lover. No man to whom she can give her heart. No man whose heart
she dares to take." She paused before delivering the final blow. "I have chosen my ward, the Lady Seena Thoth, to
succeed me as the Matriarch of Kund!"
His reaction disappointed her. He sat, watching the girl at her side, almost as if he hadn't heard a word she had
said.
"Do you understand?" She gripped the soft, warm hand so close to her own. "She, my ward, will succeed me to
the throne!"
"Yes, My Lady," he said quietly. "I understand. But that girl is not your ward."

***

He had expected a reaction but its violence surprised him. There was a moment of stillness as if the very air
were stunned by the implication. Then: "My Lady!" Dyne sprang to his feet.
"He lies!" The girl followed the cyber. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with anger. She threw herself at
Dumarest, her fingers reaching for his eyes. He rose, gripped her wrists, flung her back against her chair.
 "Guards!" The old woman knew how to handle an emergency. As the women poured into the room she snapped a
terse command. "Hold!"
She waited until the guards had closed on the others, ready to grip or strike should the need arise. Irritably she
sniffed at her pomander. The drugs were too weak. She needed something stronger to sharpen her mind and
strengthen her voice. She found it in her anger.
"You!" She rose and glared at Dumarest. "Explain!"
"My Lady!" The girl was oblivious of her guards. "How can you allow such a man to insult me? A penniless
traveler to make such an accusation. Men have died for less!"
"As he will die if he cannot prove his statement," promised the Matriarch. She stared at Dumarest, her face cruel.
"It will not be an easy death, that I promise. Now. Explain!"
"Yes, My Lady." He paused, looking at the girl, the cyber, the watchful guards before looking back at the old
woman. "I can only guess at your reasons for coming to Gath," he said. "But I would imagine that one of them was to
arrive at a decision concerning your successor. Would that be the case?"
"You digress!" snapped the old woman, then: "Yes, that is correct."
"It would not be hard for a man trained in the arts of prediction to guess whom that successor would be."
Dumarest did not look at the cyber. "Almost anyone, knowing you, your attachment to your ward, knowing too of this
journey could have made a similar guess. The worlds of Kund are rich, My Lady?"
"Very."
"Such a prize would be worth a great deal of trouble. That trouble was taken. If the successor of your choice
could be replaced by a tool of their own—what then of the worlds of Kund?"
He paused, conscious of the heat of the room, the scent of spice, the rising tension. Conscious too, of the narrow
path he trod. The girl had been quick to point out their relative positions. Had the Matriarch been of the same nature
as the Prince of Emmened he would be dead by now. But she, of all people, could not dare to make a mistake.
"Continue!" She held a golden pomander to her nostrils; it muffled her command.
"A man named Sime arrived on the same ship as the Prince of Emmened. With him traveled a crone and a man
little more than a boy. Sime carried a coffin in which reposed the dead body of his wife, or so the crone told those
who were curious. They believed her; why not? Gath is a strange world with strange potentialities was natural for him
to have carried such a burden to such a place."
"Why?"
"As a disguise. How else could a tall young woman, attractive, regal, be shielded from view? You were alert,
watchful for assassins, wary of anything you could not explain or trust. Once your suspicions had been aroused the
plan would certainly fail. But there was nothing to arouse your doubts. A man with a coffin. A poor, deluded creature
more mad than sane. How could anyone guess that, beneath the outer shell, rested the twin of your ward?"
"You lie!" The girl lunged forward, sobbed with frustrated anger as she felt the restraining grip of her guards. "My
Lady! He lies!"
"Perhaps." The Matriarch put aside her pomander. "If so he will regret it. Continue!"
"The crone was working with Sime. It was she who told the story, circulated the rumors, watched the coffin while
he slept. The young man traveled with them by chance. She killed him during the storm. She tried to kill me in the
same way but failed. Now she is dead."
Dead at the bottom of the cliff, driven over the edge by the confusion of the winds, dead and taking her secrets
with her. Muscles knotted at the edge of his jaw as he thought about it.
"The rest is simple," he rasped. "At the height of the storm the substitution was made. The Lady Seena was lured
into a quiet room. This girl had been smuggled into the tents. They changed clothes and the impostor answered your
summons. She stands at your side. The person who you would make the next ruler of Kund."
He fell silent, waiting, guessing what the questions would be.
"An ingenious fabrication," said Dyne in his soft modulation. "You will note, My Lady, how much has been glossed
over. The Lady Seena lured into a quiet room. The supposed impostor smuggled into the tents. How?"
"I penetrated your guards," said Dumarest. "that I could do, almost unaided, others could do far easier with help."
He looked at the Matriarch. "I found the empty coffin. In it, below the empty simulacrum of a dead woman, is a
hollow compartment. The girl rested there drugged with quick-time. She left the scent of her perfume. I smelled the
same odor in a room belonging, to the cyber's retinue. The girl is wearing it now."
"My perfume?" She was bold, he had to give her that, but how else could she be? "You must know it, My Lady. It
is a scent I always wear."
The old woman nodded.
"And how does he know so much?" The girl was triumphant. "He is lying, My Lady. He had no reason to suspect
Sime. How could he?"
 "Because I am a traveler," snapped Dumarest. "I know how they act, how they feel, how they are after a passage.
No genuine traveler could have carried that coffin from the ship. Sime realized his mistake and asked for help. He got
it. But later, when I offered him a lift for his coffin, he refused it. That box was heavy; I know, I helped to carry it. Sime
was a fake." He saw the expression in the old woman's eyes.
"I have met others of his type before," he said quietly. "They look gaunt, starved and almost dead but they are far
from that. Their muscles are more efficient, their metabolism a little different, that is all. Your physician will verify
that. Sime was no experienced traveler. My guess is that both he and the crone bribed the handler and rode High.
Their companion had to die to seal that knowledge. The stakes were too high for them to take any risk."
"And you?" The old woman was shrewd. "Why should they want to kill you?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Perhaps because I had been close to the Lady Seena. Perhaps because someone
wanted me dead. I think the crone shot at me on the journey but I can't be sure. I am sure that she tried to kill me
during the storm."
"So you say," said the Matriarch. Then: "Is that all?"
"Yes, My Lady."
He knew that it wasn't enough.

***

The Matriarch thought the same but the seed of doubt had been planted and she had to be sure. Unerringly she
asked the one question he couldn't answer.
"Where is this man Sime?"
"I don't know, My Lady." He added to the answer, "He is not with the other travelers. I saw no sign of him by the
coffin. He could be making his way back to the field or—"
"Yes?"
"He could be hidden in your tents." He realized the emptiness of the suggestion. "I doubt that he is but—"
"Search the tents!" snapped the Matriarch to her guards. "Send outside to find the coffin and bring it within." She
returned her attention to Dumarest. "You claim that this girl has been substituted for my ward. Now, if she came from
the coffin, as you claim, where is my ward now?"
The cyber gave him no chance to answer.
"Surely that alone proves the fallacy of his claim, My Lady. Assuming the logic of what he says there could only
be one place where the real Lady Seena could be hidden. Inside the coffin. I assume that he has not found her?"
"No," said Dumarest shortly. "I have no doubt that she was supposed to be hidden in the coffin after the
substitution. No doubt either that Sime, still acting his part, would pretend grief and rage and throw it over the cliffs
into the sea." His eyes met those of the Matriarch. "It would be the only safe thing to do," he explained. "The coffin
had to be as it was. The weight had to be the same in case anyone was curious. And there would be no need to keep
the Lady Seena alive longer than was essential."
"I am the Lady Seena Thoth!" The girl screamed her rage. "Remember that!"
"Quiet, child." The old woman was disturbed. The traveler made good sense, assuming that he knew what he was
talking about, and he had never struck her as a fool. But one thing troubled her. "Why? Why have you bothered to tell
me all this? What is Kund to you?"
"Nothing. But your charity saved my life after the fight with Moidor. I like to pay my debts."
She nodded. "Then prove what you say."
It had come to the critical point as he knew it must. Suspicion wasn't enough. Her fingerprints and retinal pattern
would have been tailor-made to match, the rest of her physique the same. The substitution must have been planned
for years—those responsible would have made no obvious mistakes.
"During our journey," he said slowly, "we left the rafts and wandered toward the east. We stood watching and you
likened the column to something. What was it?"
"A snake."
"Nothing else?"
"Perhaps, I can't remember. The conversation and the company were not that important."
"And neither is this test," said Dyne. "Without witnesses what can it prove?"
Nothing, of course, her word was as good as his and Dumarest recognized defeat. But he had to try.
"After my fight with Moidor you summoned me and we sat talking. It was just before the phygria attacked. You
remember?"
"Of course."
"Yes." He wondered who had briefed her. It had been thoroughly done. "We were talking. About a friend of mine
on Quail. Something reminded me of him. What was it?"
"My ring." She held out her hand to show it gleaming on her finger. "You said that the ladies of Quail used them
for sport. They filled them with powerful aphrodisiacs." She yawned. "Your friend suffered from their sense of fun."
"That's right," said the Matriarch. Her face was hard as she looked at Dumarest. "If she were not my ward how
would she have known that?"
How?
"No, My Lady," said Dumarest softly. "That isn't the question. The real question is how do you know it?"
He watched the answer dawn on her face.

Chapter Fourteen
The mirrors! She turned to where it stood then hesitated with instinctive caution. It would not amuse her ward to
learn that she was the target of a spy-device; it would amuse her still less to know that the knowledge was shared by
the common guards. But that, at least, could be prevented.
"Leave us," she snapped at the women. "Wait outside."
The room seemed larger when they had gone.
"You!" She pointed at the girl. "Stand back. Right back against the wall."
"My Lady?"
"Do as I say!" The old woman relaxed a little as the girl obeyed. Now, if she were careful to shield the mirror with
her body, not even her ward need know of its secret.
"My Lady!" The girl was insistent. "What other proof can I give?"
"A moment, child." The Matriarch's voice was soft but determined. "We shall soon know the truth."
Dumarest watched her as she turned. He frowned, not understanding what she was about, then he saw the old
back stiffen, the withered hands clench in a paroxysm of rage.
"You!" She turned, her face distorted, her eyes burning with anger. "You liar! Gua—"
The girl was quick. She sprang forward and to one side, her hand lifting, leveling, something spurting from the
ornate ring on her finger. It shrilled across the tent and buried itself in the Matriarch's side. She fell, gasping, still
trying to summon her women.
"Guards!"
Dumarest shouted as the hand swung toward him. He ducked, throwing himself forward, flesh cringing to the
expected impact. None came. Instead there was a sudden, vicious snarl and the stench of burning. Dyne stood, a tiny
laser in his hand, the dead body of the girl at his feet. A charred hole in her temple told of the accuracy of his aim.
"My Lady!" Elspeth thrust into the room at the head of her guards. Her eyes narrowed, grew dangerous as she
saw the Matriarch writhing on the floor. "Who—?"
"Get Melga!" Dumarest thrust her aside as he stooped over the old woman. "Hurry!"
The thing the girl had fired still shrilled its deadly vibrations, boring deeper into the flesh, destroying cell, nerve
and tissue with its lethal song. Dumarest snatched at it with his left hand, tore it free, flung it aside. Smoke rose from
where it fell on the carpet, a ring of flame circling a widening spot of ash.
"A vibratory dart," said Dumarest as the physician knelt beside him. "I may have got it out in time."
Melga pursed her lips as she examined the wound. Deftly she fired a pain-killing drug into the Matriarch's throat.
Resetting the hypogun she fired three charges of antitoxin around the pulped place where the dart had struck. An
antiseptic spray to cover the raw flesh with a healing film completed her immediate treatment.
"Show me your hand." Her lips pursed even tighter as she examined Dumarest's fingers. They were dark, bruised
as if caught in a slamming door, the tips seeping blood. The blast of her hypogun terminated their pain.
"Dumarest!" The Matriarch stared at him, her eyes haunted hollows in the withered pattern of her face. Shock
had closed the iron hand of age. She swallowed, weakly, gestured for him to come closer. Her voice was a thin reed of
sound. "You were right," she whispered. "That girl is not my ward. She must be made to tell what she knows."
"The girl is dead," he said shortly. "Dyne killed her."
She nodded, fighting the lethargy of the drugs, able to concentrate only on the thing of greatest importance.
"Seena," she whispered. "You must find her and bring her back safely to me. Find her and…" Her voice trailed like
smoke into silence.
"My Lady!" He reached out, tempted to slap the sagging cheeks, to shock her into awareness. Instead he touched
her gently on the shoulder and steeled his voice. "My Lady!"
She blinked into his face.
"The Lady Seena," he urged. "Do you know where she is?"
 "You will find her," she said. "You promise?"
"Yes, but—" He sighed as she yielded to the soporific effects of the drugs.

***

The Prince of Emmened was insane. He tittered as he walked and sang snatches of ribald song interspersed with
crude verse and cruder oaths. The ground rang iron-hard beneath his feet, frozen by eternal night, locked in the stasis
of ice. Cold caught his breath and converted it into streaming plumes of vapor.
"The gods are kind," he chuckled. "They spoke to me from the wind and told me the thing I must do. Can you
guess at what that is?" He looked at her sideways, his eyes very bright.
"No," she said dully. They had given her a cloak and a scarf hugged her head but her shoes were thin and her feet
frozen.
"They told me to follow my star." He ran a few paces forward, faced her, his face mad in the light of the torches
held by his guards. "You are beautiful, My Lady. So very beautiful."
She didn't answer.
"So soft and warm and full of fire," he continued, falling into step beside her. "Crowder said that." He laughed at
amusing memory. "Crowder is dead, did I tell you? He listened and went mad. He thought that he was his own father
and flogged himself to death."
Again she remained silent. He scowled as she made no response.
"I am not used to being ignored, My Lady. I have ways to deal with those who so displease me."
"You remove their tongues," she said. "I have heard the rumors."
"Then you had best beware." He laughed again, enjoying the situation. "Some would say that a dumb wife was a
thing to be envied. Such a one would never be able to tell of things which should remain secret—or send lying tales
to that old bitch of Kund!"
"Of how you stole her ward in the height of the storm?" Seena did not look at the prince. "I have told you before
—you will regret it."
"Perhaps. But have you considered, My Lady, I could have saved your life?"
He was too near the truth for comfort. Numbed, knowing that she had been drugged but helpless to do anything
about it, she had allowed Sime to take her out into the storm. She remembered the look on his face when the Prince
of Emmened had appeared out of the darkness; his relief when he learned that the prince intended to abduct the girl;
the nightmare journey when she could only follow the insane ruler. The journey was still a nightmare but now she
could move of her own volition, speak her own mind. Neither movement nor speech was enough to save her.
Perhaps guile could be.
"The Matriarch will thank you for what you have done, Prince," she said. "Return me to her, unharmed, and you
will have a friend for life."
"I don't want a friend!" He was petulant, dangerous in his anger. "I have many friends and can buy more."
"No, My Lord." She sensed his rage and guessed its cause. The fury of the storm had ruptured delicate cells in his
brain. His physician, unlike Dyne, had not made provision to combat the harmful vibrations.
"You say 'no!' " His good humor had evaporated. "How long will it be. My Lady, before you change your tune?"
"Are you tired of me so soon, My Lord?"
"No. Never that!" His eyes glowed as he looked at her. "You know, My Lady, it is time I settled down. You would
make an excellent wife. You shall make an excellent wife. Soon we shall arrive at the field. A ship will take us to
Emmened. Elgar can take care of things on Gath. By the time he rejoins us you will be well on the way to providing
me with an heir."
She remained calm. She had guessed what was in his mind from the beginning.
"Well?" His eyes searched her face. "Does not the prospect please you?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"It does?"
"Of course, My Lord," she lied. "You are rich and powerful and a handsome figure of a man. Why should I object
to becoming your wife?"
He smiled at her, his good humor restored. He leaned close, his breath wreathing her face, the vapor stinging as it
turned to frost.
"A hundred men shall fight to the death to celebrate our mating," he murmured. "I shall garland you with entrails
and let you hack the living flesh from shackled slaves. Our passion will be fed with pain. The worlds will have reason
to remember our union until the end of time."
She smiled despite the crawling of her flesh. He was quite insane.
 "Are you sure?" Melga frowned her puzzlement.
"The nightside." Dumarest stared at the scene depicted in the mirror. The girl, the prince, his guards seemed like
tiny manikins, their shadows dancing in the pale glow of torches. A creeping chill seemed to seep from the frame.
"Surely, if he wanted to abduct her, he would have made for the field by the shortest route."
"Perhaps he is," said Dumarest shortly. "Or perhaps he hopes to throw us off pursuit. This mirror gives us an
advantage. The point is—how do we stop him?"
He looked from the physician to the captain of the guard. Elspeth had a stubborn set to her jaw.
"The Matriarch must be protected," she said flatly. "That is my first duty."
"Agreed. But you have spare guards?"
"A few."
"Then send them to the field. They are to travel at a run. If they arrive before the prince they are to stop him and
rescue the Lady Thoth no matter what the cost. Is that understood?"
She nodded, glaring at him as if tempted to deny his right to give orders, then she swung from the room and
Dumarest could hear her hard voice rapping orders. The physician shook her head.
"They won't make it in time," she said. "The prince has too great a lead."
"Perhaps."
"You said they might be taking a shorter route," she insisted. "And, even if the guards do arrive in time, what can
they do? They are outnumbered."
"They can fight."
"And die," she agreed. "But will that save the ward of the Matriarch?" Her eyes probed his face. "You have a plan,"
she said. "Tell me."
"You have supplies of slow-time?"
"Yes." She guessed his intention and her mouth set in a stubborn line. "No," she said. "You can't do it. The risk is
too great."
"I accept the risk." He met her eyes, his determination matching her own. "I know what I'm doing. It's the only
possible way to catch them in time. Now get me the drug." His face darkened as she hesitated. "Hurry, woman! Or is
the drug of greater worth than the girl?"
The insult was undeserved. He knew it and apologized when she returned. Her flush told of her appreciation.
"You said that you knew what you were doing but few have used slow-time in the conscious state. The dangers
are too great. It isn't just a matter of living faster, you know."
"I know."
"I hope that you do." She handed him a small bag. "These glucose tablets might help. You're going to need all the
energy you can get. Unconscious you'd be no problem; I could supply intravenous feeding and your energy-demand
would be relatively low. Conscious—" She broke off. "Well, you know about that. Just remember that the square law
comes into effect on food requirements and about everything else."
"I'll remember."
"You'd better." She looked down at the hypogun gleaming in the light. "What I'm really trying to say is that you
must be very careful. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
"All right. But just remember to take things slowly. Slowly!" She raised the hypogun and aimed the blunt snout at
his throat. "Good luck."
She pressed the trigger.
He felt nothing, not even the air-blast carrying the drug into his bloodstream but, with shocking abruptness, the
universe slowed down. It hadn't, of course. It was just that his own metabolism, reflexes and sensory apparatus had
suddenly begun operating at almost forty times the normal rate. The danger lay in accepting the illusion of a slowed
universe as reality.
He moved from where the physician stood poised on the balls of her feet, the hypogun still in her hand, her finger
hard against the trigger. The light seemed dull, tinged with a pronounced reddish cast and the tiny figures depicted on
the mirror-screen had frozen into rigid immobility.
He stepped to the door and pulled aside the barrier. The thin material moved reluctantly as if made of lead. He
stepped through, passed an immobile, vacant-eyed guard, reached the outer door. The material was thicker, heavier;
he strained for minutes before it would move. Ducking through the opening he walked from the tents to the plain.
Steadily he began to walk toward the nightside. A wind rose about him as he walked, roaring past his ears,
building up into an almost solid wall of air against which he stooped, fighting the hampering restriction. The ground
felt soft beneath his feet, the stars reddish points in the sky.
Suddenly he tripped and fell, drifting down like a feather but hitting the ground with savage force, jarring his
bones and ripping a patch of skin from the side of his face. He lay gasping from the shock, cold with the fear of
injury. Climbing to his feet he examined the ground, noting the deep indentation made by his foot, the equally deep
but much longer gouge torn by his falling body. The wind had stopped and gave him the answer. He had hit the
ground with the impact velocity of about fifty miles an hour. Only fantastic luck had saved him from serious injury.
Cautiously he continued his journey. He ate as he walked, sucking at the tablets of glucose which were strangely
hard and slow to release their energy. He had plenty of time to think. He was living at about forty times the normal
rate but could not walk at a normal speed. A normal speed, for him, was over a hundred miles an hour but at that
speed wind resistance made progress impossible. His clothes too presented a problem. His speed had increased but
not his strength and he felt as if he were clothed in lead. The inertia of his garments aided the wind in slowing him
down to a steady thirty miles an hour.
It was fast enough. It was ten times the traveling speed of a party moving over rough and unfamiliar ground and
he would catch up with the prince even allowing for time wasted in search and following barren trails.
Ten times as fast—but he needed more than ten times the energy to do it.
In slow-time a man would starve to death before he had a chance of growing old.

Chapter Fifteen
The room was very quiet, the lights soft, the air tainted with the odor of antiseptics beneath the comforting scent
of spice. On a pneumatic mattress the Matriarch rested, almost mummy-like in her immobility, the withered pattern
of her face. Bandages swathed her side and drugs coursed their slow way through her blood. She felt no pain, no
trepidation, only a peculiar detachment as if her mind were divorced from her body so that she could ponder events
with an objective viewpoint.
She was thinking of Dumarest and what he had said.
He had known nothing of the mirror and its secret so why should he have been so interested in discovering how
she had learned of what had transpired between himself and her ward? He had meant something unconnected with
the mirror. He had seemed to be trying to give her a message. He—
She opened her eyes and stared at Dyne.
"My Lady." His voice was smooth, his face, his very clothes. He stood at the foot of the bed, tall in his scarlet, his
cowl throwing shadow across his face. A machine of flesh and blood uncontaminated by emotion. And then she
remembered.
"You!" Her voice was a whisper. "You knew what had taken place between them. You could have told the girl."
"My Lady?"
"You were with me watching in the mirror. Just before the phygria attacked. You—" She broke off, seeing the
pattern as it fell into place, each piece fitting to make an incredible whole. "It had to be you. No one else could have
arranged for the exchange. No one else could have told her all she needed to know. You!"
He said nothing, waiting.
"You killed her," she whispered. "After she attacked me you killed her. You had to keep her silent for your own
sake. Alive she could have told too much." Her hand scrabbled on the coverlet. "But why? Why should you, a cyber,
engage in such intrigue?"
His eyes were cold, relentless, his face as if carved from marble.
"Power? Wealth? Personal ambition?" She whispered the motives which drove normal men into such actions and
knew that none of them could apply. The cyber was not a normal man. "But you failed!" she said triumphantly. "You
failed!"
"Because of Dumarest," he admitted. "Because of an unknown factor. I told you once, My Lady, that I was not
infallible. Always there is the unknown element to take into consideration. But, if it had not been for the traveler, your
ward would be dead and her substitute your successor to the throne of Kund."
"Is that why you tried to kill him? You must have primed the phygria—or told your agents to do it. They must
have tried to burn him on the journey and stab him during the storm." She paused, chest heaving, cold with the
knowledge of how close he had been to success.
"The mirror," she whispered. "You would have changed the setting but I gave you no opportunity. You had no
time. Dumarest exposed the plot before you could do the one thing which would have proved him to be a liar." Her
mind spun with the unanswered question. "But why? Why?"
He had no intention of giving her the answer. The plans of the Cyclan encompassed the universe and rulers were
merely pawns to be moved according to the great design. The Lady Thoth was independent and had no love for any
cyber. Her substitute, prepared years ago, was amenable and, better, utterly predictable. More he neither knew nor
guessed.
"I shall ruin you!" Anger stiffened the thin voice. "I shall expose you and your Cyclan for what you are. Never
again will you be trusted." Her hand lifted, trembled as she pointed. "Go!"
"No, My Lady."
"You dare—?"
"If you shout your guards will not hear you." He touched the bracelet around his wrist. "A cone of silence
surrounds us. But you will say nothing, do nothing. If you do then I will be impelled to divulge certain facts about you
and your ward. The fact that you and she are blood relations, for example."
"You lie!"
"No, My Lady. The girl is the daughter of your grandchild—the one you placed in a position of safety when you
accepted the throne of Kund. She should have been killed. No Matriarch of Kund is permitted to have natural issue
and you know the law. Instead you took the throne and kept both your romance and its issue a secret. Now you
intend to make her your successor. If the truth became known that would not be permitted. And it is the truth—I can
prove it."
He paused, looking down at her.
"Your silence for mine, My Lady. It seems a fair enough exchange."
She was helpless to do other than agree.

***

The Prince of Emmened was hopelessly lost. He stood in a circle of his guards and cursed them, the fates, the
lack of guidance and everything but himself. They were too cold to argue, too afraid to do other than huddle together
for mutual protection. Around them the cold gripped the soil, threw streamers of frost over icy boulders, made even
the dancing shadows things of menace.
"Move!" screamed the prince. "Move! Move!"
His words came as dull, rolling echoes to the man above. Dumarest leaned against a boulder and stared down at
the bobbing lights, the immobile men. He was tired with a bone-aching weariness that numbed his mind and made
even the hunger clawing at his stomach seem insignificant by comparison. He had walked countless miles against the
never ending pressure of strength-sapping wind, following false trails, circling the area, climbing and slipping and
clawing his way over rock and ice. He had fallen, ripping his clothes and bruising his flesh, so that his face was a mask
of blood and dirt. Now, at last, he could rest.
But not for long.
He jerked awake from the edge of sleep, sucking great gulps of air to clear his lungs, wishing that he could feel
some of the cold of the region. Instead he sweltered in the generated heat of forty times normal living. It did nothing
to help him combat the fatigue of days of traveling without rest. It was hard for him to realize that he was only hours
normal traveling from the plain.
Below, the circle of men had moved a little, perhaps a step or two. They did not look up as he scrambled down
toward them. They remained motionless as he circled, looking for the girl. He found her, a huddled bundle of misery,
her feet white with frostbite. Beside her the prince, face twisted, mouthed his insane filth.
Dumarest poised his fist.
Sense came almost too late. He twisted, venting the force of his blow on the empty air, feeling sweat bead his
forehead at the thought of what he had almost done. His fist, traveling so fast, would have crushed the prince's skull
—but would have shattered itself to ruin at the same time. That was not the way.
He stooped and picked up a stone. It felt as heavy as lead, rising slowly from the ground, hanging poised as he
aimed it. He threw it with the full strength of shoulder and arm directly at the skull of the prince.
Before it hit he was beside the girl. He saw the impact, the slow unfolding of flesh and bone and spurting brain.
He stooped and slowly, very slowly, picked up her unresisting body. It was stiff, unyielding, feeling as if made of
wood, but he knew better. Care was needed to avoid bruising the tender flesh, snapping the delicate bone. As blood
began its slow pulse from the headless trunk he was walking from the dead prince and his unsuspecting guards. The
wind of his passage was the only sound he heard. The ice was his only danger.
The ice and his own fatigue.
He walked, toward the end, in delirium. Faces swam toward him from the starlit gloom, voices whispered from
the wind of his passage, each boulder seemed to hold a snarling enemy, each twist of the path a cowled figure intent
on his death. It was a long time before he realized that someone was calling his name.
"Dumarest! Dumarest! What's the matter with you? Dumarest, answer me!"
It was the girl. He looked down at her, a leaden weight in his arms, and saw her lips move, the breath vaporing
above her mouth. Even as he watched it grew still and the wind of his passage droned again past his ears.
He was coming out of slow-time but not as he would if unconscious: a single step from fast to normal. The dying
effect of the drug was erratic, his overstrained metabolism swinging to its stimulus.

***

"Dumarest!"
He heard the voice and spoke quickly while he had the time.
"It's all right. You're safe. The prince is dead and I'm taking you home."
"You saved me." Her voice was soft, warm, promising. "You won't regret this. Yooo…o…o…o…o…"
Her voice slowed, deepened, ground to a stop as again he jerked into accelerated living. Ahead the mountains cut
across the sky. They jerked closer, closer, dipping and swaying as he stumbled toward them. A part of his mind told
him that he was being a fool, that he should slow down, take things easy. There was no need to hurry now that they
were safe.
Then, in the shadow of the mountains, his delirium became real.
"Dumarest!"
He heard the voice and saw the shape, tall, cowled, the scarlet black in the cold light of the stars. He looked
down. The girl was asleep or unconscious; he couldn't tell which. He halted, stooped and placed her on the ground.
He rubbed his arms as he rose to face the cyber.
"Remain still!" Dyne advanced, the laser in his hand accentuating his command. He glanced down at the cloaked
figure on the ground. "How is the girl?"
"Unconscious."
"It is as well. There is no need now for her to die."
"Are you sure about that?"
"I am sure." Dyne came a step closer. "You are surprised? But then you are a creature of emotion, not of logic.
The Cyclan does not waste time on the futility of revenge. The past is irredeemable. We are interested only in the
future."
"I am glad to hear it." Dumarest swayed, fighting the fatigue which threatened to engulf him. "Sime is lying dead a
short way from here," he said. "The prince must have killed him. I found his body on my way out."
"And the prince?"
"Dead."
"Yes." said Dyne. "He would be." Starlight splintered on the rising barrel of his gun. "As you will be."
"Why?" Dumarest took a slow and cautious step aside and away from the girl. "Why must you kill me? Because I
exposed your plot? I thought you regarded the past as irredeemable." He took another slow step. "Or is there another
reason? Is it because I come from a planet called Earth?"
"What do you know of Earth?"
"I lived there. I spoke of it and you must know that. I think that you want me dead because of it. What is so
important about Earth that no one must speak of it?" He took another cautious step.
Dyne followed him with the gun.
"You are trying to distract me," he said. "You hope to approach and then, suddenly, attack. You have confidence in
the speed of your reflexes but they will not save you. When you reach a certain position I shall fire."
Dumarest drew a deep breath.
"Earth," he said. "A lonely world with a strange form of life. Underground life, cyber, do you understand? I
escaped on a ship serving that life and it bore a device similar to that you carry on your breast. The Cyclan seal."
"So?"
"I think that perhaps you could tell me how to find that world. You or others of your breed."
"You are talking to gain time," said Dyne. "The reason eludes me. There seems to be neither logic nor sense in
your actions and yet you must have a motive. It can only be that—" His eyes widened. His fingers closed on the
trigger of his weapon.
Dumarest dropped as he fired.
He rolled, snatched up the stone he had spotted, threw it as he came to his knees. Anger and fear gave strength to
his arm. The stone smashed wetly against the cyber's head.
"Dumarest!" The sound of the shot had wakened the girl. She lifted herself on one elbow, staring at the crumpled
shape, the dark pool of blood surrounding the shattered skull. "Dumarest!"
"It's all right." He stooped, picked her up, cradled her in his arms. "He's dead. It's all over."
"Dead?"
 "He died in the storm."
It was true enough and it would serve to keep the Cyclan quiet. His racing thoughts outmatched the slow
progress of his feet. The girl was vague, suffering from cold and exposure, unaccustomed to hardship but she would
live and might even be grateful. The Matriarch would certainly be.
It could be an advantage to have powerful friends.
They could even help him to find his way back home. He stumbled and almost fell, suddenly conscious of the
ache of his body, the fatigue tearing at his dwindling reserves. Well, that could be cured too given time and the skill of
the physician.
He paused as he neared the tents of the Matriarch, a freak action of the drug suddenly accelerating his
metabolism. A gust of wind swept from the mountains and he heard the music of Gath.
Deeper now, slower, but quite unmistakable.
The empty sound of inane, gargantuan laughter.

DERAI

Chapter One
Dumarest was at practice when the skybeast came. He stood poised on the balls of his feet, a short bar of lead in
his hand, parrying and dodging the vicious slashes and thrusts of a yard of steel. Sweat dripped from his face and
naked torso; Nada wasn't playing and she was strong enough to send the steel rod whining through the turgid air. She
was also sadist enough to enjoy it.
"All right," she said finally. "That's enough." She stepped back and threw aside the rod. Her blouse, taut over her
breasts, was dark with perspiration. Her long, dark hair clung to her neck and cheeks. Her skin, in the dull lighting of
the tent, was faintly olive. "You're fast," she said admiringly. "Fast."
"I am?" He looked down at his body. A ragged, shallow gash ran over his ribs. A deeper cut marked his left side,
two others his left forearm. The wounds were almost healed beneath a layer of transparent plastic.
"You were green then," she said. "Still groggy from traveling Low. And they were lucky," she added. "Those who
managed to hit you, I mean. Lucky enough to make a score but not lucky enough to win." She stepped close and
stood before him. Her head came just below the level of his own. "You're good, Earl," she said. "Real good."
"I'm hot."
"Then wash." She didn't mistake his meaning. "I've put a bucket outside."
It was a five gallon drum, the top removed, almost full of tepid water. He plunged in his arms, laving his torso,
then ducked his head. When he stood up he heard the mournful booming. High above, drifting among the scattered
clouds, a beast was dying.
Already most of the auxiliary pods had been punctured and hung like ragged ribbons of mist at the edge of the
great, hemispherical body. Even as he watched, a swarm of the local skylife darted from the clouds to tear at the
intruder: rats worrying a dog. It fought back with the fringe of tentacles hanging from beneath its body, seizing its
tormentors, sending them plummeting with ruptured gas-sacs. Others of their own kind ate them before they could
hit the ground. Still others continued the attack.
"It hasn't got a chance," said Nada. "Not one." Her voice was thick with anticipation.
Abruptly the creature vomited in a desperate effort to gain height. A cloud of water vapor and ingested food
sprayed in a kaleidoscope of colored smoke. It rose a little, booming with terror and alarm, almost helpless here over
flat country away from the strong thermals of its mountainous browsing grounds. High and to one side the keepers
who had driven it to the city with air-blast and electric probe watched from the safety of their floating platforms.
"Soon," gloated Nada. "Soon!"
The attackers darted in for the kill. They tore at the lashing tentacles, at the soft underparts, at the tough skin of
the main gas-sac. The creature vomited again and then, as natural hydrogen spurted from its punctured hide, spored.
Its death-scream echoed over the city as a cloud of glittering fragments sparkled in the air.
"Nice." Nada stared thoughtfully at the falling remnants of the creature. Around it the attackers were busy
feeding. Little if any of it would reach the ground. "They're bringing in another for the finale," she said. "I was talking
to the keepers. It's a real big one. They're going to burn it," she added. "At night."
Dumarest plunged his head again into the water. He rose, squeezing his hair. Droplets clung to his naked flesh like
colored dew. "Do they always do that?"
"Burn one? Sure. It makes a good spectacle," she explained. "Something to give the tourists a big charge. A
highlight, sort of." She smiled at her own joke. "This your first time on Kyle?"
Dumarest nodded.
"Well be moving on soon," said the girl. "The Festival's almost over. Elgar's the next stop. Know it?"
"No."
"A lousy dump," she said dispassionately. "Then Gerath, then Segelt, then Folgone. That's a weird one," she
mused. "Real weird. You coming with us?"
"No." Dumarest reached for a towel. She handed it to him.
"You could do worse," she suggested. "Aiken likes you. And," she added meaningfully, "so do I."
Dumarest busied himself with the towel.
"We'd make a fine couple," she said. "I'm all the woman you could ever use and you're all the man I'll ever want.
We'd get along fine." She caught the towel he threw toward her and watched him dress. "What do you say, Earl?"
"It wouldn't work," he said. "I like to keep moving."
"Why?" she demanded. "You're looking for something," she decided. "That or you're running away from
something. Which is it, Earl?"
"Neither," he said.
"Then—?"
"No," he said. And left her standing alone.

***

Aiken lived in a blocked-off portion at the rear of the tent, living, eating and sleeping on the premises of his
concession. The proprietor was a small, round, pudgy man with a tendency to sweat. He looked up from the upended
crate he used as a desk and hastily slammed the lid of a cash box. "Earl!" He twisted his face into a smile. "It's good to
see you, boy. Something on your mind?"
"My share," said Dumarest. "I want it."
"Sure." Aiken began to sweat. "Your share."
"That's right." Dumarest stood to one side of the rough desk looking down at the little man. "You've had time to
count it out," he said. "If you haven't I know just how much it should be. Want me to tell you?"
"No need for that," said Aiken. "I didn't think you'd be in so much of a hurry," he explained. "We've got a few days
yet before the end of the Festival. How about settling up then?"
Dumarest shook his head. "Look," he said gently, "I want that money. I fought for it. I earned it. Now I want it."
"That's natural." Aiken produced a handkerchief and mopped his face and neck. "A man likes to handle the
money he's earned, spend a little of it maybe. A man that's a fool, that is. But, Earl, you're no fool."
Dumarest stood, waiting.
"That money," said Aiken. "It's yours—that I'm not arguing about—but why not invest it while you've got the
chance? Listen," he urged. "This is a nice little setup. We've got Nada as a flash to con in the goops. A couple of
steadies who bleed fast and a comic who's good for a laugh. With you in the ring we can't lose. We can offer odds of
ten-to-one on first blood and still clean up. Better yet, we can take on the private fights. You know, ten inch knives and
no quarter. Big money, Earl. Big money."
"No," said Dumarest.
"You're letting slip the chance of a lifetime."
"Maybe. Where's my share?"
"You seen Nada? She wants to talk to you."
"I've seen her." Dumarest leaned forward, his face hard. "What's the matter, Aiken? Don't you want to pay me?"
"Sure I do," said the proprietor. His eyes were darting, furtive. "Sure I do," he repeated, "only—" He broke off,
swallowing. "Look, Earl," he said desperately. "I'll give it to you straight. Things haven't been going so good. The
concession cost more than I figured and the goops have been staying away. What I'm trying to say is that I'm
practically broke. I owe the others. I've got to find freight and passage money to the next stop on the circuit. There
are bills due in town. With your share I can just about make it."
"And without?"
"I'm beaten," admitted Aiken. "I'll be stranded. Finished."
"Too bad," said Dumarest. "Pay me."
"But—"
Dumarest reached out and caught the other man by the shoulder. Gently he tightened his fingers. "I worked for
that money," he said quietly. "I chanced getting myself killed to earn it. Now do you give it to me or do I help
myself ?"
Outside the tent he counted the money. It was barely enough for a single High passage on a ship that wasn't
traveling too far. Thoughtfully he walked down the midway section of the carnival. Concessions stood to either side,
some open, most waiting for night, when the square mile set aside for the Festival games really came to life. An
amplified voice yelled to him from a tent:
"Hey, you there! Want to know what it's like to be burned to death? Full-sense feelies give you the thrill of a
lifetime! Genuine recordings of impalement, live-burial, flaying, dismemberment and many more. Sixteen different
types of torture! You feel it, sense it, know what it's like. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"
The male voice fell silent A female voice whispered from lower down the line:
"Hello, handsome! Want to share my wedding night? Find out just how the little woman feels. Adapt your
technique. Get the reputation of a man who knows what it's all about. Please the ladies. Step right up for a new
experience!"
A third voice, quieter, without amplification: "Alms, brother?"
A monk of the Universal Brotherhood stood by the gate in the perimeter fence. He had a pale, thin face framed
by the cowl of his homespun robe. He held out his chipped plastic begging bowl as Dumarest halted. "Of your charity,
brother," he said. "Remember the poor."
"How could I forget them?" Dumarest threw coins into the bowl. "How could anyone? You have much work on
Kyle, Brother."
"You speak truth," said the monk. He looked at the coins in his bowl. Dumarest had been generous. "Your name,
brother?"
"So that I shall be mentioned in your prayers?" Dumarest smiled but gave the information. The monk stepped
closer.
"There is a man who seeks you," he said quietly. "A man of influence and power. It would be to your advantage to
attend him."
"Thank you, Brother." The monks, Dumarest knew, had friends in high places and an information network that
spread across the galaxy. The Universal Brotherhood, for all the humbleness, was a very real power. "His name?"
"Moto Shamaski. A factor in the city. You will attend?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Keep well, Brother."
"Keep well."

***

The factor had gray hair, gray eyes, a gray beard shaved in the pattern of his Guild. His skin was a faded saffron,
creped with wrinkles, pouched beneath slanting eyes. He rose as Dumarest entered the office and inclined his head in
greeting. "You have not kept me waiting," he said. His voice was thin, precise. "It is appreciated. You will accept
refreshment?"
"Thank you, no." Dumarest glanced around the office before taking the proffered chair. It was a soft, luxurious
place, the carpet thick underfoot, the ceiling a mesh of sound-trapping fiber. A few simple designs ornamented the
paneled walls, delicate embroideries of intricate construction, rare and valuable examples of Sha' Tung art. Moto
Shamaski was a rich and cultured man.
"It is good of you to attend me," he said. "I trust that you have suffered no inconvenience?"
"None." Dumarest wasn't deluded as to his own importance: men such as the factor were always polite. "I
received word that you wanted to see me," he said. "Apparently you do. May I ask why?"
The factor smiled with his lips, not his eyes—they were busy searching the visitor. Dumarest recognized the
ritual: let the silence grow and it would, perhaps, reveal something of interest, impatience, arrogance, servility or
simply an overriding need to talk.
Impassively he leaned back, letting his eyes drift from the factor to where a sheet of unbroken crystal occupied
the major part of one wall. It gave a clear view of the sky and the famous Clouds of Kyle.
"Beautiful, are they not?" The factor leaned forward, looking at the colored shadows brushing the face of his
visitor. It was a strong face, hard, determined. The face of a man who learned to live without the protection of Guild,
House or Organization. "I have been thirty years on Kyle," he said quietly. "Never do I tire of watching the sky."
Dumarest made no comment.
"Such tiny organisms to create such splendor," mused the factor. "Living, breeding, dying in their great swarms
high above the ground. Food for others who share their aerial environment. A thing unique to Kyle and for which the
planet has cause to be grateful."
 "The Festival," said Dumarest. He turned from the window to face the man across the desk. "The time when the
skybeasts turn from their browsing to fight in the fury of mating. That," he said dryly, "and other things."
It was the factor's turn to make no comment. Shamaski was an old man, a lover of beauty who preferred not to
dwell on the other aspects of the Festival, the games and wild lusts, the perversions and pandering to bestiality which
wiled away the long nights for the impatient tourists who brought their wealth to Kyle. Instead he gestured toward a
tray standing on a small table to one side of the room. "Are you sure that you require nothing? Some tea, perhaps?"
Dumarest shook his head, his eyes thoughtful. The man had sent for him; why did he delay?
"You are impatient," said the factor shrewdly. "And, no doubt, a little curious. They are natural attributes but you
mask them well." He pressed a button at the edge of his desk. A panel glowed on the flat surface, the brightness
marked with lines of script, "Earl Dumarest," read Shamaski. "A traveler. You arrived here from Gleece traveling Low.
Before Gleece you were on Pren, before that on Exon, Aime, Stulgar. Before Stulgar you were the guest of the
Matriarch of Kund. You traveled with her retinue from Gath where, I assume, you were able to be of some service."
He looked up from the desk. "Is the information correct?"
"It is," said Dumarest. He wondered at the factor's resources to have been able to learn so much in so short a
time. The monks, perhaps? Or could he be the subject of disseminated news? The thought was disturbing. "On arrival
here," continued the factor, "you entered into an arrangement with a concessionaire specializing in the staging of
hand-combats. You have had moderate success. However, the Festival is almost over and further opportunities for
making money are limited. Again, do you agree?" he darkened the panel at Dumarest's nod. "You are shrewd, capable
and experienced," summed up the factor. "Young enough to be resourceful and old enough to be discreet. A happy
combination."
"You want to employ me," said Dumarest abruptly. The factor agreed. "Would you accept a commission from my
hands?"
"It depends," said Dumarest, "on just what it is." The factor rose, crossed to the tray, returned bearing cups of
scented tea. "It is really quite simple," he explained. "I want you to escort a young person to Hive. You know it?"
Dumarest was cautious. "No."
"A remote world some distance from here and relatively unimportant. The planet is managed by a syndicate of
Houses and the person you are to escort is a member of one of them." The factor sipped, savoring his tea. "Such
houses," he hinted, "are not ungenerous."
"Perhaps not," said Dumarest. "But is it ever wise to trust to the gratitude of princes?"
"No," admitted Shamaski. He sipped more tea. "I will give you the cost of three High passages. You accept?"
Dumarest hesitated. "You say that Hive is a remote world," he pointed out. "I will probably have to wait for a ship
and then I will have to pay my passage. How am I expected to make a profit?"
"You did not intend going to Hive?"
"No," lied Dumarest.
"Very well," decided the factor. "I will give you the cost of two High passages. Clear," he added. "I shall pay the
expenses of the outward journey. Is that satisfactory?"
Dumarest slowly finished his tea and set down the cup. The factor had been a little too eager to raise his offer.
Idly he dipped a finger in the dregs and ran it around the edge. A thin, high ringing filled the office, a note of absolute
purity. "A question," he said, lifting his finger. "You say that this person is a member of an established House. Why do
they not send an escort of their own?"
The factor was patient. "It is a question of time. It is quicker to send the person concerned than to send a
message and wait for an escort."
It was true enough but the answer was revealing. The person, then, was of some importance. Dumarest probed a
little deeper. "There is need for haste?"
"There is no reason for delay," said the factor. He was, Dumarest guessed, becoming a little irritated. 'Soon the
ships will be leaving Kyle. Delay now may necessitate special charter. Will you take the commission? Subject, of
course, to your being accepted by the person concerned. "That," he added, "is an essential part of the contract."
"Naturally." Dumarest made up his mind. He had pressed the factor as far as he would go—more and he would
lose the opportunity. "I accept," he said. "When do I meet my charge?"
"At once." Shamaski pressed a button and a panel slid open in the wall. "Permit me to introduce the Lady Derai of
the House of Caldor. My lady, this is Earl Dumarest, who, with your permission, will be your guide and protector." He
extended his hand to help her step into the office.
She was tall, as slender as a reed, with hair so silver it was almost colorless. A child, thought Dumarest. A scared
and frightened child. Then he saw her eyes, enormous in the bone-white pallor of her face. Not a child, he corrected
himself. A young woman, nubile at least, but still scared, still afraid. But of what?
"My lady." He stood, very tall, as the factor left her side.
 "You look surprised," said Shamaski softly. "I cannot blame you." He moved toward the tray, poured tea, spoke
quietly across the cup. "She came to me a few weeks ago in an extreme state of shock and panic. A monk had found
her down at the landing field. I took her under my protection. I am a factor," he explained. "A man of business. Her
House has power and is not without influence. I have had dealings with them in the past and hope to have more in
the future. The Brother know of my interest and she sought my aid."
"Why?"
"She trusted me. I was the only one she felt she could trust."
"I didn't mean that," said Dumarest impatiently. "Why did she seek your aid? For what?"
"For sanctuary. For somewhere safe to rest. For protection."
"The member of an established House?" Dumarest frowned; the thing was illogical. Surely she would have
traveled with her own retinue? "It doesn't make sense," he pointed out. "Why didn't she appeal to those of her own
kind? What was she doing here anyway?"
"She had run away," said the factor. "She took passage on the first available ship and it brought her here to Kyle.
She arrived at the commencement of the Festival," he added bitterly. "With the streets thronged with perverted beasts
hoping to see beauty destroyed and the skies filled with death. Those who attend the games and who pay for the sight
of blood. You should know them."
"They are men," said Dumarest. "And women. Bored, hungry for new sensations, eager for excitement. People on
holiday. Are they to be blamed if Kyle is willing to cater to their basest needs?"
"Who is really to blame?" mused the factor. "The pervert, or those who pander to his perversion? The question
has been pondered since men first discovered ethics. There has yet to be found a satisfying answer."
"Perhaps there never will." Dumarest turned as the girl moved toward them, admiring the way she walked, her
feet seeming to glide over the carpet. Her hair was so fine it lifted with the wind of her passage. "My lady?"
"When do we leave?" she asked. "Will it be soon?"
"You accept me as your escort, my lady?"
"I accept. When do we leave?"
Her voice was warm, rich, in sharp contrast to her bloodless lips. Anemia, thought Dumarest dispassionately, or
leukemia, but why was she suffering from such minor ills if she had the wealth of a House to summon medical aid?
He looked at her, more sharply than before. She was too thin for her height. Her eyes were too large, her neck too
long, her hands too delicate. Framed by the silver cascade of her hair her face had a peculiar, unfinished appearance,
as if she had sprung too early from the womb. And yet she was beautiful.
"It will be soon, my lady," promised Shamaski. "As soon as can be arranged."
She nodded and drifted away to toy absently with the edges of the desk.
Dumarest watched her as he spoke to the factor. "There is something I don't understand," he said softly. "You
want me to take her to Hive. She obviously wants to go there. Why?"
"It is her home."
"And yet she ran away?"
"I did not say that she had run from Hive," reminded the factor.
"True." Dumarest had taken too much for granted. "But why can't she travel alone? She did it once, why not
again?"
"She is afraid," said Shamaski. "Surely you can sense that? And yet her fear is nothing to what it was. When she
came to me she was terrified. Never before have I seen a human in such fear."
He must, thought Dumarest, have had wide experience of the emotion. Especially on Kyle during the Festival.
"All right," he said. "So she is afraid to travel alone. That I can understand. But why did she run away?"
"The same reason. Fear."
"Fear of what?"
"Of her life. She was convinced that someone intended to kill her. She could think of nothing but the necessity of
flight. You can understand now," said the factor, "why it is essential that she should trust her escort. She will travel
with no other."
A paranoiac, thought Dumarest bleakly. So that's what all this is about: The girl is insane. He felt pity but not
surprise. Old families tended to inbreed to the point where harmful genes became predominant, and great Houses
were the worst offenders. But why hadn't they treated her? Why, at least, hadn't they cauterized that portion of the
brain governing fear?
He dismissed the question. It was no concern of his. For the cost of two High passages he was willing to do more
than just escort a mentally unstable girl to her home world. Especially when that world was somewhere he wanted to
reach.
"Please," she said again, looking up. "We will leave soon?"
 "Yes, my lady," said Dumarest. "Soon."

Chapter Two
Dumarest booked passage on a small ship carrying mixed cargo and passengers to Hive. It wasn't the best of its
kind but it was the first to leave and he was in a hurry to get moving. It would be a long journey. Not for those
traveling Low, riding doped, frozen and ninety percent dead in the bleak, cold-region of the ship, resting in boxes
designed to hold livestock. For them the journey would take no time at all. For some it would be the last journey they
would ever make, the unlucky fifteen percent who had chanced their luck once too often and who would never
awake.
Nor for those traveling High. They enjoyed the magic of quick-time, the drug slowing their metabolism so that
time streamed past and a day seemed less than an hour. Even for them, though, time existed and had to be killed in
traditional ways.
"Five." A thin man with hollowed cheeks and furtive pushed a small stack of coins to the center of the table.
Reflected light gleamed from the heavy ring he wore on one finger. "And raise five more."
A fat man, a free-lance trader, looked at his cards and pursed his lips. "I'll stay."
Two others followed his example, quiet men wearing expensive clothing, representatives of commercial empires.
The fifth man shook his head and discarded his hand. The sixth, another trader, hesitated, then decided to remain in
the game. Dumarest sat, watching.
"That man," whispered the girl at his side. "The one with the ring. He's cheating."
"Are you sure, my lady?" Like the girl Dumarest kept his voice low. He found the accusation amusing. It was very
probable that the gambler would cheat given the opportunity, but it was most unlikely the girl would know of it.
"I'm sure," she insisted. "He will win this hand. You'll see."
The gambler won.
Luck, thought Dumarest. She's probably heard that all ships are staffed with professional gamblers waiting to
fleece the unwary. Well, on a ship like this that could be true enough, but even an honest gambler had to win at times.
"He cheated," she said. "I think you know it. Is that why you're not playing?"
Dumarest shook his head. Normally he would have joined in the game but gambling demanded concentration
and the girl was his first responsibility. He looked at her where she sat. She had lost her aura of fear and the loss had
improved her. Like a child on a treat, he thought. A girl on a holiday. It's a pity she's so thin.
The thought was the prelude to action. He looked around the lounge. It was lit by a central light, cluttered with
chairs, the table occupying most of the free space. To one side spigots protruded from a wall with a rack of cups
beneath. He rose, crossed to them, filled two of the cups with a creamy liquid. Returning, he offered one to the girl.
"What is it?" She looked suspiciously at the container.
"Food, my lady. It is wise that you should eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Even so, my lady, it is best to eat." While you have the chance, he thought grimly. Anyway, it was all included in
the fare.
Sitting, he took a swallow of the thick liquid. It was Basic, thick with protein, cloying with glucose, laced with
vitamins. A cupful provided a spaceman with a day's basic ration of food. He sipped again. The liquid was at blood-
heat, kept that way by the mechanism in the base of the container.
"I don't like this," complained the girl. "I want something solid."
On a larger ship she could have had it. Cold, of course, since no solid food could retain its heat during the long
quick-time journey from plate to mouth. But this wasn't a large ship and they had to take what was offered.
"Eat my lady," he said curtly. Didn't she realize the importance of food? "Eat," he said again, his tone more gentle.
"It will do you good."
She obeyed, mechanically, her eyes wide as they stared at the players over the rim of the cup. "He's going to win
again," she said. "The one with the ring."
Dumarest looked toward the table. The players were at the draw, the gambler about to deal. "Two," said the fat
trader. The gambler dealt two cards facedown and pushed them across the table. "Three," said the first representative.
"One," said his companion. The other two players had dropped out.
"He will give himself three cards," whispered the girl, "And he will win."
The gambler won.
"How did you know, my lady?" Dumarest had watched but had seen nothing suspicious.
"I just knew." She put aside the empty cup. "Must you call me that?"
 "My lady?"
"That's what I mean. My name is Derai. Yours is Earl. Must we be so formal?"
"As you wish." It was a small thing; they would part at the end of the journey. At the moment there was
something of greater importance. "Derai, are you a clairvoyant?"
"I cannot read the future."
"Then how did you know the gambler would give himself three cards and win?"
She turned, not answering, the cascade of silver hiding her face. Dumarest wondered at her sudden sensitivity.
Then she faced him again, her eyes bright with excitement. "Would you like to play, Earl? I could tell you how to win."
"Perhaps," he said dryly. "But the others might object."
"Does it matter? You need money and this is a chance to get it. Why do you refuse?"
He sighed, wondering how to explain.
"Never mind," she decided. "I shall play myself. Will you please lend me some money?" Then, as he hesitated, "I
will pay you back with profit from my winnings."
"And if you lose?"
"You must trust me," she said seriously. "I shall not lose."

***

The cabin was small, dimly lit, giving privacy and very little else. It held two opposed bunks and one of them
glittered with coins. Derai had flung them there. She had, Dumarest remembered, practically cleaned the others out.
He still couldn't understand how she had done it.
"What did I tell you?" She lay on the other bunk, hardly denting the pneumatic mattress, her hair spread wide on
the pillow. The dim light gave color to her face, enhanced the brightness of her eyes. "Take it," she urged. "All of it.
It's yours."
Dumarest gathered up the coins and knew that some of them were metaphorical blood. The others had been
philosophical about their losses, but not the gambler. He had grown desperate, the hollow cheeks tight against the
bones of his skull, the sweat beading his forehead each time he lost a hand. Dumarest could guess why. His losses
had been too heavy. His debts were possibly large. If he rode on a delayed-payment basis, a common practice of his
kind, the captain would have the right to bond him to servitude unless he could pay. And Dumarest guessed that he
couldn't pay. Not now. Such a man could be dangerous. It was possible that he would seek revenge.
"Earl!" said Derai. "Earl!"
He turned. The girl was panting, her eyes wide with terror, thin hands clutched in the region of her heart. He
knelt, ignoring the too-sudden shock of impact as his knees hit the deck, his fingers gentle on her wrist. Her pulse was
racing. He didn't have to ask what was wrong. He could sense it, the aura of fear which enfolded her like a living
thing. But why? He looked around; the cabin was empty of any threat.
"Earl!"
"I'm here," he soothed. "You don't have to worry." He forced conviction into his voice. "Do you really believe that
I would ever allow anything to harm you?" He felt a sudden wave of protective tenderness. She was too young, too
delicate to have to carry such an emotional burden. He felt her fingers slip into his own.
"That man," she said. "The one with the ring. Do you think he hates me?"
"Probably." He agreed. "But he doesn't really mean it. He's just angry because you won all his money. Angry and
a little desperate. Afraid too," he added. "More afraid than you and with better reason." Which, he thought dully,
wasn't really true. No one could be more afraid than a paranoiac because they knew, without any question of doubt,
that the entire universe was against them. "I'll take care of the gambler," he decided. "I'll give him back his money.
That will stop him from hating you."
"You're a good man, Earl."
"I'm a fool," he said. "He doesn't deserve it. But I'll do it to make you happy." He rose and paused by the door. "I'll
lock you in," he said. "Don't open the door to anyone. Promise?" She nodded. "Settle down now," he advised. "Try to
get some sleep."
"You'll be back?"
"I'll be back."
Outside the cabin he hesitated, wondering just where the gambler was to be found. There was only one logical
place; the man couldn't afford to rest or sleep. He heard the sound of angry voices as he approached the lounge.
"You dirty cheat!" The fat trader had the gambler by the throat. "I saw you switch that card. I've a mind to tear out
your eyes!"
"Tearing out his fingers would be a better bet," suggested the other trader. "That'll teach him a lesson."
 The three of them were alone in the lounge; the others had retired. Dumarest stepped forward and looked at the
gambler. The fat man was supporting the gambler's weight, the flesh white around his knuckles.
"Take it easy," said Dumarest. "Your arm," he explained as the fat trader glared at him. "How long do you think
you could support that load in normal circumstances?"
The fat man released the gambler and stood rubbing his arm. "I forgot," he said sheepishly. "I must have been
holding him up for close to half a day, objective time. Thanks for reminding me."
"Forget it. Was he cheating?"
"Like an amateur," said the other trader. "He must have thought we were blind."
"Got your money back? All right," said Dumarest as they nodded, "I guess you're all through with him now." He
reached out and took the gambler by the upper arm. "Let's take a walk," he suggested. "A short stroll down to your
cabin." He closed his fingers until he felt bone. "Move!"
It was a cramped place, dingy, the bottom of the heap. The lowest member of the crew had better
accommodations and certainly more self-respect. Dumarest threw the gambler toward the bunk and leaned back
against the door. "You've hit the bottom," he said casually. "You're broke, in debt and scared of what's going to
happen. Right?"
The man nodded, massaging his throat. "That's right," he said painfully. "You come to gloat?"
"No. What's your name?"
"Eldon. Sar Eldon. Why? What do you want?"
"I'm running an errand." Coins showered to the bunk from Dumarest's hand. The cost of a High passage plus five
percent. "The girl you played with and who won your money. She's sending it back."
Eldon stared unbelievingly at the coins.
"How did she win it?" asked Dumarest. "Don't tell me it was luck," he added. "I know better. Luck had nothing to
do with it."
"I don't know." The gambler's hands trembled as he collected the money. "I had a stacked deck," he admitted. "I
knew just which cards to take so as to wind up with the winning hand. Usually I can manage a game but not this time.
Everything went wrong. She kept taking the wrong number of cards and ruining my draw. I was outsmarted all along
the line. Who is she?"
"It doesn't matter." Dumarest opened the door and looked back. "Take some advice, Sar. Quit this ship while
you've got the chance. If you want to know why take a look at where they keep you. And don't think those traders
won't complain."
"I'll quit," said Eldon. "And thanks. See you on Hive?"
"Maybe," said Dumarest.

***

Back in the lounge the traders were talking. Dumarest drew himself another cup of Basic. He didn't particularly
like the stuff but he had traveled Low too often not to appreciate its value. And any traveler, if he had sense, ate when
he could. Food was as important as a good pair of boots. As he sipped he listened; much could be learned from idle
talk. From listening he joined the conversation and then, when it was appropriate, slipped in a question of his own.
"Earth?" The fat trader blinked his surprise. "That's a queer name. You might as well call a planet soil or dirt or
ground. Every planet's got earth. They grow things in it. Earth!"
"It's a legend," said his companion.
"You've heard of it?" One day, thought Dumarest, he had to be lucky. Someone, somewhere, would be able to tell
him what he wanted to know. This man?
"No, but I've heard of others. Jackpot, El Dorado, Bonanza. All legends. Land on any world and you'll get a load
of them. Why, you won't believe this, but I've even heard of a man who claims that we all originated on one world.
Crazy, of course."
"He'd have to be," said the fat trader. "How could all of mankind come from one world? It stands to reason that it
just isn't possible. Legends," he said, shaking his head. "Who wants legends?" He looked at Dumarest, "Care to sit in
on a game?"
"No thanks," said Dumarest. "I'm a little tired. Later, maybe."
Derai was awake when he returned to the cabin. She sat propped high on the pillow, the silver of her hair a dull
sheen in the shadowed lighting. She gestured for him to approach. "You gave him the money? He was pleased?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Derai—I do not want to have to tell you again." She was imperious with unconscious arrogance. "Sit beside me,"
she ordered. "I need your protection."
 "Protection?" The cabin was empty, silent aside from the faint, almost inaudible vibration of the Erhaft drive.
"From what?"
"From myself, perhaps." She closed her eyes and he could sense her fatigue, the chronic tiredness that must be a
part of her condition. Paranoia and insomnia went hand in hand. "Talk to me," she demanded. "Tell me of yourself.
You have traveled much?"
"I have."
"But never before to Hive?"
"No."
"But you want to go there." She opened her eyes and stared into his own. "You want to go there?"
Dumarest nodded, not speaking, studying her face in the dim glow of the light. Again she had changed. The
childishness had vanished, the diffidence, the aura of fear. So much he had already seen. But now her eyes held
maturity and a strange intensity.
"I have been lying here," she said, "thinking. Of myself and of you and the working of fate. I have come to a
conclusion."
Dumarest waited, held by the almost hypnotic intensity of her eyes.
"I want you," she said abruptly. "I need you. When you are close I feel safe and protected. I think, if you would
stay, I could even sleep. It has been a long time since I really slept," she whispered. "Longer still that I have been able
to rest without dreams. You will stay?"
"If you wish." Dumarest could see no harm. He would rather not but, if it would comfort her, he would stay.
"I need you," she repeated. "You must never leave me."
Words, he thought. A child playing at being a woman and not knowing what she is saying, and then he
remembered the expression he had seen in her eyes. No child could look like that. No young, innocent girl, even
though nubile. She had worn the expression of an experienced woman who knew what she wanted and was
determined to get it. He felt her hand slip into his own.
"You are afraid," she murmured. "Why?" And then, before he could answer, "You are wrong. I am no spoiled bitch
seeking pleasure. No highborn lady demanding attention and not realizing that it is given through fear and not
affection. I am not playing with you, Earl. You don't have to be afraid. A place will be found for you. My House is
tolerant. I am bespoken to no suitor. There is no bar to our union." Her hand closed on his own. "We shall be very
happy."
It was, he thought, one of the strangest proposals there ever could have been. Strange and ludicrous.
Pathetic and potentially dangerous. She's insane, he reminded himself. Living in a world of nightmare and
refusing to accept reality. Or, if not refusing, totally unable. No House could be as tolerant as she claimed. Their
answer to what she proposed would be to send for an assassin.
"No," she whispered. "You are wrong. I would never let that happen."
How could she stop it?
"I would stop it," she said. "You must trust me, Earl. Always you must trust me."
She was, he realized, almost asleep, barely conscious of what she was saying. Gently he tried to remove his hand
but her grip was too tight.
"You are a strange man," she murmured. "I have never met anyone like you before. With you I could be a real
woman—you have strength enough for us both. So strong," she whispered. "So indifferent to danger. It must be
wonderful not to live in fear."
Carefully he eased himself into a more comfortable position. Soon she would be asleep. Then, perhaps, he would
be able to leave.
"No! You must not go! You must never leave me!" Her hand closed with spasmodic force. "I have much to give
you," she said, calmer now. "I can help you in so many ways. I can tell you about Earth."
"Earth?" He leaned forward, staring at the closed lids of her eyes, willing her to answer. "What do you know about
Earth?"
"A bleak place," she said. "Scarred by ancient wars. And yet it holds a strange kind of life."
"Yes?" He was impatient in his eagerness. "What else?"
"You want to find it," she said. "You want to find it very much. For you it is home." Her voice sank to a fading
whisper. Then, very softly, just before she yielded to sleep: "I love you, Earl. And you are wrong about me. So very
wrong. I am not insane."
No, he thought bleakly, you're not insane. Not in the way I'd imagined, at least, but you think you're in love with
me and you've betrayed yourself.
She had done it earlier, of course, but then he had been only mildly suspicious. Now he knew beyond any
question of doubt. No wonder Shamaski had been so eager to get rid of her. No wonder she had won so easily at
cards. And Earth? He swallowed his bitterness. He knew now how she had known about that. Known it and tried to
trap him with the knowledge, offering it as a tempting bait.
He looked at her hand, so small and delicate within his own. He looked at her long, slender lines, the incredible
softness of her hair, her ethereal grace. He felt again the sudden wave of protective tenderness.
A defense mechanism, he told himself. An amusement of the glands. A biological reaction triggered by cortical
stimulation. Or, he wondered, was it simple pity? It was easy to pity someone so frail and lovely. Easier still knowing
what she was. But pity was dangerously close to love. Too close.
He looked away, staring at the cabin door, the hard, unemotional wall, the bare symmetry of the spartan
furnishings. Anywhere but at the beautiful woman at his side. The Lady Derai of the House of Caldor. His charge…
Derai… who was a natural-born telepath.

Chapter Three
The library was a big place, long, broad, high enough for a gallery with huge fireplaces at either end. Once it had
been the great hall of the stronghold but, as the House had grown, so had the building; now the fireplaces were
blocked, the windows filled, the walls lined with books and records instead of banners, trophies and weapons.
Only the blazons on the chimney breasts remained unchanged: the Caldor insignia deep-cut into imperishable
stone, a hand, grasping.
It would be grasping, thought Blaine with cynical amusement. The Caldors were noted for their greed but then,
he admitted, so were the Fentons, the Tomblains, the Egreths and all the rest of the eleven Houses which now ruled
Hive.
Once it had been twenty-three, but that had been before the Pact had frozen the status quo. Now it was eleven.
Soon, inevitably, it would be less. He wondered if Caldor would be among those to survive.
He turned and looked down the library. It was dimly lit by modified flambeaux but, at a table toward the center of
the room, a man sat in a wash of light. It came from the viewer at which he worked, throwing his face into sharp
relief. Sergal, the librarian, was as old and dusty as his cherished books. Blaine moved toward him, soft-footed on the
stone-paved floor, coming up from behind so that he could look at the viewer over the old man's shoulder. He
frowned at what he saw. "What are you doing?"
"My lord!" Sergal started, almost falling from his chair. "My lord, I did not hear you. I—"
"Relax." Blaine felt a momentary guilt at having startled the old man. And Sergal was old, older than his father
and almost as old as grandfather, who was so old that he was more dead than alive. He leaned forward, studying the
viewer. It showed a portion of the family tree, not just the record of births, deaths and unions, but in more exact
detail; the genetic patterns displayed in a color-code of dots and lines, the history of genes and chromosomes. "For
Uncle Emil?"
"Not exactly, my lord." Sergal was uneasy. "He gave full authority," he hastened to add, "but I'm copying this data
for the cyber."
"Regor?" Blaine shrugged. The cyber was more robot than human and probably had some intellectual curiosity
regarding the ancient records. Idly he operated the viewer, later data flashing on the screen, halting as he found what
he wanted. His own record of birth, marred, as he had known it would be, by the sinister black mark of bastardy.
Impatiently he restored the instrument to its original setting. "I thought that Emil would have had you hard at work,"
he said, "checking the old records which might be of use. Pre-Pact stuff," he explained. "Something which he could
claim carried a prior right."
"The Pact abrogates any and all prior commitments, my lord," said Sergal stiffly. "Article Twelve is very specific
on the matter."
"I know," said Blaine. "But you couldn't blame him for trying. Did he try?"
"Yes, my lord."
He would, thought Blaine. Emil wouldn't leave a thing undone if he suspected that it could give him an
advantage. But checking the old records was an act of desperation—the Pact could not so easily be broken. Or, he
wondered, could it be that Emil was merely throwing down a smoke-screen? Searching wildly for something he knew
he couldn't find in order to cover something else?
Thoughtfully Blaine moved over to the side of the room. Here were stacked the old, dusty, crumbling volumes of
a bygone age. He opened one at random and read a list of names. He flipped a few pages and tried again.
The Sorgasson Incident, he read. At the base of the Weeping Mountain the Houses of Caldor and Sorgasson met
in combat to decide the harvesting rights of the region running from the base of the mountain to the sea; from the
Cal river to the Sorg crevasse. The House of Caldor was victorious. The undermentioned died in glory for the honor
of Caldor.
And their reward, thought Blaine, is to be noted in the rotting pages of a book no one bothers to read. So much
for glory. He closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, wondering a little about the old days when men marched to
war wearing armor, perhaps bearing weapons of edged steel, and carrying banners.
The details were in the books, of course, as the types of weapons would be stored in the upper gallery, no longer
on display, but still available in case of need. Caldor was known for its frugality.
The click of the viewer reminded him of Sergal. The librarian added another photocopy to the growing heap at
his side. His hands trembled as he worked, something Blaine had never noticed before. As he watched, the librarian
fumbled a setting and looked blankly at a ruined copy.
"Let me help you." Blaine eased the old man from the chair and took his place. The data on the viewer was
almost up to date; his own birth stood out with its black mark. He looked at another. Derai, his half-sister, seven years
younger than himself. She had no black mark but a red splotch, almost as bad. Their father had married her mother
against the wishes of the House.
He had guts that time, thought Blaine. He defied the Old Man and went ahead regardless, and so Derai's
legitimate and I'm not. It makes a difference, he mused. I'm with the House but not of it, but her position is
established. That's luck.
He wasn't resentful or envious. They got on well and shared one thing in common: the same father. Two things
really, since neither had a living mother. His own was a nameless someone who had loved not wisely but too well.
Derai's was almost equally as unknown. They had her name, her genetic pattern, but that was all. She had come from
no established House.
He took the copy, his untrained fingers spoiling the setting so that the fine detail was blurred. Philosophically he
tried again, pausing to frown at a scrap of data. Ustar, he thought. Trust him to make a botch of things. His cousin,
younger than himself but older than Derai, the only child of his uncle Emil. Emil, who was the second son of the Old
Man.
Carefully Blaine took the copy, this time perfectly. Fate, he thought. Had mother married Father I'd have been in
the direct line of succession. That's why Emil was so adamant that I should not be officially recognized. Then he
managed to sire Ustar. Then Father married and sired Derai. Fate, he repeated to himself. That's all it is.
He finished taking the series of copies. Sergal muttered his thanks. "Your uncle is waiting for them," he said. "I
assume he will give them to the cyber. I'd better take them up right away."
"I shouldn't," said Blaine. "He's with a trader."
Sergal looked nonplussed.
"I'll take them," decided Blaine. "I'll pass them over when it's convenient. Leave it to me."
"As you wish, my lord."
Blaine nodded, scooping up the papers, his manner absent. Seeing the records had reminded him of something
he had almost forgotten and he felt the skin crawl a little between his shoulders. When young he'd often cursed his
father for not having married his mother. Now he was rather glad that he hadn't. Had Blaine been legitimate the
chances were high that, by now, he would have been dead.
Scuto Dakarti was a smooth man, well-fed, well-spoken, excellently dressed. He had a fondness for jewels and
expensive perfume, both of which he wore with restraint. He was also a very cautious man. "I had hoped to see the
Head of the House, my lord," he said deferentially. "With respect—are you he?"
"I am the acting Head," said Emil Caldor. "My father is very old. He cannot be disturbed for items of minor
importance."
"You then are Johan Caldor?"
"That is my brother. I am Emil."
"But not the eldest, my lord?" The trader had done his homework. "You will pardon my caution but the nature of
my business is so delicate that I would not like to reveal it to the wrong person. A matter of confidence, you
understand."
Emil looked closer at the trader. There was steel beneath the fat, a cunning brain behind the polite smile. The
man had the air of a conspirator. "Who sent you?" he asked abruptly.
"A friend, my lord. A mutual acquaintance. Need I say more?"
As yet he had said nothing. Emil leaned back in his chair and slowly helped himself to wine. The goblet filled, he
replaced the decanter; then, as if at an afterthought, gestured his visitor to the tray. "If you are thirsty help yourself."
"Thank you, my lord." The trader masked his feelings well. "An excellent vintage," he murmured after having
poured and swallowed. "The wines of Caldor are famed over many planets."
"Did you come to bargain for wine?"
"No, my lord."
 A muscle jumped high on Emil's cheek. Setting down the goblet he rose and paced the narrow confines of the
room. The trader had been shown into an antechamber high in a tower. The furnishings were sparse, the walls thick,
the possibility of eavesdropping remote. From a narrow window he looked down to where the trader's flitter stood in
the central square.
Turning, he stared down at the man. "Very well," he said coldly. "Since you force me to ask: Why are you here?"
Deliberately the man finished his wine. He felt in full control of the situation. Leaning back he looked at his host.
Tall, he thought, thin, burning himself out with nervous energy. Old too, but real age is impossible to tell among the
rulers of Hive. They all look so much younger. But he's interested. He hasn't thrown me out. It looks as if my guess
was right.
"My lord," he said carefully, "before I speak have I your word that I shall be permitted to leave unharmed?"
"You are beginning to intrigue me," said Emil. He resumed his seat. "Yes, you have my word."
The trader nodded as if with relief. "Thank you, my lord." He paused, thinking, then went on. "Hive is a small
world. It sells honey, wax, perfume and a hundred flavors of liqueur, wine and spirit all with a honey base. But many
planets produce similar goods. The real wealth of Hive does not rest with those things."
Emil raised his eyebrows. "No?"
"The real wealth of Hive lies in something else," said the trader quickly. "In the jelly, my lord. The royal jelly."
"You are talking of ambrosaira," said Emil. "It is no secret."
"But it is a thing which is not advertised," said the trader. "My lord, I will put it to you plainly. I am interested in
buying ambrosaira."
Emil leaned back, a little disappointed, a little annoyed. "Why come to me about this? You must surely know the
procedure. All ambrosaira for sale is offered at auction. You are free to bid."
"Admitted, my lord. But the lots comprise little of what I want with much of what I do not. I would like to buy
direct."
"Impossible!"
"Is it, my lord?"
Emil stared at the man; had there been a hint in his voice? But surely he must know of the Pact, or at least that
part of it which applied to trading.
"I know, my lord," said Scuto when asked the question. "What manner of trader would I be if I did not? All
produce is pooled. All is made into lots and each lot includes a little or more of ambrosaira. The lots are sold at
auction. All monies received are divided equally between the ruling Houses." The trader looked up at the ceiling. It
was of vault stone. "A good system, my lord, or so it would seem. I doubt if you would agree."
"Why me?"
"You are an ambitious man, my lord." Now the trader looked directly into Emil's eyes. "Such a system leaves no
room for ambition. All share equally—so why should one work harder than the rest? I asked myself that question, my
lord, and thought of an answer. Suppose an ambitious man was to work a little harder than normal. He would collect
more ambrosaira. He would not add it to the general store but would keep it by in a safe place. One day, he would
think, it would be possible to sell it direct and thus gain all of the profit. If there was such a man, my lord," said the
trader carefully, "he would have need of a man such as myself."
"To handle the deal?"
"Yes, my lord. With honesty and discretion. The credit to be placed, perhaps, on some other world. It can easily
be arranged." Scuto fell silent, waiting.
Emil pursed his lips. "You may go," he said coldly.
"My lord?"
"You may leave. I gave you my word that you would not be harmed," he added. "A Caldor keeps his word. Go
now while you are still able."
From the tower room Emil watched as the trader made his way toward the flitter. It rose with a blur of rotors,
faltering a little as it met the strong thermals rising from the surrounding buildings, finally leveling out as it hummed
toward the city. He watched as it dwindled in the distance.
Who sent you? he wondered. The Fentons? The Tomblains? One of the others? Testing me, perhaps. Trying to
find some basis for an accusation that I am thinking of breaking the Pact. His hands clenched as he thought about it.
Hive was full of intrigue, with each House striving to get the better of the others and each hampered by the common
agreement which held them impotent.
Or had the man been honest? A genuine trader who had made a shrewd guess as to the temptations of the
economic system operating on Hive? It would not be hard to do for anyone with imagination and a knowledge of
human nature. Such a man could have evaluated the situation, seen the opportunity to make an easy profit and taken
a calculated risk by coming out into the open. And it hadn't really been such a terrible risk. He had been guilty of
nothing more than offering his services.
But—had the man been genuine?
Derai would have known. Her ability would have searched the root of the trader's motivations. She should be
here, thought Emil. I need her now more than ever. The sooner she returns the better and, he told himself, once safe
in the stronghold she would never be permitted to leave again.
Her marriage to Ustar would take care of that.

***

Blaine met the cyber as he climbed the stairs toward the room in which his grandfather spent practically all his
time. They faced each other, the tall, hawk-face, and the young person in his dull green tunic picked out with silver.
One bore the device of the Caldors, the other the symbol of the Cyclan. One was in the stronghold of his House, the
other was basically nothing more than a paid adviser. But neither had any doubt as to who was superior.
"My lord." Automatically the cyber stepped back, yielding the right of way, paying lip-service to protocol and
convention.
"A moment." Blaine held out the papers he had carried from the library. "Sergal asked me to give you these."
"Thank you, my lord," said Regor in his soft modulation, the trained voice which contained no irritant factors.
"You should not have inconvenienced yourself. The matter is of no urgency."
"A problem?" Blaine was curious. "Something you are doing for Emil?"
"No, my lord. Your uncle was good enough to give his permission for me to examine the data. It is important to
keep the mind occupied."
"Yes," said Blaine. "I suppose it is." He was disappointed; here was no ulterior motive, just the desire of the cyber
to obtain mental exercise. He looked past the man toward the door of his grandfather's room. "How is he today?"
"The Lord Caldor is very ill, my lord. His illness is one that can yield to no surgery. It is age."
"I know that." Blaine fell silent, thinking. "Tell me," he demanded. "You must know. What is the probability of one
or more of the ruling Houses of Hive losing its position? Within a year," he added.
"The probability is very low, my lord."
"Then why is my uncle so worried?"
"That my lord, is a question only he can answer."
It was a rebuke, all the more hurtful because deserved. "Thank you," said Blaine stiffly. "You may go."
Regor bowed, a slight inclination of his head, then went on his way. A member of his retinue guarded his private
chambers, a young man, sternly molded, dedicated to the Cyclan and accepting Regor as his master in all things.
There was another at food or rest. A third lingered in the city. Three acolytes, a small retinue but sufficient for the
purpose. The Cyclan did not make a habit of wasting manpower.
"Maximum seal," ordered Regor. Even command did not harden the soft tones of his voice, but there was no need
for aural emphasis. "No interruption of any kind for any reason."
Inside he tossed the papers on a table and entered his private room. Lying supine on the narrow couch he
activated the bracelet locked around his left wrist. Invisible power flowed from the instrument and created a field
which no spying eye or ear could penetrate. It was a precaution, nothing more, but no cyber ever took the slightest
chance when in gestalt communication.
Relaxing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formulas. Gradually he lost the sense of taste,
smell, touch and hearing. Had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Locked in his skull, his brain ceased to
be irritated by external stimuli. It became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness its only contact with life.
Only then did the engrafted Homochon elements become active. Rapport quickly followed.
Regor became truly alive.
It was the closest any cyber could get to sensual pleasure and even then it was wholly concerned with the mind.
Doors opened in the universe and released a tremendous flood of brilliance which was the shining light of eternal
truth. He became a living part of an organism which stretched across the galaxy in an infinity of crystalline sparkles,
each the glowing nexus of naked intelligence. A skein of misty light connected the whole so that it seemed to be a
shifting kaleidoscope of brilliance and form. He saw it and at the same time was a part of it, sharing and yet owning
the incredible gestalt of minds.
And somewhere toward the center of that skein was the headquarters of the Cyclan. Buried deep beneath miles
of rock, locked and armored in the heart of a lonely planet, the central intelligence absorbed his knowledge as space
drank energy. There was no verbal communication; only mental communication in the form of words, quick,
practically instantaneous, organic transmission against which the light-beating speed of supra-radio was the merest
crawl.
 "Report received and acknowledged. The Caldor girl is on her way to you by commercial vessel. They know of
this?"
An infinitesimal pause.
"The factor Shamaski notified the House. The man Dumarest is of some interest. There is data on him in my files.
Continue with original plan."
A comment.
"Those responsible for permitting the escape of the Caldor girl have been punished."
That was all.
The rest was sheer intoxication.
There was always this period after rapport during which the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and
the machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental control. Regor floated in a weightless emptiness while
he sensed new and unfamiliar environments, shared strange memories and stranger situations: scraps of overflow
from other intelligences, the discard of other minds. The power of central intelligence, the tremendous cybernetic
complex which was the mind and heart of the Cyclan.
And of which, one day, he would be part.

Chapter Four
The case had dragged too long. Sitting in the high chair of justice Ustar Caldor felt his eyelids grow heavy from
both the heat and boredom. Fatigue too, he admitted; there had been no sleep the previous night and little enough the
night before that. It was not often that he came into town and he had no intention of wasting his opportunity. Now he
should be asleep in readiness for the coming night's pleasure.
He stirred, almost regretting the impulse which had made him insist on his right to oust the resident judge from
his chair. And yet, unless such rights were exercised, they quickly became forgotten. Forgetfulness of such a nature
was not to be encouraged.
"My lord." The prisoner's advocate was sweating beneath his robe. His client was guilty, of course, but normally
he would expect only a small fine or a short term of forced labor. Now? Who could tell what this cold-eyed young
man would decide? "My lord," he said again, "I submit that the prosecution has failed to offer evidence to prove that
my client is guilty as charged. I realize that the onus of proof is ours to show that we are guiltless and this we have
failed to do. In such circumstances, my lord, we have no alternative than to throw ourselves on your mercy."
Ustar sat, brooding. They could have done this in the first place, he thought, and saved us all a lot of time and
discomfort. He looked at the prisoner, a small trader who had cheated on his returns and thus robbed the House of
needed revenue. Well, how to punish the man? How to show both the strength and Justice of the Caldors?
"The fine will be sixty times the amount stolen," he announced. "The sentence will be three years at forced labor."
The prisoner blanched.
"My lord!" The advocate had courage. "The sentence is extreme, my lord," he said. "I beg you to reconsider your
decision!"
"You condone his theft?" Ustar was deceptively mild. "You, a member of the House of Caldor, consider that this
man is undeserving of punishment?"
"No, my lord, but—"
"He stole from the House," said Ustar, interrupting. "He stole from me, from you, from us all, the amount is
insignificant. The sentence stands."
"My lord." The advocate bowed, accepting defeat. It was going to be an unlucky day for those coming to trial.
The morning dragged. Shortly after midday Ustar adjourned the court in order to take a bath and eat some much-
needed food. He was on his main course when a shadow fell across his plate. Looking up he saw the resident judge.
"May I speak with you, my lord?"
"Sit down." Ustar gestured toward an empty chair. "Let's get one thing clear. I do not intend to argue about the
decisions I have made. Understand?"
"I did not wish to speak to you about that." The judge was old and had learned patience. "Your grandfather," he
said. "We rarely see him in town. Is he well?"
"As well as can be expected."
"And your father?"
"The same." Ustar pushed away his empty plate. He was amused at the other's discomfiture but did nothing to
ease it. It was as well that such men as the judge should be reminded as to who were their masters. "I have been
thinking," he said abruptly. "The scale of fines as laid down by the court seems far too low. As a source of revenue
they have been sadly neglected."
"Fines are not intended to be revenue, my lord. They are a means of punishing minor offenders."
"Even so they are still too low. I suggest that you treble them immediately." Ustar poured himself wine. "The
sentences too. They should also be increased."
"Sentences vary, my lord," said the judge patiently. "As crimes vary. Justice must always be tempered with
understanding and mercy. Age will teach you that," he added. "And experience."
Ustar sipped his wine. The old man had courage, he admitted to himself, perhaps too much courage. "I am
young," he said. "True, but I am not necessarily a fool because of that. Caldor needs money and your court is a
means of getting it. We could arrange to remit sentences," he suggested. "Hit wealthy men hard and then let them
buy themselves off. So much for a day, a week, a year. It has possibilities."
He was, thought the judge, like a child with a new toy. A vicious child with a very delicate toy. Vicious or just
careless, the results would be the same. For Caldor justice would become a bad word. Deliberately he changed the
subject. "Do you intend to stay long in town, my lord?"
Ustar drank more wine, tempted to continue the suspense, then abruptly tiring of the game. "I am waiting for the
Lady Derai," he explained. "Her ship should be arriving at any time. In fact," he added as a familiar sound echoed
from the sky, "this could be it now."
But there was still ample time to finish the meal.

***

The agent was a Hausi, plump, bland, smiling like a cat, caste marks livid against the ebon of his skin. He stood in
the blazing sunlight halfway between the ship and the edge of the field, his voice cheerful as he shouted his offer.
"Five! Five a day! I can use every able-bodied man!"
Dumarest paused, watching. Beside him the girl moved with restless impatience.
"Come on, Earl. He's just recruiting labor for the harvest. It's of no interest to you."
Dumarest didn't answer. His eyes were busy searching the sky, the field, the city beyond. The sky was a hard,
clear blue, the sun a brazen disc of searing brilliance, the air hot and sticky with tropic warmth. The field was gravel,
tamped hard and kept clean and level. A group of men worked at it, heads bowed, shuffling in a familiar way. Other
men stood and watched them. Prisoners and their guards. Well, it was usual to use convict labor to maintain the
fields.
"Come on, Earl," urged Derai impatiently. "Let's get home."
"A moment." The city was interesting. It reached to the edge of the field, a sprawling collection of shops, houses,
small factories and stores. It seemed to have no trace of planning or design. A few roads ran from it, none very far. To
the field, the warehouses humped around the central square, the long, low sheds to one side. It looked more like an
overgrown village than a thriving metropolis.
He would do his business and be on his way. Instinct warned him that Hive was not a good world on which to
linger.
"Your first time on Hive, sir?" The agent was courteous. "An interesting world. There are those, perhaps, with
greater impact on the senses but few with so much subtle beauty to entrance the beholder. I could arrange a tour of
inspection for yourself and your lady. Modern air-transports and an accomplished guide. My card, sir. The name is
Yamay Mbombo. I am well known in the town, sir. A question at any hotel or tavern will yield my address. Shall I
book you now for our special three-day survey?"
Dumarest shook his head. "Thank you, no."
"As you wish, sir." The Hausi turned to look at a knot of men slowly approaching from the ship. "Five!" he called.
"Five a day! I can use every able-bodied man!"
"Five." Dumarest was thoughtful. It seemed low. "Tell me," he said to the girl, "how much will that buy on Hive?"
"How should I know?"
After a moment, "Well?"
"Find out," he suggested. "Read his mind." And then, after a moment, "Well?"
"A lot," she said, and shuddered. "It was horrible," she complained. "Beastly!"
"He is probably married to one or more women." said Dumarest calmly. "He could even be hungry. When are you
going to learn that subconscious thoughts have nothing to do with intended action? We are all of us beasts," he
added. "Most of us learn to correctly judge what we see and hear." It was a lesson he had tried to teach her during the
entire journey. He'd had little success.
"Why are we waiting?" Derai caught him by the arm and pressed her body close to his own. There was nothing
childish in the gesture. "You kept us waiting on the ship," she complained. "We were the last to leave. We could have
been home by now."
"Be patient," said Dumarest. He felt uneasy. Hive, apparently, was a poor world. He turned to examine the group
of those who had traveled Low. They were thin, pale, barely recovered from resurrection. Some would have a little
money, enough perhaps to tide them over until they could find employment. Some lacked even that. All were
strangers. "All right," he said to the girl. "We can go now."
Dumarest narrowed his eyes as they approached the gate. A cluster of people stood before it on the any-man's-
land of the field. A row of sagging tents and flimsy structures reached along the fence to either side, again on the
field-side of the high wire mesh. A portable church of the Universal Brotherhood stood at a small distance from the
furthest tent and Dumarest could spot the drab homespun of a monk among the people.
A man turned as they approached. He was flushed, nervous, eyes bright with panic. Sar Eldon was in a bad way.
"Dumarest!" He swallowed and tried to control his voice. "Thank God for a friendly face. I thought you'd gone, that I
was all alone." He broke off and wiped the perspiration from his face. "I hate asking this," he said flatly. "But I've got
no choice. Will yon please lend me some money?"
Dumarest was curt, "You had money. More than the cost of your passage."
"The captain took it all. He said that I owed it to him. Now I know why." Eldon jerked his head toward the gate.
"They won't let me out," he explained. "I haven't got the landing fee. I've got the choice of staying here," he
continued. "Living like the rest of them inside the field. Or I can crawl back to the ship and beg them to take me back.
If I do that I'll have to take whatever terms the captain offers. I'll be a slave for life."
"And the rest?"
"Worse. They have no chance to ship out." The gambler, for once, was honest.
Dumarest looked at the others. They were a familiar sight. Dressed in rags, emaciated, literally starving. Men
without money and so without hope; travelers who had hit the end of the line, barred from leaving the field in order
to seek employment or search for food. Hive, he thought grimly, promised to be a place to remember.
"Earl." He felt the tug at his arm and became conscious of the girl at his side. Her face was twisted as if with pain
but she was free of fear. He was glad of that. "Earl, why are all these people so miserable?"
"They are starving," he explained. "Your people are watching them starve." It was unfair but true. Too many of
the aristocracy went on their way blind to the suffering of others. For her there was no excuse.
"We must help them," she decided. "Earl, what is it they need?"
"Money."
"You have money." To her the situation was childishly simple. "If you give it to them they will no longer suffer. Is
that correct?"
"It is. For a time," he added. "I cannot promise as to the future. But, in this case, charity seems unnecessary." He
moved closer to the crowd and caught a man by the shoulder. "You want money," he said. "There is an agent on the
field offering employment. Why don't you accept it?"
"At five a day?"
"At one a day if you have to. If that's all there is to take. Or do you prefer to sit here and starve?"
"No," said the man. He was small, with a straggling mane of red hair and a face smothered with freckles beneath
the dirt. "No," he repeated. "I don't prefer that at all. But I'm damned if I'm going to risk my neck just to pay their
landing fees. Landing fees!" He spat on the gravel. "Where else would you find such a racket? I've been on a hundred
worlds and I've never met up with this before." He spat again and glared at Dumarest. "We were talking about work,"
he said. "Do you know what kind of work he's offering?"
"Something to do with harvesting."
"That's right, but do you know what? The jelly," said the man. "The stuff they sell for a fortune. They pay five a
day and if one out of two men live to collect it they reckon they've made a bad deal. Five a day for a fifty percent
chance of getting killed. Would you take it?"
"I don't know," said Dumarest. "But I can't blame you for thinking about it."
He stepped back and looked beyond the gate. Outside a crowd of casual watchers stood behind the cluster of
guards. Most of them, he noticed, wore a tunic of varying color, each bearing a blazon on the left breast. A few wore
heavy daggers at their belts, symbols of authority or a badge of rank. Derai pulled at his arm.
"Earl," she insisted, "do something for these people. I will repay," she said quickly. "My House is not poor. I ask
you only to lend me the money until we reach home. Please, Earl!" Her hand tightened on his arm. "For me," she
whispered. "Do it for me."
The church was small, the benediction light the most prominent object, the hypnotic device before which the
supplicants sat, confessing their sins and receiving subjective penance before being given the bread of forgiveness.
Beyond it, in the confessional, sat Brother Yitrium. He looked little different from the rest His robe was patched and
his person clean, but his face showed the signs of deprivation. Now he sat, head bowed, praying.
 "Brother," he said finally to Dumarest, "what can I say? Each time I leave the field I have to pay the charge. We
have no established church on this planet and the Houses are not sympathetic to our teaching. I had begun to believe,
God help me, that charity was dead. Now I see that it is not."
"How much?" said Dumarest. "Not just to clear the field, I can count that for myself, but to give them enough so
that they stand a chance of getting on their feet outside."
"Give him all that you have," said Derai impatiently. "You won't need it now."
"We have yet to leave the field," reminded Dumarest.
"I am of the House of Caldor!" Here her pride had some meaning. "They would not dare to demand a charge
from me or those with me. Give him the money. All of it. Quickly, so that we can get home."
Home, thought Dumarest bleakly, and the inevitable parting. He would miss her. He poured coins into the monk's
bowl.
"Bless you, brother," said the monk.
"Bless her," said Dumarest dryly. "It's her money."
Outside, back at the gate, things had altered. Most of the watchers had gone. Those inside had resumed their
positions at the fence calling out to those who passed, begging for food and money. The agent had gone. The area
around the ship was deserted. Eldon was the only familiar face in sight.
"Dumarest! For God's sake—"
"You'll get out. The monk has money for you all." Dumarest turned to Derai. "Shall we go?"
"Yes," she said. And took three steps. And paused. "Ustar!"
"In the flesh, sweet cousin." He stepped arrogantly through the gate. "I had almost given you up but then I
checked and found you had traveled on this vessel." He looked once at Dumarest. "I trust that you had a pleasant
journey?"
"Most enjoyable."
"I am glad to hear it. Sometimes these journeys can be such a bore. You probably found a means of amusing
yourself. But now the journey is over."
He came closer, very tall, very confident, impeccable in his runic of dull green blazoned with silver. His hand
rested lightly on the hilt of his dagger but, thought Dumarest, to him it is more than a symbol. He knows how to use
it and is probably spoiling to use it again.
"My lady—" he began, but she gestured him to silence.
"Ustar," she said. "It is most kind of you to have met me. My father, he is well?"
"Both he and your half-brother." Ustar extended his arm, ignoring Dumarest as if he were part of the scenery. "I
have a flitter waiting. We can be home in a very short while. Come, Derai."
She took his arm and fell into step beside him. Dumarest followed to be abruptly halted by a guard. "Your fee," said
the man. "You haven't paid it."
"It will be paid," said Dumarest. Money, now, was important. Bleakly he stared after the couple; not once did she
turn her head.
So much for the gratitude of princes.

***

The room had a bitter, medical smell, the odor of drugs, age and senile decay. It was imagination, thought Johan.
The place was spotless, well-aired, scented with the perfume of wild rose and osphage. It could not smell of illness
and incipient death. But, somehow, it did. The Old Man, had even managed to impress his personality on this, the
limited area of his final sovereignty, the room in which he would die.
Johan turned as a nurse moved softly toward the figure on the pneumatic mattress, made a routine check, moved
quietly back to her seat beside the door. She knew, of course, as did the physician, the cyber, Emil and himself.
Perhaps there were others but, if so, they knew better than to speak of what they knew. Each House contained at
least one resident similar to the Old Man.
Johan moved toward the bed. The figure lying supine was gross, bloated, a swollen bag of tissue in which still
pounded a living heart, still operated a pair of lungs. And which, he thought sickly, still housed a living brain. My
father, he told himself cynically; it was near enough to the truth. But his father was dead. His grandfather was dead.
The figure in the bed was his great-grandfather. The lucky one. The legend. The perpetual grandfather. The man who
had managed to stretch his life across generations, extending it by the undiluted magic of ambrosaira, the royal jelly
of the mutated bees. Extended it—for what?
A faint sound came from the bed. A thin wheezing, a rasping, a horrible liquid gurgling. At once the nurse was at
her station, fingers deft as she administered drugs, soothing the erratic jerkings of the monstrous body. He wants
something, thought Johan. He is trying to communicate. But his vocal chords are gone, his coordination, the
synchronization between brain and body. He is worse than a cabbage, he told himself. At least a vegetable does not
realize that it waits simply to die.
He looked up as the door softly opened. Blaine stood at the threshold. His natural son, the first fruit of diverse
love and the wonderful initial proof that his genes were still viable, still able to fertilize an ovum. He'd celebrated the
night Blaine had been born by managing to get unaccustomedly drunk. When he'd recovered the boy's mother had
vanished, never again to be seen.
He had not touched wine since.
"Father." The boy kept his voice low and Johan was glad of that. It showed respect if nothing else. "Derai is
home," he said. "Ustar brought her from the field."
"Derai? Home?" Johan crossed the room, almost running in his eagerness. "Why wasn't I told that she was
expected?" He could guess the reason. It was more of Emil's work and his face darkened as he thought about it. The
man was taking too much on himself. Perhaps it was time he asserted his authority. But that could come later. First he
had to see his daughter.
"Father!" She held him in her arms. "It is good to be back. You can't guess how much I've missed you."
"And I've missed you too, daughter." He stepped back and looked at her. She had changed but he could not
decide just how or in what manner. There was a certain self-assurance which had previously been lacking, a calmness
which he did not remember. Perhaps Regor had been correct in his suggestion that the Cyclan college at Huen would
be of assistance. But why had she run away from it?
"Later," she said, before he could ask the question. "I'll tell you later. When we are alone."
It was hours before that happened. Ustar, like an irritating burr, insisted on keeping them company, dulling their
ears with his tales of fancied prowess. Emil was just as bad; he seemed to have something on his mind. Regor, after
paying his respects, had retired to his chambers. He, at least, had shown politeness, thought Johan. He hadn't even
asked her why she had left the college. Finally they were alone.
"I was terrified," she said. "I had to run away. I was afraid for my life."
"Imagination, child?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. They are such strange people," she said. "The cybers, I mean. So cold. So devoid of
emotion. They are just like machines."
"They are machines," he said. "Thinking mechanisms of flesh and blood. They are trained to extrapolate from
known data and to predict the logical outcome of any action or sequence of events. That is why they are such good
advisers. They are always neutral and can always be trusted. But they do not consider emotion to be workable data.
Therefore they ignore it." And therefore, he added silently to himself, they ignore the major part of human existence.
"It was a mistake sending you to the college," he admitted. "But Emil was so insistent that it would do you good.
Regor too. And," he finished, "they appear to have been right. You have changed."
"I feel different," she admitted. "But that has nothing to do with the college. Promise me that you will not send me
back."
"I promise."
"I owe the factor on Kyle some money," she said. "I told him the House would repay his expenses."
"It will be attended to."
They talked more, about inconsequentialities mostly, noise to fill the silence. And then, when it was very late, he
insisted that it was time for bed.
"Must I, Father? So soon?"
"It's late," he insisted. "And you must be tired."
"I don't feel tired." She stretched, throwing back her head so that the cascade of her hair hung unrestricted down
her back. "Father, there is something I must tell you."
"Is it important?" He stifled a yawn. "Could it wait until tomorrow?"
"Yes," she said. "Of course it can wait. Good night, Father."
"Good night."
Perhaps she really is better, he thought as he left her room. Perhaps the college did help, even though she doesn't
admit it. It could be that her desire to run was the culmination of the treatment.
But from what she had told him it had been a peculiar kind of treatment. Tests both physical and mental with
particular reference to her fertility and chromosome pattern, as if they were more interested in her as a breeding
animal than a patient they were trying to help.
Still, he consoled himself, she does appear to be more stable. Even if she had only learned to rationalize her
previously ungovernable fear it would help. He remembered too vividly the night when she had waked him with her
frantic screams. The long nights when she'd had to be drugged into silence.
 It had been that more than anything else which had persuaded him to agree to Emil's suggestion.
Tiredly he crept into his bed. It had been a long day. Tomorrow he would consider what was best for him to do.
Tomorrow—after a good night's sleep.
But that night Derai woke and tore the air with her screams.

Chapter Five
Yamay Mbombo had an office on the second floor of a crumbling building made of timber and stone. It was an
unpretentious place, poorly furnished, but Dumarest knew better than to take it at face value. Few of the Hausi were
poor. The agent smiled from behind a desk as he entered. "It is good to see you again, Dumarest, sir."
"You know me?"
Yamay's smile grew wider. "We have a mutual friend, a gambler. He came to me with an interesting proposition.
From him I learned how it was that I found it impossible to recruit labor to fill my contract."
"You should offer more," said Dumarest without sympathy. He found a chair and sat down. "Do you hold me to
blame?"
"Of course not, my dear sir. In fact, it is to my advantage. Now I will have reason to persuade my employers to
offer higher fees and that will mean a larger commission. You have done me a favor. In return I offer you some
advice: the walls of portable churches are very thin." The agent looked critically at his fingernails. "I take it," he said
softly, "that you did not dispose of all your wealth as the girl requested?"
"No."
"I thought not. You are a man of sense. You realize how easy it is for others to be generous when it is not their
money at stake. The girl belongs to a House, does she not?" The agent shrugged at Dumarest's nod. "Well," he
admitted, "it is barely possible that you may yet be repaid. In which case you will naturally add something to the sum
you actually gave to the monk and so make a legitimate profit."
Dumarest was ironic. "Legitimate?"
"Just so." The Hausi was serious. "Money loaned at such risk deserves to carry a high rate of interest. Need I
explain that the Houses frown on usury?" Yamay straightened and looked at Dumarest. "A man must make his profit
as best he can. On this planet he makes it or he does not live. But we digress. Why have you come to me?"
"For help," said Dumarest, and added, "I can pay for it."
"Then you shall have it," said the Hausi. "Anything you require that is within my power to give. You want
information? I am the one who can give it. You would like a drink? I can give you that too." Opening a drawer, the
agent produced a bottle and two glasses. He poured and pushed one across the desk to Dumarest. "Your health, sir!"
The liquid was strong, with an underlying acrid flavor and heavy with sweetness.
"Honey," said the agent. "On Hive you rapidly grow accustomed to the taste. Hive," he repeated. "A peculiar
world."
"So I've gathered." Dumarest had spent some time looking around. He was unimpressed by what he had seen.
"Why is it so poor?"
"The usual reason—far too many hands dipping into the pot." The agent poured more drinks. "This world was
first settled by twenty-nine families," he explained. "Six died out within the first decade. The rest survived to fight like
starving dogs over a single bone. War," he reminded, "is never profitable for those who engage in actual combat.
Finally even the hotheaded fools who run the Houses recognized that they were on the road to mutual destruction. So
those Houses that remained, eleven of them, signed the Pact. If one House is attacked the rest will combine against
the attacker, destroy it and, presumably, share the loot. As yet it hasn't happened but it is an uneasy peace."
"A feudal system," said Dumarest. "Class, privilege and selfish greed. I've seen it before."
"On many worlds, no doubt," agreed the agent. "But you see now why Hive is so poor. What else when every lord
entitled to wear the dagger is a stranger to work and yet must have his servants, his luxuries, his imported goods and
expensive tours to other planets? The produced wealth cannot meet the demand. So those who have little are forced
to accept even less. I predict." said Yamay, "that the critical point of disruption is very close. Certainly within the next
generation."
"Inter-House war," said Dumarest. "Revolution. Chaos."
"And then, perhaps, expansion, growth and a proper exploitation of this planet." The agent drank, waited for
Dumarest to follow his example, then refilled the glasses. "But to business. What can I do for you?"
"I want transportation," said Dumarest. "To a village or town called Lausary. You know it?"
The Hausi frowned. "Lausary,", he murmured. "Lausary. It strikes a familiar note but I cannot immediately place
it." He rose and glowered at a map pinned to the wall. "Was it the place you wanted or someone within it?"
 "A man. I understand he is to be found there."
"This man. What is his House? The color of his tunic? His blazon?"
"I don't know. I've never met him." Dumarest rose. "Well, if you can't help me—"
"I did not say that!" Yamay was touched on his professional pride. He jabbed a thumb at the intercom on his desk.
"Faine! Come in here. Fast!"
Faine was a squat, middle-aged man with thinning hair and blunt fingers stained with grease. He nodded at
Dumarest, then looked at the agent.
"Lausary," said Yamay. "This gentleman wants to go there. You know it?"
"Sure," said Faine. "It's a small settlement deep in the Freelands. About ten miles west of Major Peak. That's why
you don't know it. You don't run tours out there." He looked at Dumarest. "When did you want to go?"
"Right away."
Faine looked dubious. "It's getting late," he said. "Well have to camp out for the night, but if you don't mind that
I'm willing."
"How much?" asked Dumarest. He stared when the agent told him. "Look," he said reasonably, "I don't want to
buy the flitter. I just want transportation there and back."
"That is understood," said Yamay quickly. "And I assure you that the charter fee is not exorbitant. The balance is
for a deposit. The flitter is this man's livelihood," he explained. "The Freelands are not the safest place in which to
venture. The deposit is an insurance against damage."
"And if I should refuse to pay it?"
Yamay's shrug was expressive. If Dumarest wanted to go he would pay.
"Thank you, Dumarest, sir." The agent beamed as he counted the money. "It is a pleasure to do business with
such a man. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "You can give me a receipt."

***

The flitter was old, worn, the rotors unevenly balanced so that the craft jerked and vibrated as it limped slowly
through the air. Dumarest wondered at the use of such primitive transport but he could guess the reason. Anti-grav
rafts were simple, effective and economical on power but they would give their owners a freedom unpalatable to
those who ruled the planet.
He looked through the transparent cabin at the ground below. It had changed from fertile soil and well-tended
fields to a stony, rugged expanse dotted with huge boulders and scarred with shallow gullies. The sun had almost set,
lying blood red on the horizon, throwing long shadows over the terrain. Spined plants grew in scattered clumps,
straggling ugly things with knotted stems bearing sickly white blooms as large as a man's head.
"Osphage," said Faine. It was the first time he had spoken since they had left the city. "It grows a lot thicker down
south in the Freelands. It's about the only thing that does grow. That and the bees. The bad kind." Dumarest sensed
the other's desire for conversation. "You have more than one kind?"
"Sure. There's the small one, the kind that can be bred and handled and put to useful work. And there's the other
kind, which breeds in the Freelands. If you see them coming you dive for cover and don't waste time doing it. If you
don't they'll kill you. They swarm," he explained. "They like to find something hollow to serve as a nest. Sometimes
it's a house. When that happens the owners have a choice. They can kill the swarm or they can move. Usually they
move."
"Why don't they keep moving?" Dumarest was only vaguely interested. "Move right out of the Freelands if they're
so bad."
"They're bad enough." Faine slammed shut the air-vent on his side of the cabin. "So bad that even the Houses
didn't want them. They left them as a sort of no-man's-land. Lawbreakers and people on the run learned they were
safe there. Safe from the Houses, that is. Others joined them, retainers of vanquished Houses, deserters, stranded
travelers, people like that." He looked at Dumarest. "They stayed and settled and managed to survive. Don't ask me
how."
"They probably wanted to live," said Dumarest dryly. "What's so bad about the place?"
"It's hot. Radioactive. Maybe because of some old war or it could be natural. That's why the osphage grows so
thick down there. That's what mutated the bees. That's why the population stays so low. I've seen some of their
newborn. It was a mercy to let them die."
Dumarest twisted in his seat. The cover was worn, the padding uneven and the thing sagged, but it was
comfortable enough. Against the sky a flock of what he took to be birds drew a thin line of darkness across the sun.
The shadows grew longer, distorting the detail below so that they seemed to be flying into a strange universe of
unfamiliar shapes. Faine grunted and adjusted his controls. The beat of the engine altered as the flitter slowed and
began to ease toward the ground.
"We'll land," he said. "Settle for the night."
"So soon?"
"It gets dark pretty quick once the sun has gone down. I don't want to risk smashing the crate on one of those
boulders."
They landed in a clear space well away from big stones, gullies and spined trees. Faine rummaged in a box and
produced a wrapped packet of sandwiches and a couple of bottles of wine. He handed one to Dumarest and divided
the sandwiches. "It isn't much," he apologized. "The wife was a little short of funds."
The bread was stale, the filling tasteless. The wine was barely drinkable. It was, Dumarest decided, more of a
honey beer than true wine and was obviously homemade. But it was food and drink.
"Who are you looking for in Lausary?" asked Faine after they had eaten. "A friend?"
"Just someone I want to meet."
"A traveler like yourself ?"
Dumarest ignored the question, easing himself in the chair in which he would spend the night. Faine had vetoed
his suggestion that they sleep outside. They would stay in the cabin, he insisted. Where it was safe. He did not say
safe from what and Dumarest hadn't asked. He assumed the man knew his own planet.
"I just thought that I might know him," said Faine. He paused. "I was a traveler once myself," he said abruptly. "I
drifted around for a while until I landed here. That was sixteen years ago. I met a girl and my traveling days were
over." He sat, brooding in the starlit darkness. "I thought I had it made," he continued. "I'm a mechanic and a good
one. I opened a shop and thought I'd get rich but it didn't work out that way. Ordinary people can't afford to own their
own machines and the Houses have their own service engineers. Things were pretty bad when I met up with Yamay. I
maintain his fleet and he gives me some extra work on the side. Like this trip," he explained. "He wouldn't touch it
himself."
"Why not?" Dumarest looked at the other man. His face was a pale blur in the darkness of the cabin. On the
instrument panel faded luminosity traced ghost-patterns of battered dials. "And why did we have to camp? Couldn't
we have made it in one hop?"
"We could," admitted Faine. "But what if something had happened? A rotor come adrift, maybe, or something
else? Starlight's deceptive and the ground is pretty rugged. We'd have cracked up for certain. That's why Yamay gave
me the job. He didn't want to risk one of his own flitters. But you don't have to worry," he said. "We can make an early
start, hit Lausary in good time for you to do your business and be back in town before nightfall."
Dumarest turned over on his side.
"That deposit," said Faine. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea about that."
"I won't." Dumarest was grim; it had taken practically all his money. "Not while you're doing the piloting. If you
smash the ship it's your fault, not mine."
"Sure," said Faine. "I'm not arguing about that. But it's there in case something happens that isn't my fault. The
Freelands can be pretty rough." He craned forward, head twisted to stare at Dumarest. "Look," he said urgently. "I'm
thinking of the wife. I—"
"Go to sleep," said Dumarest.
Faine sighed, the chair creaking as he shifted his weight.
"Good night."
For along time Dumarest lay awake looking up through the transparent roof of the cabin. The sky was clear, the
stars glittered from horizon to horizon, thick as the stones of the desert, great suns and nebulas, streamers and
curtains of luminous gas as bright as silver as a woman's hair. A very special kind of woman. He fell asleep thinking
of Derai.

***

The fear was a cloud, a sea, an ebony mist which wound itself closer, tighter, trapping, smothering, encysting in a
world of naked terror. There was no light, no sound, nothing but the darkness and the fear. The dreadful fear, so
encompassing that her mind edged at the limits of sanity in an effort to escape.
And always, always, was the soundless, wordless, incoherent screaming.
"Derai!"
She felt her throat grow raw from echoing the screams.
"Derai!"
She felt the arms, heard the voice, opened her eyes and saw the light, the blessed light. "Father!"
 "There, there, my child." His words were soothing but louder than the words came his thoughts underlaid by his
emotions. What's wrong with her? Why does she scream? I thought all this was over. Tenderness, anxiety, a desire to
protect and an empty helplessness. "It's all right, Derai," he said. "It's all right."
"Derai!" Blaine came running into the bedchamber. Like Johan he wore a robe over his nightclothes. "Is anything
wrong?" She's having nightmares again. The poor kid. Why can't they do something to help her? The desire to
protect. The desire to help. The sympathy of understanding.
Another thought, ice-cold, striking like a knife:
The stupid bitch! What's wrong with her now? What a way for a Caldor to behave! Impatience, irritation and
contempt. "My sweet cousin!" Ustar entered the room. He was fully dressed, his dagger naked in his hand. "I heard
the screams," he said to Johan. "I thought there might be danger." He stepped to the side of the bed, knelt, let the
dagger fall to the carpet. "Derai, my dearest!" His hands reached for her own. "You were having a nightmare," he said
confidently. "The strain of travel must have upset you. It's natural enough." His hands were tight, possessive as they
gripped her own. "But you are safe here in the stronghold. No one can hurt you now."
"Is everything all right?" Emil, blinking, but like his son fully dressed, entered the room, the physician at his heels.
Trudo set down the bag he carried, opened it, reached inside for his hypogun. To him this was a familiar scene but
still he felt pity.
Derai felt more. A flood of thoughts and conflicting emotions made a blur of mental sound and intangible
violence. A crowd shouting at the top of its voice in the confines of a small room. And still she could hear the
dreadful, soundless, mindless screaming.
Hear it and echo it.
"Derai!" Johan was pale with anxiety. "Stop it! Please stop it!"
"Give her something." Ustar released her hands and turned to the physician. "Something to keep her quiet. Hurry
man!"
"Yes, my lord." Trudo stepped forward, the hypogun in his hand. He paused as someone spoke from the door.
"Could I be of assistance?" Regor stood just within the chamber and the cyber immediately dominated the room.
He was tall, self-possessed, a commanding figure in his scarlet robe, the Cyclan seal blazoned on its breast. He was
polite, his tones the same even modulation, but he could not be ignored. He stepped forward, gesturing the physician
to one side, taking Ustar's place at the side of the bed. Reaching forward, he placed his hands to either side of the
girl's head. From the shadow of his cowl he stared into her face. "Look at me!" he said. "Look at me!"
Her eyes were wild, unfocused, her muscles rigid with hysteria.
"Look at me," he said again, and his fingers moved deftly at the base of her skull. "Look at me! Look at me! I will
help but you must look at me!" Assurance. Certainty. The absolute conviction that what he did was right. The power
of his directed thought overwhelmed the noise and confusion, driving the mindless screaming back into the general
blur of mental sound.
Derai stopped screaming. She relaxed a little, meeting his eyes, recognizing his desire to help.
"You will relax," he said gently. "You will cease to be afraid. You will trust me to see that you come to no harm.
You will relax," he said again. "You will relax."
She sighed and obeyed. Of them all the cyber was the most comforting. More so even than her father for his
thoughts were stained with a patina of emotion and the cyber had none. Regor was coldly precise. He considered her,
she thought, dreamily, as a piece of property. A rare and valuable example of biological engineering. And then,
suddenly, she remembered the Cyclan college and the reason she had run away.

***

Trudo slowly packed his bag. It was old, worn, the fastenings inclined to jam, but it was familiar and held close
associations and he was reluctant to change it for another. He checked the hypogun and slid it into place. It too was
old, the nozzle worn, the calibration not as fine as he would have wished. Johan had given it to him as a present to
mark the occasion of Derai's birth.
He looked to where she lay on the bed. Quiet now, drugged, sedated into artificial sleep. Her hair shone as it
wreathed her face. She looks so young, he thought, so helpless. But appearances were deceptive. She was older than
she looked and was far from defenseless. Vulnerable, perhaps, but that was partly her own fault.
Had her mother lived things could have been different. But her mother had not lived and he didn't like to
remember that dreadful night when he had watched her die.
And yet Johan had still given him the present. Another lord would have thrown him from the turret with a noose
around his neck. Emil, for instance, or his son. But Ustar's mother had died in a flitter crash ten years after he was
born.
 "We should do something," said Ustar. "This can't be allowed to continue." His voice was hard, positive.
"What do you suggest?" Johan sat beside the bed, one hand touching that of his daughter. He felt and sounded
very old. His throat tightened as he remembered the screams, the frantic writhings, the almost incoherent noises
before the physician had used his drugs. Was it to continue the same as before? How long could she cling to sanity?
"There must be something," said Ustar. "A brain operation, lobotomy, something like that." He looked at the
physician. "Could such a thing be done?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Would it cure her of these nightmares?"
"It would alter her personality," said the doctor cautiously. "It would make her insensitive to fear."
"With respect, my lord." Regor stepped forward. A scarlet flame in the soft illumination of the room. "It would be
a mistake to attempt any such operation," he said evenly. "It would destroy, not create. There are other solutions to
this problem."
"Such as your college, cyber?" Ustar made no attempt to hide his sneer. "They do not seem to have had much
success."
"Nevertheless, it would be most unwise to tamper with her brain."
"Of course it would," said Emil. "You're tired," he said to his son. "I suggest we retire. Good night, Johan."
In the seclusion of his chamber he looked balefully at his only child. "Do you have to act like an utter fool?"
Ustar flushed.
"You suggest operating on her brain—if you do that you destroy the one thing which makes her valuable. And she
knows how you feel. Do you think that will endear her to you as a bride?"
"Do I have to marry her?"
"You have no choice—not if you hope to become Head of the House of Caldor." Irritably Emil paced the room.
Why had he sired such a fool? What turn of fate had made his seed so infertile that he was practically sterile?
"Listen," he said. "Things are moving toward a climax. We either remain one of the ruling Houses or we lose
everything we have. It is a time for strong leadership. You must provide it. Aided," he added, "by my advice."
"The power behind the throne?" Ustar looked at his father. That's what he wants, he told himself. That's what he
hopes to get: the actual rule. Because he can never get it himself, he has to work through me. And that, he thought
smugly, makes me pretty important. "There are other ways," he said. "I don't have to marry that freak. The Old Man
could die."
"And then Johan would Head the House." Emil was ahead of his son. "Oh, he could die too—I've thought about
it. But what then? I would never be allowed to take over. There are too many jealous relatives to see to that—not
while Derai is the natural successor. They would back her… a woman," he said. "A soft, weak, pliable woman in
control of the House at a time when it needs the full strength of a man. A mature man," he added. "Someone with
experience and skill in political maneuvering."
"If Johan should die," said Ustar thoughtfully, "then Derai could die also."
"She could," admitted Emil. "But not until you are married and she has given you a child. You would then be in
the position of regent. But why kill her at all? Why not use her instead?" He paced the floor, letting Ustar think about
if, then returned to stare at his son. "You are a fine-looking man," he said dispassionately. "It shouldn't be hard for you
to turn the head and win the heart of a young girl. Not when the rewards are so high. Not when you have no
competition."
Ustar smiled, preening himself.
"But you must control your mind," warned Emil. "You must think and believe what you say." He paused, frowning.
"That name," he said. "When Derai was screaming and struggling in Regor's hands she called out something. A
name."
"Earl," Ustar remembered.
"A man's name. Do you know him?"
"No," said Ustar. "Not personally. But she traveled with a man, Earl Dumarest. His name was on the passenger
list." He paused, frowning. "He accompanied her to the gate. I saw him. Some cheap traveler lying his way into her
good graces."
Emil sighed; would the fool never learn that you couldn't lie to a telepath? But the information was disturbing. He
said so and Ustar shrugged.
"A cheap traveler," he repeated. "A nothing. A nobody. What importance could he have?"
"She called his name," Emil pointed out. "At a time of acute anxiety and fear she called his name. It is quite
possible that she has formed a romantic attachment to this man. In which case," he added significantly, "it would be
wise for you to do something about it."
Ustar dropped his hand to his dagger.
 "That's right," said Emil. "And soon."

Chapter Six
Lausary was a cluster of about thirty houses, two sheds, a store and what seemed to be a communal meeting
place with a wide veranda and a low tower in which swung a bell. They reached it an hour after dawn and hovered,
watching.
"There's something wrong," said Dumarest. He narrowed his eyes against the sun-glare and looked to the east.
Long rows of cultivated osphage reached to a low ridge of crumbled stone. To the north and south it was much the
same. The west held neat patches of various crops, each patch sitting in its own catchment basin. Nowhere was there
a sign of life.
"It's still early," said Faine uncertainly. "Maybe they're not up yet."
"They're farmers." Dumarest leaned from the flitter looking down at a small patch of cleared ground which
obviously served as a landing field. "In a place like this they'd be up at first light." He pulled in his head and looked at
the pilot. "When did you call here last?"
"A few weeks ago. It was afternoon."
"And before that?"
"About three months. I came this way heading toward Major Peak. You can see it over there." He pointed to the
east. "That was early morning," he admitted. "They were up and working then." He looked dubiously at the village
below. "What do we do?"
"We land."
"But—"
"We land."
Silence followed the cutting of the engine. A deep, unnatural silence for any village. Even if there were no dogs or
other animals there should have been sound of some kind. A laugh, a snore, the movement of people rising to their
labors. Here there was nothing.
"I don't like this," said Faine. "I don't like it at all." His boots made crunching sounds as he came to stand beside
Dumarest. In one hand he carried a heavy machete. Dumarest looked at the blade.
"What's that for?"
"Comfort," admitted the pilot. He stared at the silent dwellings. "If they'd been taken over by a swarm," he said,
"you'd know it. You can hear the damn things yards away. But what else? Plague, perhaps?"
"There's only one way to find out," said Dumarest. "I'll take this side, you take the other. Look in every house,
every room. If you find anything give me a yell." He stepped forward, then turned as the pilot made no motion to
follow. "Are you going to leave this all to me?"
"No," said Faine reluctantly. His machete made a whistling sound as he swung it through the air. "I guess not."
The houses were of rough stone held together with a plaster of sandy mud, roofed with the twisted stems of the
osphage and thatched with leaves. Most of the roofs were in need of repair and shafts of sunlight lit the interior
rooms. The furniture was as primitive as the houses. Few walls bore any attempt at decoration. Stone lamps burning
vegetable oil were the only visible means of illumination. The houses were better than caves but only just.
All were empty.
"Not a sign of life." Faine shook his head, baffled. "I don't understand it. Not a corpse, not a message, nothing. But
the whole damned village is deserted." He stood, brooding then, "Could they have just up and left? Had a gutful,
maybe, and just walked away?"
"Where to?"
"To another settlement? There's one beyond Major Peak, about fifteen miles east. There's another to the south
about twenty. Or they could have decided to find a better place."
"Leaving everything behind?" Dumarest looked at the silent houses. "No," he said. "That isn't the answer. People
don't walk off and leave everything behind. Not if they can help it." He led the way back to the landing field and
stood looking at the ground. Faine followed his eyes.
"Hey," said the pilot. "The ground is all churned up. It looks as if quite a party landed here." He stooped, touching
the dirt. "Fused. Rockets did that." Automatically he looked upward. "From space," he said. "Slavers, maybe?"
"It's possible."
"Well," said Faine, "What next?" He looked at Dumarest. "But would they have taken them all? There were some
pretty old characters in the village. Would slavers have bothered to take them?"
"Why not?" Dumarest kicked at the dirt. "It stopped them from talking." He made his decision. "The friend I was
looking for," he said. "His name was King. Caleb King. Do you know which was his house?"
"Old Caleb? Sure I do." Faine pointed the machete. "It's the last one on the left past the community house. The
one with the sign over the door." He shook his head. "Poor old Caleb. He told me once the sign was to bring good
luck. Some luck!"
The house was as the others, mud-bound stone with a sagging roof and a dirt floor. There was only the one room.
A cot with a thin, rumpled cover stood in one corner, a table and two chairs in the center. A row of wooden pegs
supported clothing; a stove stood beside a scanty stock of fuel. Shelves bearing various utensils and items of personal
use reared to either side of the door. A chest, open, stood at the foot of the bed.
Dumarest crossed the room and examined it. It contained a mess of clothing and nothing else. He straightened
and stood frowning, trying to fit a face to the name of the man who had lived here.
He was old; that was the only thing of which he could be certain. The rest was nothing but rumor, a word caught
in the lounge of a ship—a scrap of gossip enlarged to wile away an idle hour. A man, so the speaker had insisted, who
claimed to have knowledge of legendary Earth. A joke, of course; what else could it be? Something to hear, laugh at
and forget. Dumarest had not forgotten.
But he had arrived too late.
He stepped forward, leaning across the bed, searching the far side. He found nothing but, as he shifted his weight,
his foot hit something beneath the cot. Lifting it he threw it to one side. A wooden trap showed against the dirt. He
gripped the handle, heaved, heaved again, the veins standing out on his forehead. Something snapped and the trap
flew open. Freshly broken wood showed against one edge. He had burst the crude lock in his impatience.
A short flight of steps led down to a cellar six feet high and ten square. Stopping, he tried to examine it by the
diffused light from above. It wasn't enough. Returning upstairs he found and lit a stone lamp. The wick smoked and
the oil stank but it did its job. The cellar was lined with jars of sun-baked mud from which rose the sickly sweet smell
of fermenting honey. The old mans wine vault, he thought; but why hide it down here?
The answer came as he returned above. Already the sun was striking with naked fury and turning the inside of
the house into an oven. Yeast could not live in such temperatures. The cellar was nothing more than a means to
provide a suitable environment for the living cells.
Disappointed, Dumarest closed the trap and stepped toward the door. A ray of sunlight shone from a scrap of
polished metal and illuminated a patch beside the door. Scratched on a big stone, ragged as if done in haste, out of
proportion as if drawn by night, was a peculiar design. Dumarest recognized it at once. The Cyclan seal.

***

Faine was nowhere in sight when he left the house. Dumarest walked quickly toward the landing field, relaxing as
he saw the machine. He saw the pilot as he reached the flitter; the man was standing at the edge of the rows of
osphage. As Dumarest watched Faine swung his arm, the sunshine splintering from the machete, and a huge bloom
fell to the ground. Faine stabbed it with the tip of the big knife, lifted it to his shoulder and carried it back to the field.
He grinned as he saw Dumarest.
"Just getting us some breakfast," he explained. He threw the severed bloom to the ground. "This one's about ripe
for eating." With the machete he lopped off the fringe of petals and exposed the interior of the flower. A few bright
green insects were trapped in a nest of fiber. "They crawl in to feed," said the pilot. "At night the blooms smell like
fury. These things get attracted. They climb in and get knocked out by the perfume." He cut off the entire upper
section. "I suppose it's a case of the would-be biter getting bitten." He wielded the blade again and handed Dumarest
a section of thick, juicy pulp. "Go ahead," he urged. "It's good."
It tasted like peach, like grape, like tangy orange. The consistency was that of a melon. It quenched the thirst and
satisfied the stomach though the nourishment value was probably low.
"The bees eat it all the time," said Faine, cutting himself another slice. "The settlers, anyone who can get it. For
humans it has to be just ripe or it tastes like dirt and eats like leather. Two days," he added. "That's the maximum. Too
early and it's raw. Too late and it's rotten. Like some more?"
Dumarest ate, his eyes thoughtful. "Tell me," he said. "Old Caleb, did you know him well?"
"As well as you can ever know anyone in the Freelands." Faine looked at his hands. They were sticky with juice.
He wiped them on the front of his coverall. "Why?"
"Did he talk to you at all? About his past, I mean. Or did he always live here?"
"No. He arrived some while back. Never said very much but my guess is that he'd done his share of traveling.
That's why I asked," he said. "I thought you two may have met up somewhere in the past."
"We'd never met," said Dumarest. He picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it between his fingers to cleanse his
hands of juice. "Has anyone ever come looking for him? Old friends, perhaps?"
 "Not that I know of." Faine looked at the deserted village. "You finished here?"
Dumarest glanced at the sky. The sun was approaching zenith; the search had taken longer than he'd thought.
"I'm finished," he said. "We may as well go back now." He watched as the pilot walked to the flitter, opened the cabin
door, rummaged inside to appear with an empty sack. He threw it over one shoulder and began to walk away. "Where
are you going?"
"Just to collect a few blooms." Faine was apologetic. "The wife's fond of them and I like to get her some when I've
got the chance." He jerked his head toward the empty houses. "I don't reckon anyone will object."
"No," said Dumarest. "I suppose not."
"I won't be long." Faine gestured with the machete and walked toward the osphage. Dumarest sat on the edge of
the open door.
It had been another wasted journey. More time and money spent on a fruitless search for someone who might
have concrete knowledge of the whereabouts of Earth. The planet existed, that he knew, but just where it rested in
the galaxy was something impossible to discover. Almost impossible, he reminded himself. The information existed—
it was only a matter of finding it.
He stretched, feeling the heat of the sun as it beat on his unprotected head and hands, the tough shirt, pants and
boots that covered his body. The sun was too bright. It reflected from the ground in countless sparkles and shimmers
as if the gritty soil held a high proportion of silicates. He raised his head and stared at the village. The sheds
contained primitive canning equipment. The community house held a small infirmary, a recreation and a place where,
he supposed, people could worship. That, perhaps, was the reason for the bell.
An odd life, he thought. Harvesting the osphage as it ripened, stripping the husk from the small, valuable core,
cutting, canning, sterilizing and sealing that core for later consumption. And living on the husks for fuel, the steins for
building materials, the fiber for clothing. A hard, rough, precarious life based on a precarious economy. But, for these
people, it was over.
Now, if Faine had been correct in his assumption, they were either dead or slaves.
It was possible. Slavers had been known to work that way. Dropping from the sky, sleep-gassing an entire
community, taking their pick of salable human flesh and vanishing as quietly as they had come. But here? With labor
so plentiful and cheap? Somehow he doubted it. Doubted too that any slaver would have taken an entire population,
no matter how small. There were cheaper ways of closing a man's mouth than taking him up into space.
He stretched again, then tensed as something made an ugly tearing noise in the air. He rose and heard it again,
catching a flashing glimpse of something red. It came a third time and he managed to follow it with his eyes. He
looked behind and was halfway into the flitter, the door swinging shut, when he remembered Faine.
The man was deep among the osphage critically examining a freshly cut bloom. The blade of his machete was
wet with juice, the sack at his feet bulging with stripped cores.
"Faine!" Dumarest shouted at the top of his voice. "Faine! Get back here! Fast!"
The pilot looked up.
"Quick, you fool! Run!"
Faine looked at Dumarest, looked past him, dropped the bloom and raced back through the osphage to the flitter.
He reached Dumarest, passed him, eyes bright with terror, breath a wheezing rasp. A few yards from the machine he
tripped and fell, the machete flying from his hand.
Dumarest snatched it up as the swarm arrived.
They came with a vicious hum of wings, large as sparrows, red as flame. Huge, mutated bees with stings curved
like sabers, mandibles capable of shearing through tanned leather. Within seconds they filled the sky. Among them
Dumarest fought for his life.
He felt a blow against his shoulder. Another in the region of his kidneys. Two more against his chest. The tough,
spunmetal fabric of his clothing was proof against bite and sting. He ducked as slender legs trained across his face,
lashing out with the machete, trying to clear the immediate area around his head. The blade was too long, too
awkward. He dropped it and stiffened his hands, chopping with the edges, weaving, crouching, splintering red chitin
as he dashed insects from the air.
Their size was against them. Had they been smaller neither man would have stood a chance. But they were big,
heavy. They needed air-space and room to maneuver. Only a relative few could attack at a time and those few had a
more enticing target than Dumarest.
Faine yelled as a cloud of bees settled on his juice-stained coverall. He beat at them, screaming when others
settled on his head. Staggering, he threshed about, a living column of crawling red, helpless to defend himself.
Dumarest realized with sick horror that the bees were literally eating the man alive.
He lunged forward, grabbed the pilot, smashed him hard against his chest. Crushed insects fell to the ground. He
beat at the rest, knocking them from the man's head, then turned and lunged toward the open door of the flitter. The
pilot screamed as Dumarest threw him into the cabin, screamed again as he was rolled onto the passenger seat.
Dumarest slammed the door and punched viciously at the bees trapped inside. When the last had fallen he looked at
the other man.
Faine was in a bad way. His face was horribly swollen, bloated so that the eyes were hidden behind folds of tissue,
a thin liquid oozed between the folds. The flesh of his face, neck and upper chest was a mass of torn and bleeding
wounds. His hands were puffed monstrosities. The pilot had been bitten and stung to the point of death.
Dumarest looked around. In the mess of the cabin he could see nothing resembling a first aid kit. He tore open a
locker and threw an instruction manual to one side. A box yielded nothing but a few tools. Beside him Faine twitched
and made little mewing sounds.
"Where is it?" yelled Dumarest. "The medical kit—where do you keep it?"
It was a waste of time. If Faine could hear he couldn't answer, not with his throat in the condition it was. And yet
he was trying to talk. It took no imagination to realize what he was saying. A man in his hell of pain would have only
one thought.
Dumarest hesitated. He could depress the carotid arteries and so cut off the blood supply to the brain. That
would bring swift unconsciousness but, with the insect poison circulating in the bloodstream, it could be dangerous.
And yet he had no choice. The flesh of face and head was so puffed it would be impossible to deliver an effective
blow.
With the pilot released from pain Dumarest stared at the controls. The machine was primitive and the
instruments unfamiliar, but he had watched Faine and knew what to do. The engine started with a roar. The down-
blast from the rotors drove the crawling mass of bees from the canopy so that he could see outside. The swarm was
busy among the osphage. Perhaps they came at regular intervals. Perhaps the bell on the community house was to
give warning so that the villagers could get under cover. Or perhaps this had been a rogue swarm looking for a nest.
If so, it had found one now. The village offered plenty. The rotors spun faster as Dumarest cautiously operated
the controls. The flitter jerked and finally lifted, creaking as Dumarest sent it up and away from the village. He
searched the horizon looking for the squat tower of Major Peak. Faine had said there was a settlement five miles
beyond. They would have an infirmary and facilities for treating the pilot. Unless he received correct attention he
would die.
On his second swing around the village Dumarest located the peak and sent the flitter droning toward it. The
machine was erratic. It demanded his total concentration. Thermals rising from the desert sent it slipping, juddering,
the rotors complaining as they churned the air. But it flew, and that was all that mattered.
Back in the cabin something stirred. As large as a sparrow, red as flame, it lifted its broken body and spread
undamaged wings. It was hurt, dying, but instinct drove it against its enemy. The hum of its wings was lost in the roar
of the engine. It landed on the back of Dumarest's neck.
He felt it, guessed what it was, slapped frantically at the insect. He felt it squash beneath his fingers but the
damage had been done. Pain, like a searing river of boiling acid, flowed from where the sting had bitten close to his
spine. For a moment the world turned red with agony.
A moment, but it was enough. The flitter was close to Major Peak, unsteady in the rising thermals. It yawed as
Dumarest lost control, yawed again as he fought to regain it. A rotor, already weak, snapped beneath the strain. Like a
crippled bird the flitter plummeted to the rocky base of the peak.
Dumarest released the controls, crouched, his body a ball and every muscle relaxed. He wedged himself tight
between the seat and the instrument panel. The flitter hit, bounced, skittered down the slope to roll at the bottom. It
slewed as it hit a boulder, the canopy shattering into a million crystalline shards. The air reeked with an acrid odor.
Dumarest smelled it as he staggered to his feet. He stooped, grabbed Faine by the collar and dragged the man
from the wreckage. He had gone only a few yards when the crude distillate used as fuel hit the hot exhaust. He saw
the flash, felt a giant hand thrust him forward and down, heard the sullen roar of expanding gases.
He twisted and looked back at the flitter. It was a mass of smoking flame, thick ashes drifting from the leaping
column and falling like flakes of dirty gray snow. The pilot lay to one side. Dumarest crawled toward him, turned him
over. A scrap of jagged metal was buried in his skull.
For Faine, at least, all troubles were over.

Chapter Seven
Dumarest woke shivering. For a moment he thought that he was traveling Low, the induction coils yet to warm
his body, the lid still to rise and show him the handler with his steaming cup of Basic. Even the glare before his eyes
seemed to be the diffused light of ultraviolet tubes in the cold-region of a ship. Then he blinked and the glare became
stars as bright and as silver as a woman's hair. A very special woman. "Derai," said Dumarest. "Derai!" It was another
illusion. The stars were stars, not hair. The ground was stony dirt, not the pneumatic mattress of a ship. He turned
and saw a man sitting beside him, the starlight pale on his face.
"So you're awake," said Sar Eldon. "How do you feel?"
Dumarest sat upright before answering. He felt bruised, a little light-headed and had a raging thirst. He said so
and the gambler laughed.
"I guess you would have. Hungry too, I bet. Right?"
"Right."
"We'll take care of that later," said Eldon. "Here's some water." He held the canteen as Dumarest drank. "How else
do you feel?"
"I'm all right," said Dumarest. He looked to where a group of men sat around a smokeless fire. A cooking stove,
he assumed, from the odor that wafted to his nostrils. "How did I get here?"
"We found you. We saw smoke and decided to investigate. You were in a pretty bad way. You'd been stung and in
a bad place. An inch to the left, smack in the spine, and you'd be dead for sure. You'd also been eating osphage at
night. The stuff's a narcotic then and it can be nasty. You were lucky."
Dumarest nodded, remembering.
"What happened?" asked the gambler curiously. "Did you upset someone and get yourself dumped? It's a habit
some of the young bucks have," he explained. "One they're fond of. They think it's amusing. They take someone they
don't like and dump him in the Freelands. If the bees don't get him then something else will. As it almost got you," he
pointed out. "It's taken two days to get you back into shape."
"Two days? Here?"
"That's right." Sar locked his hands around his knees and leaned back, looking at the sky. "Want to tell me what
happened?"
Dumarest told him. The gambler whistled. "Luck," he said. "Bad all the way."
"No," said Dumarest. "I wouldn't say that. Your finding me wasn't bad luck. Not for me." He reached for the
canteen. "And you? What are you doing out here?"
"Working." Eldon paused as Dumarest drank. "Taking a chance so as to get a stake big enough to leave this lousy
planet. You're in for a share of what we get."
"Why me?"
"If it hadn't been for you we'd all be starving back at the field. That or we'd have sold ourselves for a chance to
make some profit too. Big profit."
Dumarest waited.
"Have you learned anything of the economy of this world?" Eldon waited for an answer. "They produce only one
thing of real value. They call it ambrosaira—it's the royal jelly of the mutated bees. Normally they harvest it from
their own hives; that's what the Hausi wanted, labor for the job, but some bees aren't owned by any House. They are
the ones in the Freelands. Wild, swarming when and where they will, nesting all over the place. Dangerous too."
"I've met them," reminded Dumarest. "Have you?"
"No."
"Have any of the others?"
"We've got one man who's worked on a normal harvest. This was his idea and he knows what to do." Sar turned,
his face eager. "Listen," he demanded. "Do you know the value of that stuff ? Traders load themselves with rubbish
just to get a little of it. All we have to do is to find a nest, gas it, cut it open and help ourselves."
"Simple," agreed Dumarest. He thought of Faine. "If it's so simple why aren't others doing it? Why should they
leave so much loot lying around?"
"The Houses," said Eldon quickly. "They don't like anyone but themselves gathering ambrosaira. They want to
keep a monopoly."
"Then why don't they go after it as a team?" Dumarest frowned, thinking. "There's something wrong here," he
said. "It can't be as simple as you make out. Just what is the catch? Who put you up to this, anyway?"
"I told you. We have a man with us who's worked on other harvests."
"Did he have money to back you?"
Eldon didn't answer.
"Someone must have," insisted Dumarest. "You didn't have money for equipment and transportation when you
left the field. None of you did. So someone must have staked you. Who is it? The Hausi?"
"He supplied the equipment," admitted the gambler. "The transportation too. He'll come out for us when we
signal. But he isn't going to buy the jelly."
"Who, then?"
 "A trader. Scuto Dakarti. He'll buy all the jelly we can deliver. Cash down and no questions."
"And no responsibility either," pointed out Dumarest. "I suppose he told you how simple it all is. He or the agent.
Who pays for the equipment if you don't find anything?"
"Does it matter?" The gambler rose to his feet. "We had no choice," he said quietly. "So they're cheating us. I know
it, we all know it, but what can we do? If we find the jelly it won't matter. If we don't then we just owe more money.
That," he added, "is why we'd like you to work with us. A double share if you do."
Dumarest hesitated.
"Think about it," said the gambler quickly. "Now let's eat." He led the way to the cooking stove. Someone passed
up a plate filled with stew. Eldon handed it to Dumarest, accepted another, sat a little to one side. Both men ate with
the concentration of those who are never certain as to when they will eat again. "That swarm," said Eldori. "The one
you told me about. Do you think it settled?"
"It could have. The village was empty and Faine said they liked to find something hollow to use as a nest."
Dumarest looked at his empty plate. "But I'm not going to guide you there. It wouldn't be any use," he explained. "We
need an established nest with an established queen and a good stock of jelly."
"That makes sense," said Eldon. "When do we start looking?"
Dumarest held out his plate for more food. "Later," he said. "When it's light."

***

From the balcony the square looked very small, the figures of marching men even smaller. Like ants, thought
Emil. Like the little green scavenger beetles that take care of the refuse of Hive. Their tunics helped the comparison.
Green and silver, they marched and counter-marched, going through exercises which had long lost all meaning,
learning lessons for a war which could never be fought.
And each, thought Emil, costing money. A lot of money.
"They march well, my lord." Beside Emil the cyber stood tall in his scarlet robe, a splash of living color against
the timeworn stone.
"They should." Emil was curt. "They have little else to do." He turned, vaguely conscious of the thin shouts of
command rising from the square, the neat, mechanical movements of the men at their drill. Regor should appreciate
their discipline, he thought. He, a living machine, would have an affinity with the automatons below. He said so. Regor
demurred.
"No, my lord. Motion without purpose is a waste and unthinking obedience to empty commands is stupid. The
Cyclan has no time for either."
"You think this is stupid?" Emil gestured to the men in the square below.
"I think it unwise when the men could be better employed elsewhere. The percentage of total income necessary
to maintain these men in idleness is far beyond all reasonable proportion. They are a burden, my lord, which is
weakening your House."
"So I should disband them?" Emil glared his contempt. "Leave Caldor unarmed and defenseless against her
enemies? Is that what you call good advice?"
"I am dealing with facts, my lord, not advice. Each of those men has to be fed, housed, educated, clothed,
provided with recreation and medical attention. In return they give you what? An empty show of hollow power. You
cannot go to war because of the Pact. Why then maintain an army?"
Sense, thought Emil. Cold, emotionless logic. Trust a cyber to give you that. What could such a man know of
pride and tradition? And yet he was right in what he said: The House was too big and the land did not expand with
the family. But the alternative?
"Give the head of each household a plot of land to farm or to develop as he will," said Regor evenly. "Let each
person provide for himself. In return they will pay you a ground rent for use of the land. This will assure Caldor an
income. Freed from the necessity of providing for all you can concentrate on politics. House-loyalty will ensure that
you are elected to a free parliament. Once in government you will have real power. Power without responsibility."
But no men, no land, no dagger of rank swinging at his belt, no men and women ready to touch a forelock or
curtsy as he passed. Instead he would be a politician begging for votes. Begging from the very people over whom he
now held the power of life and death!
"No," said Emil. "There must be a different way. Have you discovered anything in your researches?"
"Very little, my lord." Regor hesitated. "There is one odd discrepancy. It concerns the rule of your—father."
"The Old Man?" Emil frowned. "What about him?"
"I have been checking past accounts, my lord. You will remember that you ordered such a search in the hope of
finding something which might be of advantage. During the time of the actual rule of the present Head of the House
a certain percentage of income appears to have mysteriously vanished."
"Stolen?" Emil glared at the cyber. "Dare you accuse him of theft?"
"I make no accusation, my lord. But the facts are undeniable. Fifteen percent of the total income was diverted
into an unspecified account."
Fifteen percent! Emil grew excited as he thought about it. The Old Man had actively ruled for almost a hundred
years. Fifteen years' total income. Money enough to buy arms, hire mercenaries, bribe enemies, seduce friends. A
fortune which, if wisely spent, could make Caldor the sole ruling House on Hive!
If he were permitted to use it.
If Johan, the actual successor, would allow it to be spent.
And, above all, if the Old Man, the only one who knew where it was, could be persuaded to divulge his secret.
The Old Man, who had not been able to communicate for years!

***

Dumarest crouched, watching. Ahead in a slight valley something gray and rounded rose above the gritty soil. It
looked like a boulder, of which there were dozens in the vicinity. The camouflage, he thought, was superb.
"That?" Olaf Helgar, the man who'd had experience in harvesting the royal jelly, scowled and shook his head.
"That's no hive."
"What did you expect?" Dumarest kept his voice low, his body hidden. "A nice, sharp, regular structure? Even I
know that wild bees make their nests to suit themselves. Now watch! That opening under the slight overhang. That's
the entrance."
He froze as a scarlet bee hummed from somewhere behind, hovered, landed and moved in the rhythmic pattern
of its message "dance." The drone of others making for where it had signaled sounded like the distant buzzing of a
flitter.
"How do we go about it?" whispered Eldon. The gambler looked pale but determined.
Helgar cleared his throat and swallowed. "We set up nets," he said. "That's how they did it back on the House-
farm. A covering of nets so that the bees outside can't get in. Then we gas the hive and stun those that are inside.
Then we dig in until we find the jelly." He coughed again. "I guess the same procedure will work here."
"What do you think, Earl?" Eldon turned to Dumarest for confirmation.
"We'll need strong nets," said Dumarest. "And what about masks?"
"We've got them."
"Pick out a team to work inside the nets. Helgar and some others. Make sure that everyone is well covered. Pad
out all you can and don't leave an inch of skin unprotected." Dumarest looked at the sky. It seemed clear. "Have you
any weapons?" Eldon shook his head. "What about the cooking stove? Can it be adapted?"
"I guess so," said the gambler slowly. "What's on your mind, Earl?"
"I've seen a wild swarm," said Dumarest, "I know what it's like. Ordinary nets aren't going to stand up for long.
We need something outside to keep them away. Something like a flamethrower. Maybe I can make one out of the
stove."
He examined it as the others got ready. The burner was fed from a tank of compressed gas. The valve was
adjustable. He worked at it until the tank was free of its casing yet still attached to the burner feed-pipe. A scrap of
sponge platinum acted as an igniter, the catalyst firing the gas on contact. He turned the valve and a long, thin jet of
flame streaked upward. Picking up a stone Dumarest carefully hammered at the nozzle. When he tried again the
flame spread into a wide fan. Satisfied, he laid aside the crude weapon.
Eldon came over from where the men were checking each other's equipment. He looked grotesque in his layers
of assorted clothing. His face, beneath the uplifted mask, was streaming with perspiration. He handed Dumarest a
mask. "This is a spare," he said. "You'd better put it on."
Dumarest adjusted the clumsy mesh and fabric respirator.
"We're all ready to go," said the gambler. He sounded nervous. "I guess we'll be safe enough. Olaf thinks so,
anyway, and he should know."
"That's right," said Dumarest. "He should." He looked to where the man was busy assembling his nets. Now that
he was working at something familiar the man had gained confidence.
"All right," Olaf said. "This is how we work it. Those I've picked will come with me. As soon as we reach the hive
the others will throw up the nets. Leave that to them and don't worry about it. Those without gas tanks will block
every opening they can find. While they're at it the rest of us will be busy feeding in the gas. When I give the word we
start digging. Leave collecting the jelly to me. Any questions?"
"What happens if the bees rush us?"
 "Ignore them. The gas will get them soon enough. All ready?" Helgar lowered his mask. "Let's go."
Dumarest stood back, watching as the others worked. Aside from an initial fumbling they worked smoothly
enough, the nets rising to make a rough hemisphere about the nest and the men inside. Eldon came back to join him
where he stood.
"That's it," he said. "There's nothing we can do now but wait."
"There's one thing," said Dumarest. He flexed his hands inside the tough gauntlets the gambler had given him.
"You can send for the flitter. Get it out here fast."
"Before we've got the jelly?"
"That's right." Dumarest threw back his head, staring again at the sky, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the
sun. "It'll take time to get here," he explained. "We might be lucky, in which case it can wait. But get it here just in
case."
Eldon was anxious. "You expect trouble?"
"Not exactly," said Dumarest. "But let's not take chances. We may have to leave here in a hurry." He turned as
Eldon busied himself with the portable radio, watching the men inside the nets. Helgar had them well organized. Gas
plumed from nozzles clamped to the openings of the hive. As he watched a small cluster of bees darted from an
overlooked opening. Olaf turned his nozzle toward them, sending them to the ground. Others trod them into the dirt.
Again Dumarest searched the sky.
"What are you looking for?" Eldon put away the radio. "This is easy," he said, not waiting for an answer, entranced
by the men at work. "Dead easy. We should really be able to clean up while we're at it."
"Maybe." Dumarest wasn't convinced. "Look around," he said. "Find somewhere we can hide if we have to. A
place the bees can't get at us. A small cave which can be blocked, something like that." He went across to where the
other men outside the nets stood watching the men at work. "Get something to hit with," he ordered. "Something
strong to use as a weapon. And find where you can make a stand if you have to." They hesitated, reluctant to move.
"Do it!" he snapped. "Those men in there are relying on us to protect them. Move!"
Inside the nets the men were hard at work. Dirt showered as they dug into the hive, exposing a mass of
honeycomb and gassed bees. Red mixed with gray as the debris mounted. The yellow of sticky honey fouled tools
and boots. Suddenly Helgar yelled an order.
"All right," he said. "Take it easy now. Leave this part to me."
They stepped back as he set to work. Outside the nets the others craned forward, forgetting Dumarest's orders,
eager to see what they had gained. Dumarest caught Eldon, held him back. "Stay here."
"But I want to see."
"Stay here, you fool!"
"No." The gambler jerked his arm free. "I want to see what we've found," he said stubbornly. "I've got to take a
look."
He moved away and Dumarest let him go. He had done what he could. Again he looked at the sky, cradling the
improvised flamethrower in his arms. The mask was hot, stifling, but he did not remove it. Not then and not minutes
later when the sky suddenly turned red with bees.

Chapter Eight
The office was just the same. The same desk, the chairs, the map pinned to the wall—an unpretentious facade for
a man who was far richer than he wanted others to think. A part of the regular stock-in-trade of a Hausi. Yamay
Mbombo looked up from his desk as Dumarest entered the room. "So you're back," he said. "The others?"
"Dead."
"All of them?"
"Every last one." Tiredly Dumarest sank into a chair. His clothes were soiled, fretted as if by the teeth of a
gigantic saw, the spun-metal gleaming through the plastic covering. "Faine too. His flitter got burned. You may as well
pay his wife the deposit. I shan't argue about it."
"But I may." The agent leaned forward with a sudden flash of teeth, white against the ebony of his skin. "You
traveled back at my expense," he pointed out. "And you had a little trouble with my pilot."
"He wasn't expecting me," said Dumarest. "He didn't seem to want to give me a lift. I had to persuade him to
change his mind."
"He told me," said Yamay. "On the radio after you'd left him. He had the idea that you would have killed him if
he'd refused."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I probably would. Just as you killed those poor devils you sent out to hunt for your jelly."
 The agent was quick to protest. "Not mine! Scuto Dakarti put them up to it."
"And you equipped them. Knowing all the time they didn't stand a chance of getting away with it."
"It was a gamble," admitted Hausi. "But Eldon was a gambler. He knew the odds were against him. How could I
refuse if he was willing?" He hesitated. "Was it bad?"
"Bad enough." Dumarest didn't want to talk about it. The bees had come as he had sensed they would. They had
settled, literally burying the others beneath the weight of their bodies. Thousands of them. Millions. Covering every
inch of ground in a heaving mass of red. He had managed to burn his way clear, running because he'd had no choice,
finally managing to find cover where he had waited until the flitter had arrived. "You should have warned them," he
said. "The bees in the Freelands are telepathic. Somehow those in the nest radiated a signal for help."
"I didn't know," said the agent. "How could I have known! Telepathic," he said. "Are you sure about that?"
"How else could they have arrived at the critical time?" demanded Dumarest. "And they didn't belong to the hive
we attacked. There were too many of them for that. Somehow they learned of the danger and combined against it. If
that isn't telepathy then it's something pretty close to it."
"It is possible," admitted the agent. "On this planet most things are." Again he hesitated. "I take it that you had no
luck? You have no jelly?"
"No."
The agent sat for a moment, thinking, then he shrugged. "Well, we cannot win every time and this time we all
lose. Faine his life and flitter. Eldon and his friends their lives. Scuto his jelly. I lose my equipment and you lose your
deposit."
"Which," reminded Dumarest pointedly, "goes to Faine's widow."
"She will get it," said the agent. "That I promise and I am a man of my word." It was true enough. A Hausi did not
lie, though he might not tell all of the truth. "And now let me offer you a drink."
Dumarest sipped, his stomach uneasy at the taste of honey, but the alcohol warmed some of his fatigue. The
agent refilled his glass. "Your friend," he said. "The one you were looking for. Did you find him?"
"No."
"Was he not at the village?"
"It was deserted. Faine thought that slavers might have been at work."
"On Hive?"
"That's what I thought. It doesn't seem reasonable." Dumarest set down his glass. "I've wondered about that," he
said. "I've also wondered why it was necessary for us to allow others to reach there ahead of us."
"To raid the village?" The agent shook his head. "I doubt it. What possible reason could anyone have for doing
such a thing?" He sipped his wine, smiling. "I can think of a far simpler explanation. Faine had a liking for osphage. It
cannot be collected at night. It was his custom, when going into the Freelands, to collect a few cores for sale in the
market. He probably did not want to waste the opportunity of earning some extra money."
"I expect you're right," Dumarest picked up his glass and slowly emptied it. "Are there any cybers on Hive?"
"The House of Caldor has one. There could be others but I doubt it. The services of the Cyclan do not come
cheap." Yamay reached for the bottle. "Someone was inquiring after you," he said. "A person I think that you would be
very eager to meet."
"Derai?"
The agent's smile told Dumarest how he had betrayed himself. "The girl? No. Her half-brother. His name is Blaine.
He is waiting at the Tavern of the Seven Stars." His smile grew still wider as Dumarest made no effort to move. "I
think you should meet him but first another drink, a bath and a change of clothes." Steadily he poured the wine. "It
would not be wise to make a bad impression."

***

The tavern was a long, low, timber-roofed affair with paneled walls on which hung dusty trophies of forgotten
hunts. Thick plank tables and pegged chairs filled the main area. A raised dais at one end provided space for
musicians and entertainers. The floor was of polished wood and the place shone with the gleam of pewter, copper
and brass.
Blaine joined Dumarest as he sat and ordered a flask of wine. "You will pardon me," he said apologetically. "The
vintage you have ordered is not of the best. A flagon of Caldor Supreme," he said to the serving wench. "Chilled but
not too cold."
"At once, my lord."
Over the wine Dumarest studied his host. Young, he decided, and a little spoiled. Cynical too by the lines around
his mouth and more than a little bitter. A man who has been forced to accept what he does not like; someone who has
learned to tolerate what he cannot change. But noble. The dagger at his belt showed that. And of the same House as
Derai. The green and silver were unmistakable.
"I am Derai's half-brother," said Blaine. "She asked me to meet you. There are things she would like you to
understand."
Dumarest poured more wine.
"Do you know what she is?" Blaine stared at Dumarest over the rim of his glass. "Do you?"
Dumarest was curt. "I know."
"Then you should be able to appreciate her reason for acting as she did. At the gate, when she walked away from
you, can you guess why she did that?"
"The journey was over. My job was done."
"And you thought she had no further need of you?" Blaine shook his head. "If you believe that then you are a fool
and I do not take you for that. The man who met her is her cousin. His name is Ustar and he fully intends making her
his wife. He is also of a savage nature and prides himself on his skill with a dagger. Had he guessed how she felt
toward you he would have killed you where you stood. She walked away so as to save your life."
"It is possible," said Dumarest, "that I would have had something to say about that."
"Yes," said Blaine. "No doubt you would. But Ustar is a high member of an established House. Just how far do
you think you would have got had you bested him? No, my friend, Derai did what had to be done." He drank and
refilled his glass with the cool, osphage-flavored wine. "A strange person, my half-sister. We have a little in common. I
can sense things which trouble her. Sometimes I can almost read her emotions. When they are very strong I can. She
loves you," he said abruptly. "She needs you more than she has ever needed anyone else. That's why I'm here. To tell
you that."
"You have told me," said Dumarest. "Now what am I supposed to do?"
"Wait. I have some money for you. Your money. Not all of it but as much as I could get." His voice reflected his
bitterness. "Money isn't plentiful among the Caldors. Not when there are so many to be fed and housed. But live
quietly until she sends for you. It may not be for long."
Wait, thought Dumarest bleakly. Until a bored woman decides to relieve her boredom? No, he told himself. Not
that. Wait, yes, for just as long as necessary to get a ship away from here. And yet he knew that he wouldn't go. Not
while he thought she needed him. Not while he wanted to be needed by her.
"You love her too," said Blaine suddenly. "You don't have to answer. She knows and that is good enough. You can't
hide a thing like that from a telepath," he said. "You can't lie to Derai. That is one thing my dear cousin will never
remember. He thinks that it will make no difference, but it will. She will never go willingly to his bed." He helped
himself to more wine. He was more than a little drunk, Dumarest realized, but the alcohol had turned him into
himself, made him talk of things normally left unsaid.
"A strange family, the Caldors," said Blaine. "My mother—well, never mind that. Derai? My father found her
mother somewhere in the Freelands. It would account for her talent. Ustar? He's the legitimate one. Born of accepted
parents but with the bad luck to be sired by the wrong father. He can't succeed to the control of the House. Neither
can I, but Derai can. So you see why he wants to marry her?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I see." He refilled Blaine's glass. "You have a cyber attached to your House," he said. "Tell
me about him."
"Regor? A fine man." Blaine drank a little of his wine. "I wanted to be a cyber once," he said. "I wanted it more
than anything in my life. To be a part of something, accepted, respected, acknowledged by the highest. To be always
self-assured and confident. To be able to take a handful of facts and, from them, to be able to predict the logical
sequence of events. To be able, in a way, to foretell the future. To have power," he said. "Real power." He drank and
brooded a little. "I applied for membership," he said. "I even went into initial training. They failed me. Can you guess
why?"
"Tell me," said Dumarest.
"They said that I was emotionally unstable. Not good material for a cyber. Not even good enough to be accepted
by one as a servant. A failure. That's what I've been all my life. A failure."
"No," said Dumarest. "You weren't a failure. To be turned down by the Cyclan isn't that."
"You don't like them?" Blaine looked at Dumarest, let his eyes fall to his hand. It was clenched tight around his
glass. As Blaine watched, the crystal shattered.
"They take you," said Dumarest quietly, "very young and very impressionable. They teach you never to feel
emotion and to gain pleasure only from mental achievement. And, just to make it simple for you to do this, they
operate on the nerves leading to the brain. You didn't fail," he insisted. "You succeeded. You can taste and feel and
know the meaning of pleasure and pain. You know what it is to laugh and cry and feel hate and fear. A cyber can do
none of these things. He eats and drinks but the food and water is tasteless fuel for his body. He is incapable of love.
He is a stranger to physical sensation. He can know only the pleasure of mental achievement. Would you change
your life for that?"
Blaine sat thinking, remembering. "No," he said at last. "I don't think I would."
"You mentioned Derai's mother," said Dumarest casually. "You said that she came from the Freelands."
"That's right."
"The village she came from. Was it Lausary?"
"I don't know. Is it important?"
"No, forget it." Dumarest helped them both to more wine, using a glass from another table to replace the one he
had broken. He was feeling the reaction to past activity. The invigorating effects of the bath Yamay had given him
were almost totally absorbed by the fatigue, so that he had trouble keeping his eyes open. And memory was
beginning to intrude.
He lifted his glass, drank, refilled it and drank again. Perhaps, if he drank enough, he would be able to forget the
screams of Eldon and the others, the harsh stridulation of bees seared and burning in the flame, the desperate fear of
being suffocated by the press of their bodies.
And running, running. It didn't help to know that he could have done nothing else.
He drank and thought of Derai, Derai, who loved him and who knew that he loved her. Derai!
He lowered he empty glass and saw Ustar.
He stood very straight, very proud, a disdainful expression on his face as his eyes searched the tavern. He was
not alone. Three others wearing the green and silver stood at his back. Like dogs they followed him as he moved
between the tables.
"Ustar!" Blaine, suddenly cold sober, moved restlessly at Dumarest's side. "He's looking for you. You'd better go
before he sees you."
Dumarest picked up the near-empty bottle, emptied it into their glasses. "Why should he be looking for me?"
"I don't know," admitted Blaine. "But he's looking for trouble. Please go. Derai would never forgive me if anything
happened to you."
"Finish your wine," said Dumarest, "and learn something: trouble does not vanish because you run away from it."
He leaned back, watchful, the empty bottle close to hand. It was not an ideal weapon but, in a pinch, it would serve.
"Cousin!" Ustar had seen them. He strode forward, his companions at his heels. "Well, cousin," he sneered, "you
certainly keep strange company."
Blaine took a sip of his wine. "Dumarest is my friend."
"Your friend?" Ustar raised his eyebrows. "A cheap traveler? A man who forced his unwanted attentions on your
sister? Come, cousin, you cannot be serious."
"Has Derai complained about Dumarest?"
"That," said Ustar coldly, "is beside the point. I say he has insulted her. That is enough."
He made no attempt to lower his voice. A hush spread from the adjoining tables across the tavern as others grew
aware of what was happening. Against the far walls men stood so as to get a better view. Dumarest recognized the
tension in the air, the anticipation of blood. It was the same the universe over.
Blaine was defiant. "Derai is my sister. If she has been insulted. I shall attend to it."
"You?" Ustar loaded the word with contempt. "You?"
"You're looking for trouble," said Blaine. He was pale with anger. "Well, look elsewhere. Perhaps you can pick a
fight with a ten year old boy. It should he a good match," he added, "if you tie one arm behind his back."
"Are you challenging me, cousin?"
"No," said Blaine. "I don't go for your games. Now just vanish and leave me alone."
"With the thing you call a friend?" Ustar looked at Dumarest for the first time. "Surely, cousin, the honor of our
House is still something to be considered? Even," he added deliberately, "by a bastard like you."
Dumarest grabbed Blaine as he lunged across the table. "Hold it!" he snapped. "Can't you see that he's trying to
goad you into acting the fool?"
"I'll kill him," said Blaine thickly. "One day I'll kill him."
"One day," agreed Dumarest. "But not now." He rose and looked at Ustar. "With your permission," he said flatly,
"we will leave now."
"Filth! You will stay!"
"As you wish." Dumarest looked at Ustar, his friends, the watchful clients of the tavern. "For some reason that I
do not know you wish to pick a fight with me. Is this correct?"
"You have insulted the Lady Derai," said Ustar. "The honor of my House demands that you be made to pay."
"With blood, naturally," said Dumarest dryly. "You will understand if I am reluctant to cooperate." Deliberately he
moved from behind the table and passed the group of men. He heard the sharp intake of breath, the rustle of
movement, and turned to see Ustar's dagger lunging at his chest. Almost too late he remembered that the clothes he
wore were not his own. He caught the dagger wrist with his left hand, the smack of meeting flesh shockingly loud.
The point of the weapon halted an inch from his blouse.
"Shame!" A man stood shouting from the side of the tavern. He wore a tunic of blue and gold. "By God, Ustar, I
would never have believed it! A stab in the back!"
"He wears armor!" yelled one of Ustar's companions. "We could tell it at once. Ustar knew that he couldn't hurt
the man."
The lie went unchallenged. Those watching neither knew nor cared if it was true.
"Make it a fair fight!" A man wearing black and yellow called out from his position on top of a table. "Two to one
on the stranger!"
"A fair fight," echoed others. "Make it a fair fight!"
Ustar thinned his lips. It was a free tavern owing allegiance to no House and he was unpopular with those
watching. But still he was confident. "All right," he said. "But he'll have to strip to the waist."
On reflection he was glad things had turned out this way. Now he would be free of any taint of murder. Not that it
worried him but it would help that Derai wouldn't be able to accuse him of that. Not with Blaine as an honest
eyewitness.
"He's fast," said Blaine as helped Dumarest to strip. "Fond of coming in and up from low down." He pursed his
lips as he saw the naked torso. It was blotched and marked with ugly bruises. The spun-metal had been proof against
puncture but not against impact.
Dumarest sucked air deep into his lungs as the watchers made a ring in the center of the floor. He was tired and
ached all over. His reflexes could not help but be slow and Ustar was an experienced fighter. It showed in his every
move, but he had made no attempt to strip and Dumarest wondered why such a man should give him an apparent
advantage.
"Here!" Blaine thrust his dagger into Dumarest's hand. "Use this and good luck!"
Ustar came in quick, fast, giving no warning. His blade shone in the light, a trap for the eyes, the glitter dying as
he twisted the steel. Dumarest parried with conditioned reflex, feeling the jar against his hand as the knives met, the
shock up wrist and arm. Immediately Ustar sprang back, forward again, lips thinned into a killer's snarl, the blade
rising in a vicious stab from below. Again Dumarest parried, feeling the cold burn of the edge as it touched his side. A
hissing inhalation from the crowd signaled the sight of blood.
Ustar laughed, a short bark of sound without humor, and again attacked, blade lancing toward the groin.
Dumarest blocked, blocked again, then knew he dared take no more chances. He was too tired, his opponent too fast;
the fight had to be ended and soon.
He fell back, lowering his guard, tempting Ustar to attack. Again steel clashed as he parried the upward thrust but
this time he trapped the blade, turning it aside from his body before slashing out with his own dagger, the blade
sweeping around and up toward the face. Contemptuously Ustar stepped back and, too late, recognized the danger.
Dumarest continued the attack, giving the other man no time to regain his balance, cutting savagely at the body. The
blade bit home, the edge sliced into the tunic and Dumarest felt the stubborn grate of metal.
Ustar was wearing a steel shirt beneath the green and silver.
Immediately Dumarest attacked again, moving with a savage burst of speed, throwing himself forward, his blade
a glitter of light as it stabbed at the eyes. Ustar fell back, desperately parrying, his movements wide, his face tense
with fear. Finally he managed to gain time to make a frenzied lunge at the body. Dumarest had expected it. As the
knife and arm shot forward he weaved, allowed it to pass between his side and left arm, dropping his left hand to trap
the wrist. He twisted, forcing Ustar to his knees, drawing back his right hand with the dagger poised for the thrust.
"No!" Ustar stared at the implacable face above his own. "For God's sake! No!"
The dagger moved forward, light splintering from the point.
"Please!" screamed Ustar. His face was wet with perspiration. "Please don't kill me!"
Dumarest hesitated, then, reversing the dagger, smashed the heavy pommel between Ustar's eyes.

Chapter Nine
There was, Derai told herself, nothing to be afraid of. It was just an old man in a bed. A very old man but that was
all. And yet the fear remained. Never before had she seen the actual Head of the House. Grandfather had been a
legendary figure, someone mentioned as still being alive but never seen. Now she was within the same room and
about to meet him face to face.
"Are you ready, my lady?" Regor stood at her side, his shaven head skull-like against the scarlet of his thrown-
back cowl. "It will not be a pleasant sight," he warned. "He is very old and very ill. Extreme age can sometimes distort
the human frame." The cyber's hand was firm on her elbow as he led her toward the bed.
She stood looking, saying nothing, her eyes enormous against the pallor of her face.
"The ambrosaira which has extended his life has, in many ways, altered his metabolism," said Regor. He didn't
bother to lower his voice; the thing in the bed could not hear. "It is almost as if it were trying to convert the flesh,
bone and blood into another shape. An insect shape. But he is still human, my lady. It is important you remember
that."
She nodded, clenching her hands, feeling the nails dig into her palms. It was hard not to scream. Not because of
what she saw, though that was bad enough, but of what she mentally heard: the soundless, wordless, incoherent
screaming that had too often driven her to the limits of sanity. Now she knew what it was: an old and terrified mind
locked in an unresponsive prison of decaying flesh.
"You are the only one who can help him," said Johan quietly. He stood at the foot of the bed staring at his
daughter. She is, he thought, amazingly calm. We should have guessed before, he told himself, but we always assumed
the Old Man was drugged and unconscious. But, he reminded himself, as Regor pointed out, the subconscious never
sleeps.
He felt a momentary anger instantly quelled. No one was to blame.
"You understand, my lady, what it is we are asking you to do?" Regor looked from the bed to the girl. "He cannot
communicate, yet he holds knowledge we need to possess. You could gain it for us by reading his mind."
"I could," she admitted. "But only if he concentrates on germane matters. How are you going to ask him what it is
you want to know?"
"I will attend to that, my lady." Trudo looked up from where he stood with his apparatus on the other side of the
bed. Against one wall Emil leaned beside a window, able to do nothing but watch. It irritated him that he could do no
more but, for now, everything was up to the girl.
"I do not know if what I have done will be successful," said the physician quietly. "As far as I can determine he is
totally unresponsive to external stimuli. This may be because the sensory nerves have ceased to function or because
the motor nerves governing response are paralyzed. You, I hope, will be able to tell us if I am making contact." He
adjusted the apparatus at his side. "I have bypassed the aural organs and made direct electronic contact with the
bone. It is possible that, with the use of sufficient power, he may hear what we have to say." He lifted a microphone
and spoke gently into the instrument. "My lord, can you hear me?"
A pause. Derai shook her head.
Again the physician spoke. Again, again, each time increasing the power of his machine so that the equivalent
decibel strength rose to that of a clap of thunder.
"Wait!" Derai closed her eyes the better to concentrate. It came again, a question, a stirring in the vortex of
nightmare. A desperate hope which was like a strained echo of sound.
"What is that? Who is speaking? Who is there?"
Trudo caught her signal, spoke again in the selected phrases which Regor had chosen, words devoid of
ambiguity, compact in their message-to-noise ratio. Again she caught the seething echo, stronger now, blazing with
hope—life struggling to survive.
"I can hear you! You must listen to me! You must help me… me… me..."
The words reverberated as if down empty corridors, a repeated echo of a mind which had suddenly become
disjointed, intoxicated with euphoria. She felt it and shared it. Her eyes shone like stars.
Emil watched from his position beside the window. The useless hulk of flesh was at last being stirred to life. The
Old Man who had been kept alive for reasons of tradition rather than affection would soon be forced to yield his
precious secret. But why didn't she ask about the money? The money, damn you! Ask about the money! Anger,
impatience, hate and a red tide of greed.
Johan moved restlessly where he stood. "If she shows signs of pain I'll stop it immediately. Stop it and to hell
with Emil and his ambitions!" Concern and protective defiance.
Trudo adjusted his machine. The skull must be almost completely ossified to need such power to vibrate the
bone. It would be interesting to dissect—but they would never allow it. Regret and frustration.
The thoughts swirled like smoke, filling the room with mental noise, tearing at her concentration with conflicting
emotion overriding, by sheer volume, the wisp of rational communication she was building with the grotesque horror
on the bed.
Another thought, this time hard, clear, direct: Order them from the room, my lady. I can work the machine.
The cyber, recognizing the situation, predicting the logical outcome, advising the best thing to do.
Advice which she had no choice but to take.
 ***

"Impossible!" Emil rose from his chair, strode three paces, turned and walked back again. The room was at the
foot of the tower in which the Old Man had his bedchamber. Once it had been a guard room and the furnishings were
still spartan. "I don't believe it," snapped Emil. "The thing is preposterous!"
"I assure you, my lord, the Lady Derai is telling nothing but the truth." Against Emil's display the cyber's calm was
enhanced. Johan cleared his throat.
"Let us be logical about this," he suggested. "We asked Derai to do something for us. She has done it. We now
have to decide what action to take on the basis of her information. To deny that information is ridiculous." He looked
at his daughter. "Derai?"
"I will tell you again," she said dully. Fatigue had marked her face with midnight shadows. "He wants to live. He
will tell you what you want to know if you will guarantee his continued existence."
Put that way it sounded simple but there was no way she could tell them of the horrible lust for life still
smoldering in the decaying flesh, the animal cunning, the incredible determination still to rule, still to be the actual
Head of Caldor. There had been times when she had been almost physically ill. Others when only the cyber and his
insistence had kept her beside the bed.
"That's what I mean," said Emil. Again he paced the floor. "The thing can't be done." He turned to face the
physician. "Can it?"
"Not on Hive, my lord." Trudo pursed his lips. "And I doubt if there are any worlds on which it could be done. Not
in his present condition. The state of his metabolism makes a brain-transplant impossible. Even a cybernetic hookup
would lead to foreseeable complications. His blood is no longer what we regard as normal," he explained. "It would
take too long to manufacture an artificial surrogate." He made a helpless gesture. "I am sorry, my lord. I cannot help
you. I am of the opinion that what he demands cannot be done."
"As I said." Emil glowered at Derai. "Are you certain that you are telling the truth, girl? Did you dig down deep
and find out what he really wanted? Or is this just some trick to explain your failure?"
"That will be enough!" Johan's voice held unaccustomed strength. "You forget yourself, Emil. I, not you, am the
nominal Head of Caldor."
"For how long?" Emil glared his frustration. "Until mounting debts swallow what we have left? Listen to me.
brother. If Caldor is to survive we need money. The Old Man has it. Enough to make our House the ruler of Hive." He
looked at the cyber. "Is that not correct, Regor?"
"It is, my lord."
"So we have to win his secret." Emil stood, thinking. "But how? How?"
"By doing what he wants," said Derai. She looked at the cyber. "Tell them."
"There is another way to give him continued existence other than by actual physical longevity," explained Regor.
"We can do it by supplying a subjective world of hallucination."
"Drugs?" Trudo was interested. "It could be done, I suppose, but—" He shook his head. "Not without some
communication," he pointed out. "There has to be some medium for the relaying of hypnotic suggestion. It was a
good idea, cyber," he said, condescendingly, "but it will not work."
"On Hive no," agreed Regor. "Our medical science and ability are far too primitive. But Hive is not the only planet
in the universe. There is another. Folgone."
"Folgone?" Emil frowned. "I've never heard of it." He looked up at the ceiling. "Has he?"
"Yes, my lord. The suggestion came from himself. He is aware that, in his case, there is something far better than
simple physical longevity. It is to be found on Folgone."
"You know of this world?" Johan was abrupt.
"Yes, my lord."
"Then it exists? It isn't just the sick fancy of a dying man?"
Regor was emphatic. "It is far from that, my lord. Folgone is the one place which can give him a thousand years
of subjective hallucination so intense as to be superior to normal existence."
"A paradise," said Emil sourly. "I wonder that others aren't eager to share its pleasures."
"They are, my lord, make no mistake about that." Regor turned to face Johan. "It will not be easy to win a place.
Few are offered and many strive. And there are other details which should be attended to. The journey is long and
passage should be arranged. Perhaps a ship will have to be chartered. That is," he added, "if you intend doing as the
patient demands."
Johan hesitated, thinking of the expense. Emil could think only of the promised reward.
"We'll do it," he said. "We have no choice." He caught sight of Johan's expression. "The Old Man is still the Head
of the House," he pointed out. "It is his right to be taken where he will. It is our duty to obey."
Johan looked at his brother. "Your respect for duty does you credit," he said acidly. "But we have still to find means to
do as you suggest. I am reluctant to risk the little we have. Duty to the House," he added, "comes before duty to the
individual."
It was Emil's turn to hesitate. Money could be found—the trader had shown him how—but there were still
complications. The city was full of ears and eyes, a hotbed of intrigue. If the rumor should circulate that he was
selling undeclared jelly the reaction would be extreme. Caldor would be accused of violating the Pact. But, somehow,
there had to be a way.
"Dumarest," said Derai, reading his mind. She smiled, suddenly no longer tired. "Dumarest," she said again.
"Blaine will tell him what it is you want."
Emil scowled, thinking of Ustar, his terribly swollen eyes, his broken nose, hiding his pain and anger in a secluded
room. Ustar, who had made himself appear a fool and worse. Dumarest had been the cause of that—the traveler who
Derai so obviously loved. It would be insane to throw them even closer together.
Then, looking at her, he realized that he had no choice.

***

"No." Dumarest turned from the window he had been staring through. It was on the upper floor of a tavern which
overlooked the field. Lights shone on the perimeter fence, gleaming from the hulls of the two ships standing on the
gravel. Other lights shone from the streets and houses of the town. From the window it was possible to drop to the
roof of a porch below and from there into the street. "No," he said again. "I'm sorry but I'm just not interested."
"But why not?" Blaine was bewildered. A refusal was the last response he had considered. He looked around the
narrow room. It held a cot, a chair, a chest of drawers against a wall. The floor was bare. The light came from a lamp
burning vegetable oil. The only thing it could have in its favor was that it was cheap.
"Look," he said urgently. "There's only the few of us. The Old Man, naturally; he has to go. Derai to read his mind.
Emil won't be left out of it. I'm going to take care of Derai. And there's Regor," he added. "The cyber has to work the
machine. The one used to talk to the Old Man."
Dumarest made no comment.
"You've got to come," said Blaine. "We need you. Derai needs you. She won't go if you refuse." He caught hold of
Dumarest's arm. "Why do you refuse?"
Someone knocked on the door before Dumarest could answer. Yamay entered, a parcel beneath his arm. He
looked his surprise at the presence of Blaine.
"A Caldor," said the agent. He looked at Dumarest. "I thought you had more sense."
"Blaine is all right."
"I agree," said the agent. "But, in the dark, who can see the face above the tunic? I get him this room," he said to
Blaine. "One from which it is easy to escape. I warn him to see no one. Yet, when I arrive, he is entertaining someone
who could be an enemy. How is your cousin?"
"Nursing dreams of vengeance," said Blaine. "Dumarest should have killed him."
"Yes," said the agent. "He should. I am surprised a man of his experience would leave a wounded enemy to do
him later harm. On the other hand," he mused, "Ustar would be happier dead. It will be a long time before he is
allowed to forget his display of cowardice. Those who wear the dagger are precise about such things."
"You talk too much." Dumarest reached for the parcel the agent carried. "What do I owe you for this?"
"Call it a farewell gift." Yamay watched as Dumarest opened the parcel. The soft sheen of steel-gray plastic
rippled in his hands. The scuffed material of his spun-metal clothing had been recovered so that it looked like new. "I
have arranged passage for you. To Argentis. Traveling Low."
"Good enough." Dumarest changed, wrapping his discarded clothing in the paper which had held his own. "I will
sign an authority before I leave. If you can recover the rest of the money I loaned to Derai it's yours. Blaine here
could see that you get it."
"I have already made out the document," said the agent blandly. "I am," he reminded, "a businessman and I was
sure that you wouldn't object. If you will sign?"
"Later. When do I leave?"
"In two hours." Yamay looked out of the window. "It would, perhaps, be best not to linger. Ustar may still have a
few companions seeking his favor. A little money to the handler will ensure your welcome." He turned, holding out his
hand. "Goodbye, Dumarest."
They touched palms.
"Now wait a minute!" Blaine stepped before Dumarest as he turned toward the door. "You can't go like this! What
about Derai?"
 Dumarest stood, waiting.
"She loves you," said Blaine desperately. "She needs you. You can't let her down."
"You are young," said the agent quickly. "You don't realize what you ask. If Dumarest lingers on Hive he will be
killed. Is that what your half-sister would want?"
"No, but—"
"What is your alternative?" Yamay glanced at Dumarest. "There is something I do not know," he said. "We yet
have time. Tell me." He listened as Blaine spoke, then slowly shook his head. "Folgone," he said. "I have heard of that
place."
"Is what the cyber said true?"
"True enough. And he is right," the agent told Dumarest. "You are needed. In fact, you are essential to their plan.
May I negotiate a satisfactory settlement?"
"No," said Dumarest. "It won't be necessary. I know too much about the planet to want to go there. Argentis will
do as well."
"Please!" Blaine reached out and touched Dumarest on the arm. "I don't know how to say this. To you it may
seem foolish but—" He drew Dumarest to the window and pointed to the stars. "I see them every night," he said. "I
meet people like yourself who have traveled among them. There are countless worlds and things to see out there. I'll
live and die on this insignificant ball of mud. And every night I'll see the stars and think of what I've missed. This is
my chance," he said. "The chance to get out and see something of the universe. You've seen it. Are you going to stop
me from doing the same?"
Dumarest looked at the face, no longer cynical, somehow very young.
"At what age," said Blaine, "did you start your travels?"
"I was ten," said Dumarest harshly. "I was alone and more than a little desperate. I stowed away on a ship and had
more luck than I deserved. The captain was old and had no son. He should have evicted me but he didn't I have been
traveling ever since."
Traveling, he thought. Going deeper and deeper into the inhabited worlds, leaping from star to star and, because
stars were closest away from his home planet, moving always away from Earth. Further and further until even the
legend was forgotten and the very name became a joke.
"Ten," said Blaine. "And how old are you now?"
It was a question impossible to answer. Time stopped when traveling Low; slowed almost to a standstill when
traveling High. Chronologically he had to be very old; biologically he was not. But, next to Blaine; he felt the age of
experience, the only system of reckoning which had any real value.
"You will change your mind," said Yamay. The Hausi was wise in the way of men. "Am I not right?"
"Yes," said Dumarest heavily. "You are right."

***

Details were basically simple and the agent would attend to all but one. "The sale of the jelly can be none of my
concern," he said. "It is not a question of morals, you understand, but of survival. If news of the transaction leaks out
I must be free of any suspicion. You must deal with Scuto Dakarti yourself."
The trader had no compunctions. He wanted ambrosaira and didn't really mind where it came from. With no
settled interest in Hive he could live up to what he claimed to be. He listened to what Dumarest had to say, pursed his
lips as quantities were mentioned, poured wine to settle the bargain.
"I will transfer monies to the Hausi as soon as I have taken possession of the jelly," he said, and almost
immediately corrected himself: "When it is safe on board my ship," he added after tasting the wine. "You will
understand the precaution?"
"Yes, but time is important. Your ship is on the field?"
"It is. If it were not for the fact that I hope to increase my store I would be tempted to offer it for charter. Perhaps
I will. Folgone would offer a ready market for what I would have to sell."
"Extended life," said Dumarest. He was young enough to be able to regard the prospect with impersonal
detachment. "From what I've heard, consistent use of the jelly can result in unpleasant effects."
"That is true." Scuto Dakarti lifted the bottle and waited for Dumarest to drink before giving him more wine. "But if
you were old and lusted for life would that consideration dissuade you from its use? Believe me, my friend, those who
go to Folgone are desperate enough to try any remedy. The more so those who fail to gain a place."
Dumarest frowned; the other was talking of things he knew nothing about. "Place? Are not all welcome on the
planet?"
"Yes, but not all can be catered for. You will learn of the difficulties during the journey. You will have time to
spare." The trader sipped at his wine. "I know of the situation," he said. "It is intriguing. The old man who is the prime
Caldor and who must be obeyed. The family who regard it as their duty to obey. The girl whom you love and who, so
it is said, loves you. The two brothers." He drained his glass. "You have, of course, recognized the ramifications?"
"I have been hired to do a job," said Dumarest. "I am doing it. This is a part of it; the rest I shall do on Folgone.
The pay," he added, "is generous."
"It may be more generous than you guess," said Dakarti. "If you win a place for the old man he will be declared
legally dead. The succession of the House of Caldor will fall to Johan, the girl's father. He would, because of the love
he bears for his daughter, undoubtedly permit her to marry the man of her choice. You seem to be that man. Given
enough time, my friend, you could be the actual Head of the House of Caldor. The owner," he added, "of the eleventh
part of the planet Hive."
"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Dumarest.
"You should. It would be quite an achievement for any man. The more so for someone who has nothing but his
natural strength and wits to aid him. More wine?"
Dumarest wondered if the man was trying to get him drunk. If so he would need something stronger than wine.
"You see now why I feel personally involved," said Dakarti. "As the potential owner of a fair-sized section of this
world you would be in a unique position. You are unhampered by tradition. You would be willing to violate their
stupid Pact if, by doing so, you could gain the advantage. And you would not lack for friends to see that you gained
exactly that. You would, with a little luck, end by owning the entire planet. You would have the monopoly of
ambrosaira. Can you even begin to imagine just what that would mean?"
Wealth, of course, and with it power, the two things most likely to appeal to any man. And the trader was right.
Both could lie within the hollow of his hand. All he had to do was to win a place on Folgone and marry a girl. No, not
just a girl, nothing as simple as that. Marry a telepath. There was a difference. Marry a telepath and forget Earth.
Perhaps, with a woman like Derai, he would be able to do that.

Chapter Ten
Folgone was a bleak place, a world of ice and frozen gases, the single planet of a white dwarf star. The surface
was sterile; what life existed was buried deep in gigantic caverns lit and warmed by radioactive elements… a sealed
prison of a world from which there could be no unauthorized escape.
"I don't like this." Blaine wrinkled his nose as they stepped from the drop-shaft which had carried them miles
down from the air lock above. "The air smells bad."
Dumarest made no comment. He eased the weight from his arms and shoulders. He and Blaine supported the
cocooned bulk of the Old Man and it was both heavy and awkward. To one side Emil conferred with the cyber. Derai,
alone, stood immobile. Before he could speak to her the guide Emil had engaged claimed their attention.
"This way, if you please." Carlin gestured to where sheeted plastic stood in walls ten feet high. "Yonder is your
accommodation. Snug, private, a place to rest. A moment and we shall be there."
It took ten minutes and Dumarest was sweating by the time they arrived. It wasn't just because of the weight of
his burden; the air was warm with a sultry heat, moist with disturbing odors. Inwardly he agreed with Blaine. It
smelled bad, nasty, heavy with the taint of rot and decay.
Rid of his burden he looked around. The walls of plastic stretched to one side, almost filling the horn of a
crescent. Rows of close-set tents filled the other, the far tip about a mile distant. Opposite the drop-shaft, forming the
inner wall of the crescent, stood a wall of stone thirty feet high. It was topped with fangs of out-curving steel. Wide
doors, now closed, offered the only visible passage through the barrier.
"That is the near gate," said Carlin. He was young, intent, eager to display his knowledge. He was not a native of
the planet—none of the guides were. The true natives chose to remain unseen. "It opens only at the time of entry."
"Is that when the competitors go in?"
"Yes. The successful aspirants are conducted to the center by a different route."
Dumarest nodded, looking upward. Overhead the roof arched up and out in a tremendous sweep, a luminous
haze vanishing into the distance. The cavern must be stupendous. Blaine spoke his question.
"This place—" He gestured to the area in which they stood. "Why is it so small?"
"It is large enough and filled only at times like this," explained the guide. "There are amusements," he added. "A
carnival occupies the far end and, of course, food and refreshments may be obtained from the commissary. Would
you like me to get you something? Wine, perhaps?"
"Yes," said Blaine.
"I'll get it." Dumarest wanted the chance to look around. "Just tell me where it is."
He heard voices when he returned bearing bottles. The chambers of the maze-like structure were roofless, offering
visual privacy and little else. Quietly he entered and set down his burden. Derai, he noted, was absent and so was
Regor. They were probably attending the Old Man.
"I was explaining the system by which places are allocated," said Carlin to Dumarest. "Shall I continue?"
"Go ahead."
"As I was saying, there are only so many places available each session," said the guide. "But there are many to fill
them. Too many. There has to be some method of determining who shall succeed and who shall fail."
"They could draw lots," suggested Blaine. He reached for one of the bottles of wine. "Or they could auction them
to the highest bidder."
"They could," admitted Carlin. "But they don't. The Guardians allow all who have the necessary fee to enter the
competition. Some aspirants, of course, enter more than one contender. I have known one man to enter as many as a
score."
"And if they win?" Emil was interested. "If they all earn themselves a place?"
"They would receive all the places that were available in the order of their appearance at the far gate."
"So it is possible for one man to win, by proxy, all the places available in any one session?"
"That is so."
Blaine was quick to see the obvious. "Then one man, if he were rich enough, could employ others to compete for
him. They would win all the places which he could then auction off at a profit. How about that, Earl? Shall we go into
business?"
Dumarest didn't answer.
"You then, Uncle." Blaine was enthusiastic. "You love money and here is a chance to make some. You could return
with a hundred fully trained fighting men and really clean up." He looked at the guide. "Are there regulations against
anyone doing that?"
"No. But if you hope to corner the market there are difficulties attending such a plan. For one thing, the expense
would be vast. For another you would still have no certainty of winning even a single place. The competition isn't
only a matter of numerical strength."
Emil cleared his throat. "What is it, then? How can a man hope to improve his chances?"
"By having more than one contender working on his behalf."
"Aside from that?"
"I don't know," admitted the guide. "None but a successful contender could know. You understand the rules?" He
paused, waiting, continuing when he received no reply. "They are very simple. The contenders enter the operational
zone at the near gate. Those who cross the zone and reach the far gate are deemed to be the winners. As many men
as there are places available are permitted to pass through. The gate is then closed."
"And the others? The losers? The ones who arrive late?" Blaine guessed the answer. "They die," he said. "They are
left to starve."
He did not see Derai as she entered the chamber to stand behind Dumarest, one hand resting on his shoulder.
"That is so." Carlin was somber. "Now you can see why it takes a man of rare courage to attempt to win a place.
Always the odds are against him. It is not enough for him to win. He has to be among the first to do so. If not he loses
his life."
"Earl!"
He felt the hand grip his shoulder, the fingers dig toward the bone, sensed the fear which enveloped her like a
cloak. He lifted his hand to grasp her own. With the other he reached for wine.
"If the odds are long," he said calmly, "we must shorten them. Let us drink to that."
He felt her relax as the wine laved his throat.

***

The soil was dark like granulated coal or charcoal, full of minerals but devoid of humus, seeming more like
crushed and treated stone than the natural deposit of forest and fern. Blaine stooped, picked up a handful, let it
trickle through his fingers. The luminescence from the roof was all about him, killing shadows, distorting distances.
"Are you sure?" he said, not looking at Dumarest. "Are you certain that you want to go through with it?"
"Have I any choice?"
"I think you have." Blaine straightened, dusting black granules from his hand. "You're not of Caldor," he said. "You
owe us no loyalty. A calculated risk for pay is one thing but this is different." His voice was heavy, serious. What Carlin
had told them rankled in his mind. "And there is Derai," he added. "She needs you. You don't have to do this thing."
"Who then?" asked Dumarest. "You?"
 "It is my place."
"Perhaps." Dumarest looked around. They stood outside the chambers of sheeted plastic facing the open ground
before the gate. Men exercised there. He pointed toward them. "There are some of your opponents. Look at them.
Could you face any one of them and hope to live?" He didn't wait for an answer. "They are your real danger, Blaine.
What lies behind that wall could be bad enough, but nothing in this universe is as dangerous as men determined to
survive. To do so they would cheerfully kill you. Are you equipped to face such danger?"
"I could try," said Blaine. A flush stained his cheeks. "Damn it, I could try!"
"You could," agreed Dumarest. "You could try and you would fail, so what is the point of trying at all? A wise man
recognizes his limitations. Be wise, Blaine. And live!"
"And you?"
"I'm stubborn," said Dumarest. "And greedy. I'm getting paid for this, don't forget. And I intend living to enjoy my
fee." He turned as Derai emerged from the sheeted plastic. In the light her hair was an aureole of silver. Her eyes
were shadows against the whiteness of her face. Her hand was cold as she slipped it into his own, as cold as the
surface of the world of Folgone.
"You have a plan," she told him. "You know of a way to increase your chances. You did not lie."
There had been no need for that; the truth was simple enough. Men have always gambled on any issue of which
there is doubt as to the outcome, and gamblers have always tried to adjust the odds in their favor. Men who have
gained experience are always ready to cash in on it. It was merely necessary to find them. Dumarest had little doubt
as to where that would be.
The carnival was like all carnivals, cramped into limited quarters but all the more exciting because of that. Voices
called as they walked between the tented concessions, offering, wheedling, persuading, doing their best to extract
money from one pocket and put it into another—their own. Offering a moment of tinseled fantasy in exchange.
"Tell yer fortune, dearie!" A withered crone sat on a stool before a tent adorned with stellar symbols. "Learn the
future and save yourself heartbreak." She leered at Dumarest. "Discover the secrets of a woman's heart."
"Three tries! Hit once and the prize is yours!" A girl waved a blowpipe, turning to others as they passed.
"You, sir!" A man called to Blaine. "You don't wear that dagger for fun. Ten to one our man draws first blood!"
"Secrets of the competition!" bawled a man. "Learn what lies behind the wall! All the fun of the contest and none
of the risk!"
Dumarest hesitated, looking at the man. He was short, scarred, thick of body.
"He lies," whispered Derai. "He knows nothing."
They walked on.
Walked the entire length of the midway and back down a second path, halting when a woman ran forward and
threw her arms around Dumarest.
"Earl!" She hugged him tighter, closer. "It's good to see you. Did you come looking for me?"
"Nada." He stepped back, breaking her hold, surprised to see her. Yet there was no cause for surprise. There had
been time during the long journey to Hive, the longer one to Folgone, for the carnival to have traveled on its circuit.
To him it had been only a matter of days. To her it would have been weeks or months. "How's Aiken?"
"Dead." She looked at Derai, at Blaine, at Derai again. "He had to travel Low and he didn't make it. In a way," she
said pointedly, "you killed him. If you hadn't left us he would still be alive."
"I doubt it," he said dryly. He introduced the woman to his companions. Derai said nothing. Blaine was impressed.
"You work at the carnival?" he asked politely.
"There." She jerked her head to where a man stood before a tent. He juggled knives, sending them in a glittering
stream high into the air, deftly catching their hilts as they fell. "He's good," she said. "He can throw a blade and split a
twig at twenty paces. Better than you, Earl."
"He's had more practice." Dumarest looked at the man. He was dark, young, swarthily handsome. He smiled with
a flash of white teeth and let the knives thud into a board at his feet. He jumped forward and held out his hand.
"Jacko," he said. "I've heard of you. Maybe we could get together some time?"
"Maybe," said Dumarest. "In the meantime I'm looking for someone who has won the competition. Not," he
emphasized, "someone who knows someone. Or someone who claims to have done it. I want a person who really has.
Do you know where I could find him?"
"Why?" Nada's eyes widened as she looked at Dumarest. "You're a contender," she accused.
He nodded.
"You fool!" she said. "You stupid fool!" She looked at Derai. "Did you put him up to this?"
"It's my own idea," said Dumarest impatiently. "Do you know the man I want or don't you?"
"I know him," she said. "But he's going to tell you something you won't like to hear. He's going to tell you that you
haven't a hope in hell of getting through that competition alive!"
 ***

His name was Lucian Notto. He was a man of middle age, tall, thin, with deep-set eyes and a nervous mannerism
of chewing at his bottom lip. He entered the tent and looked around like a furtive animal, relaxing only when Nada
made introductions. He sat at the small table as she left and helped himself to wine. The neck of the bottle rattled
against the rim of the glass as he poured.
"I have to be careful," he said. '"You can surely understand that."
"Why?" Dumarest was curt. "You have information," he pointed out. "You are willing to sell it. I am willing to buy.
What is so dangerous about that?"
Notto drank and refilled his glass. The light coming through the translucent fabric of the tent gave his face a
gaunt, ghostly appearance. Nada's perfume lingering in the air added to the inconsistency. Outside, Blaine and Jacko
stood guard. The three in the tent sat in an isolated segment of space—a fit place for the divulging of secrets.
"You are young," said Notto, looking at his wine. "And impatient. And," he added, "perhaps even a little naive. Do
you honestly believe that the natives of this place would like me to tell you all I know?"
"What they like doesn't matter," said Dumarest harshly. "What you can tell me does." He reached out his hand.
Derai took it and closed her fingers around his own. "I want nothing but the truth," he warned. "And I shall know what
it is. If you intend to lie leave now."
"And if I stay?"
"I will pay you," said Dumarest. "Now, to begin, have you really won the competition?"
"I have."
Dumarest waited for the slight pressure against his fingers. None came. The man was telling the truth.
"Tell me about it," He reached out and removed the bottle of wine from Notto's reach. "Later," he promised.
"When our business is done. Now talk!"
He sat back, listening, feeling Derai's hand limp against his own. The system appeared to be simple enough. At a
set time the near gate was opened. It stayed open as the contenders passed through. Inside they drew lots for
position against the inner wall. Some came early in the hope of drawing a favored place. Others came later, almost at
the very last, trusting that others had drawn the unfavorable positions. Finally the gate was shut and the signal given.
From then it was every man for himself.
"These positions," said Dumarest. "How do you know which are good and which are bad?"
"You get a map," said Notto. "Inside it's something like a maze. Some routes are easy, others hard. A good start
lets you pick your route."
"Can't others follow?"
"They could but it wouldn't be wise. The area isn't barren. Something might miss the first man to pass but it
wouldn't fail to get the second."
"Things?" Dumarest frowned. "Such as?"
"Traps, snares, things that sting and claw, creatures of one kind or another. Your guess is as good as mine."
"Don't you know?"
"I didn't meet any of them," confessed Notto. "I was one of the lucky ones. I drew a good position and followed it.
There were a couple of tough spots," he recollected, "but nothing an alert and agile man couldn't dodge."
"The map," said Dumarest. "It ended at the far gate?"
Notto nodded. He watched as Dumarest picked up the bottle and spilled wine on the table. With a wet finger he
traced lines, the beginnings of a map. "Finish it," he ordered.
"But I told you, you get a map!"
"Of the operational zone, maybe, but I'm not interested in that." Dumarest pointed to what he had drawn. "Finish
it."
Notto frowned, drew, hesitated, then drew again, "that's the best I can do," he said. "All I can remember."
The operational zone appeared to be a flattened ovoid with the gates almost facing each other across the short
axis. Beyond the far gate was an indefinite area. Dumarest pointed to it. "What lies there?"
"The center. Where they take the aspirants. Beyond that lies something else. I didn't get a close look at it but it
seemed to be a mass of plants. Something like a forest," explained Notto. "A forest of short trees bearing great pods
about twelve feet long."
"After you'd won what happened?" Dumarest frowned at the map. "How did you get back?" he demanded.
"There must be another route to the center," he pointed out. "Can you remember it?"
"No. I was taken through a maze of passages and sent up a shaft." Notto chewed his bottom lip. "That's all I can
tell you."
 It wasn't enough. Irritably Dumarest wiped his hand across the table, destroying the map. "What about weapons?"
Notto shook his head. '"You go in empty-handed." He leaned over and picked up the bottle of wine. Dumarest
leaned forward and tore it from his hands.
"All right," he said tightly. "You've had your fun. Now let's get down to some real facts. As yet you've told me
nothing worth paying for. If I'm going to risk my neck I want to know exactly what I'm up against. I want to know
how to win. If you have to get paid that's just what you're going to tell me. Now talk," he snapped. "Or I'll give you
back the bottle—right smack down the throat!"
Notto gulped, shaking, sweat beading his forehead. "I—" he gasped. "I—don't look at me like that!"
"I want the truth," said Dumarest. "All of it. Why did Nada say that I hadn't a chance of getting through?"
"Because you don't," said Notto. He dabbed at his face with a soiled handkerchief. "No one does unless he's lucky.
It's fixed," he said quickly. "Don't you get it? It's fixed. The winners are determined at the time of the initial draw!"

Chapter Eleven
He woke, hearing screams, rolling from his cot and standing all in one quick motion. They came again and he ran,
bumping into something hard, ripping plastic to force an opening. Blaine stared at him, dagger naked in his hands, his
face shocked.
"Derai!"
The screams came a third time and then Dumarest was in her chamber, kneeling beside her cot, voice soothing as
he enveloped her with protective tenderness. Childlike, she clung to him, trembling.
"Derai!" Blaine looked into the room. Quickly he searched with his eyes. "Are you all right?"
"A nightmare." Dumarest spoke over his shoulder. "She's all right now."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Blaine hesitated, looking at his dagger. Against terrors of the mind the weapon was useless. Impatiently he thrust
it into his scabbard. Neither it nor he was needed at this time.
"Earl!" Her fingernails dug into the back of his neck. "Earl!"
"Be calm now," he soothed. "You had a bad dream. That's all it was."
She shook her head. "It was horrible! I saw endless rows of naked brains resting in some kind of container, all
thinking, all alive and aware. I heard voices and then the universe seemed to open and I became one with all
intelligent creatures." Her trembling increased. "Earl, am I going insane?"
"You were dreaming," he said again. "A nightmare."
"No. Not that." She withdrew a little, her eyes on his face. Hungry eyes, desperate, drinking in the sight of his
features. "It was so real," she said. "As if my mind was that of another. As if I were completely in tune with another's
brain. Someone who was completely relaxed. Relaxed and concentrating on one thing only. Few people can do that,"
she said. "Always there is noise and confusion. But this was a trained mind. And clear. So very clear."
He said nothing, stroking the silver wonder of her hair, his body responding to the nearness of her own.
"It was like Regor's brain," she said. "He must have a mind like that. Trained, coldly logical, an efficient
instrument to use for mental achievement."
"You envy him?"
"No," she said. "He frightens me. He regards me as property. As something to be used. Not as a woman," she
added. "He cannot feel that. But as someone important who mustn't be wasted."
"In that we think alike," said Dumarest.
She snuggled against his chest. "That woman," she said. "The one you called Nada. She loves you."
"No."
"She does," Derai insisted. "I know. She loves you and is jealous of me. Jealous!" The word was a cry of pain. "Of
what? A freak!"
"Stop it!"
"Why should I? It's true, isn't it? That's what they all think about me. Ustar and Emil and even my father at times.
Someone unusual. Someone different. Someone with whom it is impossible to be comfortable. Can you be
comfortable when you're with me?" Her eyes held his own, searching, probing. "Can you?"
"I love you."
"Is that an answer, Earl?"
"It should be. The way I regard love it is. What more can I say?"
"Nothing," she said. "But just keep saying it. I like to hear you do that."
 He obeyed, stroking her hair, hand tight against her thin shoulders.
She sighed. "That woman," she said. "Nada. She could give you so much. Sons, a normal life, company which
would be welcomed anywhere. You would be happy with her. You could relax and think your own thoughts and never
have to wonder if, at any moment, she was reading your mind. Why aren't you in love with her, Earl?"
"Because I am in love with you."
"Really, Earl?"
He moved his hands, gripping her shoulders, moving her so that he could stare into her face. "Listen," he said
harshly. "This isn't a game. Not for me it isn't, and I hope not for you. Read my mind," he ordered. "Read it and find
the truth. Find it and stop playing the child."
"Stop feeling sorry for myself," she said quietly. "Stop doubting everyone I meet. Stop wondering if it's me you
love or what I may bring you. Money, Earl. A lot of money. Surely you must have thought of that?"
He looked at her, his face like stone.
"You have thought of it, Earl," she insisted. "Can you deny it?"
"No." Dakarti had planted the thought; he could not deny it.
"Well, Earl?"
He rose, conscious of the futility of words, knowing there was nothing he could say and only one thing he could
do.
Alone she wept for a long time into her pillow.

***

The walls were of garish colors, red, green, yellow, blue, ten foot squares of plastic open to the roof above. Bright
hues, the colors of life buried here in this underground cavern, mocking the still figure in the center of the room.
On his stretcher, as if on a catafalque, the Old Man lay dead.
"When?" Regor stood against the wall of red, his robe merging with the background so that he looked little more
than a shaved head, a living picture without a frame. He moved on and the illusion was broken, the scarlet of his robe
now standing sharp and clear against a background of yellow.
"I don't know." Emil burned with nervous tension. He paced the limited confines of the chamber, unable to
remain still. "I was busy," he said. "Settling the details and fees of the competition. When I returned I came in here. At
once I sensed that something was wrong. I checked. Nothing. No pulse, no respiration, no sign of life. I tried to find
you," he accused. "You were not to be found."
"I was otherwise engaged." Deftly the cyber examined the grotesque bulk on the stretcher. "Has the girl made
certain?"
"I asked, she refused. But I heard her screaming some time ago. Blaine said that she'd had a nightmare. It could
have been that or she could have caught his dying thoughts." Emil paused in his pacing and stared at the dead man.
"Dead," he said bitterly. "And he told us nothing."
Regor made no comment.
"All that money," said Emil. "Fifteen years of income. Gone!"
"You have lost nothing," reminded the cyber.
"Are you insane?" Emil glared at Regor. "You know how I depended on that money. You know what I would have
done with it. He could have told us where it was. He could have told us before we left Hive. Instead he kept his secret.
Now he is dead and has taken it with him." He resumed his pacing. "And you tell me that I've lost nothing!"
"That is correct," said Regor in his even monotone. "You cannot lose what you have never had to lose. Be logical,
not emotional. To accept a probability as an established fact is wrong. A promise is nothing more than that. Until the
money was actually in your possession it was never yours. As it was not yours you could never lose it."
"And what of the money I've spent?" snapped Emil. "The cost of the journey here? The expense of the
competition? Money that we can ill afford. Gone. All gone. And for what? A dead man's selfishness!" He halted and
glared at the corpse as if willing it back to life. "I was too easy," he gritted. "Too soft. I should have made him speak.
Forced the secret from him. Killed him to get it if I had to. What could I have lost?"
"Is everything wholly lost?"
"What do you mean?" Emil looked sharply at the cyber. His eyes kindled with hope. "Derai," he said. "Perhaps she
knows? Perhaps he told her, even toward the very last. I can make her tell." He stepped toward the opening, then
halted as Regor barred his way. "What now?"
"The girl must not be harmed," said the cyber. His voice was as even as always, a statement of fact, not desire.
"But—"
"She must not be harmed."
 Emil surrendered. "What else?"
"Let us consider the position," said Regor. He glanced down at the dead man. He could feel no regret, no sorrow.
Even if he could he would have felt neither. The Old Man had served his purpose. "Our initial reason for coming to
Folgone is now invalidated," he continued. "What is left? Dumarest is to enter the competition. The fee has been paid
and will not be returned. We stand to lose nothing by allowing him to compete as originally intended. He could even
win."
Emil nodded, his eyes thoughtful. "The Old Man is dead," he mused. "His place will be vacant. If Dumarest wins
we can offer it for sale. Such places command a high price and we could recoup much of what has been spent. But if
he does not win?"
He dies, he thought. That too was satisfactory. It will get him out of the way, he told himself. Get rid of him once
and for all. Derai would have no one then for whom to yearn. She could blame no one. Ustar would be avenged and
the way would be clear for him to marry the girl. Emil felt himself relax. Either way he couldn't lose.

***

"Drink this," said Nada. "Get it all down."

She stood by the side of the cot as she offered the foaming glass. Dumarest looked up at her, smelling her
perfume, conscious of her femininity. She wore a diaphanous robe tight against the contours of her body. Her long,
dark hair swung loosely over her shoulders. Heavy makeup gave her face the impassive serenity of an Egyptian
goddess. This was her working costume, eye-catching as she stood against a wooden backdrop facing Jacko and his
knives. The thrown blades would cut the fastenings, freeing the garment, finally leaving her naked in the focused glare
of lights.
"Come on," she snapped impatiently. "Drink it!"
He rose on one elbow and obediently gulped the liquid.
"I've never seen you drunk before," she commented. "Not cold, mean, fighting drunk. You almost wrecked the
midway. Ruined it, anyway. You took on three men at once," she added. "Bare-handed. They thought one of them was
dead. The other two weren't much better. The odds were thirty to one against you."
He swung his booted feet over the edge of the cot and sat upright. He had used her bed. The tent was filled with
her presence, clothes, trinkets, little mementos. He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. His tongue felt thick,
coated, unclean.
"Can you remember?" She put down the glass he handed to her.
"Yes."
"So you weren't that drunk then. I'm glad to hear it." She sat beside him on the cot, pressing close so that he
could feel the long curve of her thigh, the sultry warmth of her body. "What happened, Earl? Did she give you the
brush off ?"
He didn't answer.
"I thought you had more sense," she continued dispassionately. "A milksop like that. A lady. A spoiled bitch out to
have herself a little fun. And you fell for it. You!"
"Shut up!"
"Why? Can't you bear to hear the truth? Is your ego so hurt? Get wise to yourself, Earl. She isn't our kind of
people. What future could you have hoped to have with her?"
She pressed herself even closer, letting her body appeal to his, using the femininity she knew she possessed to
work its ancient magic. That, and more.
"You remember?" she whispered. "When you came here. What you said and what you did?"
There had been a time of lights and noise and bloody action. There had been pain and the desire to fight that
pain, to fight it in the best way he knew how. And after? Nada and her tent and a bottle of wine. Wine and—? He
tasted the coating of his tongue.
"You drugged me," he said. "Slipped something into my drink. Something to knock me out."
She didn't deny it. "What else could I have done? Let you go and get yourself killed? You were near-crazy, Earl. I
had to save you from yourself."
"How long?" He rose and looked through the flap of the tent. The midway was deserted. "How long have I been
lying here?"
"Long enough." She was triumphant. "The gate's open," she said. "The competition has begun. Most of the
contenders are inside. But not you, Earl. You don't have to get yourself killed. Stay here with me and we'll leave
together."
"Using what for money?"
 "We'll make out."
"No." He jerked aside the flap and stepped forward. Nada caught his arm.
"Don't be a fool, Earl. You heard what Notto said. You don't stand a chance of getting through alive."
"I've made a bargain," he said tightly. "I'm going to keep it. Later, when I've money, we can decide what to do.
Now I've a job to get on with."
"For her?"
"For me," he corrected. "I'm broke. I need cash. This is my chance to get some."
He pulled free and stepped outside the tent. Jacko glanced at him, busy with his knives. He smiled as he played
with the glittering steel. Before he could speak a voice shouted from lower down the line: "Earl!"
It was Blaine. He came running, face streaming with perspiration, dagger bouncing on his hip. "Earl! Thank God
I've found you!"
"I was here," said Dumarest. "I've been here all the time. You should have asked."
"I did. They denied having seen you." Blaine fought for breath. "It's Derai," he gasped. "She's taken your place in
the competition. She's gone into the operational zone."

***

There was a crowd outside the gate: sightseers, a few contenders holding back for reasons of superstition or
calculated advantage, touts selling advice and dubious information, gamblers and those who were just taking bets.
Four guards dressed in brown and yellow stood to either side of the gate, laser rifles cradled in their arms. Four
others similarly dressed and armed stood just within the portal. A cowled figure, unarmed but with more relevant
power, listened as Dumarest spoke.
"Please." He held up a hand to forestall protest. "You must appreciate the position. Once inside the zone no
contender is permitted to leave other than by the far gate."
"But she shouldn't be here at all," stormed Dumarest. "She took my place. It should not have been allowed."
"A moment." The monitor studied a sheaf of papers clipped to a board which he carried beneath his arm. "You
represent whom?"
"Caldor."
"The contender for Caldor has passed into the zone. The name was given and the fee has been paid. There is
nothing more to say on the matter."
"Like hell there isn't!" Dumarest stepped forward. Immediately two of the inner guards raised their weapons.
"Attempt violence and you will be burned," warned the monitor. "Step forward and the same thing will happen.
Now please try to be reasonable. We cannot check the credentials of every contender. It is sufficient that they claim
to represent an aspirant and that the fee has been paid. It is rare," he added dryly, "that anyone should attempt such
an impersonation. There can be no personal profit, you understand. The person concerned must have had a very
good reason for taking your place."
The best, thought Dumarest bitterly. Derai had gone to what she had reason to believe was certain death. She had
done it to save his life.
"I've got to get in there," he said. "How can it be done?"
"If you have the fee that will be sufficient." The monitor remained calm. "But you must hasten. Soon the gate will
be closed. It will not open again until the next session."
Dumarest whirled, found Blaine, caught him by the upper arm.
"I couldn't stop her," said Blaine. "I didn't know what she intended. I thought she'd come down to the gate to wish
you luck or something. Before I knew it she'd passed inside."
"Never mind that now." The past was irredeemable;
Dumarest had no time for regret. "Find Emil," he ordered. "Make him give you the price of a fee and bring it back
here fast."
"What do you intend, Earl?"
"I'm going in after her. Now move, damn you!"
He forced his way through the crowd, turned, saw something he hadn't noticed before. Suspended high above the
portal was a large, illuminated board. It was divided into sections. Most were alight with a name and a number. Even
as he watched a blank section lit.
"Dumar," said a man at his side. "Position fifteen." He sucked at a stylo and made a notation on a card. "That's his
three contenders," he mused. "Twelve, eighty-two and fifteen. Eighty-two won't be of much help. I'd say that the odds
on Dumar getting a place were about twelve or fourteen to one against." He looked up at Dumarest. "What do you
say, friend?"
 "Aren't you favoring him a little?"
"Maybe, but I've seen his boys at practice. Take it from me, they're good."
Dumarest nodded, looking at the board, now understanding its purpose. He found the name Caldor—position
five. Above and below the sections were blank. He nudged his informant and asked a question.
"It's the luck of the draw," the man explained. "That's a bad spot, right down near the end of the zone. Now if
Caldor had a couple more contenders lined up and they managed to get placed either side then the odds would be
different. The three of them could act as a party, understand? As it is I'd offer, say, fifty to one against."
"The contenders a woman. A girl."
"Is that so?" The man whistled. "Make it two hundred to one. Five if you like. A rank outsider. She hasn't got a
chance."
Dumarest moved on, conscious of the passing of time. How much longer would the gate stay open? Where was
Blaine? He turned at the sound of his name.
"Earl." It was Nada, Jacko at her side. "Don't be a fool, Earl," she said. "Your problem's solved."
"Derai's inside."
"That's what I meant." She smiled. "Jacko heard what Blaine said. So she's taken your place. Well, that's just too
bad—for her."
"Bitch!"
"You expect me to cry over her?" Nada was defiant. "Why the hell should I? What is she to me? Earl, you fool,
why tear yourself apart? Why not just play the cards as they fall." She looked into his eyes. "You're stuck," she said
bitterly. "You're in love with her. Really in love. Damn you, Earl! Why couldn't it have been me?"
"You've got to play the cards as they fall," he said dully. "Remember?"
"Can we help?" For once Jacko wasn't smiling. "Nada's upset," he explained. "She doesn't mean half of what she's
saying. Is there anything we can do?"
"Can you lend me the price of a contenders fee?" Dumarest knew the answer. "Of course you can't. How could
you? And why should you, anyway?" He craned his neck looking over the crowd. "What the hell's keeping Blaine?"
"He's gone for money?" Jacko nodded. "Naturally, what else? He can give you that but maybe I can give you a
little something he can't. An edge," he explained. "An advantage the others haven't got."
"A knife?"
"That's it. Get to your position and stay there tight against the wall. Keep an eye open for what may fall close by.
I'll try to get you a blade. If I'm lucky I'll make it."
"And if you're caught trying?"
"They'll burn me down," said Jacko calmly. "That's the reason for the guards. That's why I won't be caught. Give
me a chance but don't grow old waiting."
Dumarest nodded his thanks. Jacko moved away. From somewhere a gong sounded, deep, sonorous, vibrating
the air.
"They're getting ready to close the gate," said Nada. Possessively she took his arm. "Never mind, Earl. You tried."
Impatiently he shook himself free. The gong sounded again as he forced his way through the crowd toward the
gate. It was like a tremendous portcullis. As the gong sounded a third time the massive panel began to drop to the
ground below.
"Earl!" He turned at the sound of his name. "Earl! Where are you?"
"Blaine!" He rose on tiptoe, sprang high into the air, waved. "Blaine! To the gate! The gate, man! Hurry!"
He caught a glimpse of green and silver, an arm upraised, something dark hurtling through the air above the
heads of the crowd. He caught it, a bag, felt coins within the material and turned to face the gate.
Already the panel was almost closed. It was falling faster now that it had almost completed its journey. Dumarest
dived headfirst toward the remaining space, felt dirt scrape his face, the lower edge of the door brush his back. He
rolled clear as the door ground inches deep into the gritty soil and looked up at leveled guns. He threw the bag of
money toward the monitor.
"Your fee," he said.
The monitor caught it, checked the contents, nodded his agreement. "You represent?"
"Caldor."

Chapter Twelve
Inside the zone the air was hot, fetid, smelling of decay and with a sharp insect-odor reminiscent of Hive. But
there would be no bees here. Bees needed flowers and there were no blooms. Dumarest looked up. Behind him the
wall swept inward, the upper edge ten feet beyond the lower. The curve and the fringe of spikes made it impossible to
climb. The guards now patrolling the top were an added precaution. He wondered if Jacko would succeed in getting
him a knife.
Dumarest leaned back against the wall and took stock of the situation. His position was number forty-three—bad,
but it could have been a lot worse. Between him and Derai could be thirty-seven contenders, each of whom would
take the chance of an easy kill so as to lower the competition. But the signal had already been given; they would be
moving, pressing on to the far gate, leaving the positions to join others of their own group or, if alone, making as
much distance as they could to get ahead. In these initial minutes thought was more important than action.
He thought briefly of Notto. Perhaps Nada had told the man to lie or perhaps he really believed what he'd said. It
didn't matter. Not now. Nothing mattered except staying alive. Dead he would be useless to Derai.
He moved and felt stone rasp his naked skin. He was stripped to shorts and boots—his own clothes would have
given him too great an advantage and the monitor had ordered them removed. But they had left him his boots; he
was glad of that. He wondered what the girl would be wearing.
Time was passing, too much time. Already she could be dead, already walking into danger. Impatiently he studied
the map which had been thrust into his hand. As Notto had said the place was a maze, torn with winding gullies,
scarred with deep channels gouged in the soil, thick with places to hid. Prominent landmarks showed the way to the
far gate. It stood at the tip of an elongated neck of land. There, he decided grimly, would be the place of greatest
danger. Of all the perils to be found in this place men would be the most to be feared.
He heard a shout from beyond the wall, faint, dulled by thick stone. Above, a guard yelled an order. The noise
grew louder and something glittered in the air to quiver point first in the loam. Dumarest snatched it as he ran, his
hand closing about the hilt of the knife. Jacko had kept his promise. Perhaps he had arranged a distraction to draw
the attention of the guard. Perhaps he had died after throwing the weapon. It didn't matter. Dumarest had his
advantage.
He raced toward Derai's position, keeping the wall close to his side, eyes alert for any sign of danger. Here it
would be improbable but in the zone the price of life was eternal vigilance. He caught a glimpse of white ahead. A
man, operating on the same process of reasoning as himself, came loping toward him. He carried a fist-sized stone in
each hand. As they drew close he drew back his right arm and flung the stone.
Dumarest caught it, feeling it smack against his left palm, flinging it back in one coordinated motion. It smashed
between starting eyes, turning white into red, pulping the nose. The man groaned and sank to his knees. Without
breaking stride Dumarest leaped over him and ran on his way.
One down. The man might be dead or merely unconscious but he was slowed and no longer fit. One down—how
many to go?
A hundred at least. More in all probability. Where the hell was the girl?
Mechanically he'd been counting paces. He'd arrived at the approximate position but the girl wasn't to be seen.
He halted, chest heaving as he sucked air into his lungs. Time, he thought. Too much time has passed since the
signal. Jacko held me back too long. She could be anywhere. How to find her?
He scowled at the map. She would be scared—more than that, terrified. The entire area was filled with thoughts
of pain and death. She would need to escape, but how? Run directly into the unknown? Wait, cringing? Follow the
wall? He remembered the man he had struck down, his vicious savagery. Would he have held his hand because his
victim was a girl? But, if dead, where was her body?
He looked at the knife, an advantage but useless now. He slipped it into his boot, forcing his brain to think, to
study data and not emotion. An advantage. An edge. The knife was one but did he have another?
Unless he found it she would surely die.

***

A cyber could not feel anger. He could not respond to the gush of adrenaline into the bloodstream, the engorging
of blood vessels, the tightening of muscle. His body was an efficient instrument maintaining the brain but that was
all. Anger, hate, fear, love, all were in the realms of the unknown weaknesses from which lesser men suffered. The
strength of a cyber was in the cold, calm calculating detachment of an uncontaminated intelligence. But if a cyber
could know anger then Regor would surely have known it now.
"You are positive as to what you say?" His even monotone betrayed nothing. His eyes were the twin lenses of a
robot but, somehow, the atmosphere was charged with tension.
"The girl is actually in the operational zone?"
"Yes," said Blaine.
"You allowed her to enter?"
 "I couldn't stop her. I thought she'd gone to see Dumarest. She entered before I guessed what she intended."
"Dumarest!" The cyber paused. "That man. He has followed her?"
"Yes," said Blaine. "I managed to get the entry fee to him in time." He looked at his uncle. "Emil gave it to me. He
didn't want to." He added, "I had to persuade him." With a knife at his throat, he thought, and wondered if he would
really have carried out his threat to kill the man had he not yielded the cash.
"He was reluctant?"
"Why not?" Emil had thought the matter out. "It is throwing good money after bad. How can the girl possibly
hope to survive?"
Already he had discovered the advantages. With Derai dead there would be none of the difficulty in forcing an
undesired marriage. Without a natural successor there would be no trouble from jealous relatives. The Old Man was
dead. Johan was now the Head of Caldor. After him? Who but Ustar? And Blaine would make the perfect witness as
to Emil's own innocence in the matter. He bared his teeth at memory of the blade at his throat. It would not be long
before the young man was safely dead.
Footsteps crunched outside the sheeted plastic. Carlin, their guide, entered. He carried garments folded over one
arm. "From your contender," he explained. "The man Dumarest. I leave them in your keeping."
Blaine took the clothes. "What happens now?"
"As Caldor has two contenders and there is a possibility that both might win you are allowed to send two
aspirants to the area beyond the far gate. You will be guided." His eyes drifted, touching one after the other. "Which
two you must yourselves decide."
"I'll go," said Blaine quickly. "Dumarest will need his clothes. I can attend Grandfather."
"The Old Man is dead," said Regor. "But go as you suggest."
"Dead?" Blaine looked at his uncle. "When?"
"It doesn't matter," said Regor. "Now go where you must wait." Alone he stared at Emil. "You did wrong." he said.
"How often have I told you that no harm must come to the girl?"
"It was her own choice."
"Not so," denied the cyber. "The probable course of events was plain from the first. You knew that she had
formed an attachment to Dumarest. That attachment caused her to act under emotional pressure. You should never
have allowed the situation to develop. The man should have been eliminated long ago."
"Am I to blame for that?"
"Who else? You assumed the authority and therefore you must accept the responsibility. Because of you the girl is
in danger of losing her life."
"And that worries you?" Emil looked thoughtfully at the cyber. "It does," he said. "Why? What is your real interest
in the girl? The Cyclan wanted her at their college. Something made her run away. Were you instructed to take care
of her? If so you have failed. What does the Cyclan do to those in its service who fail? What happens in such a case?"
Regor made no answer.
"I'm beginning to understand," mused Emil. "The way you people work, secretly, always hidden, maneuvering
others as you would puppets. Why, Regor? What is it you want on Hive?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me! I demand the truth!"
"You have it. What could interest the Cyclan on your pitiful world? An anachronism of a social structure? The
jelly from mutated bees? No, my lord. There is only one thing of real value which your world has produced: the girl
Derai."
"And you want her." Emil bared his teeth at the realization of how he had been used. "You've tried all along to get
her into your clutches. First the college and, when she escaped from there, something else. Always remembering to
appear innocent. Always appearing as dispassionate advisers and nothing more. The Old Man," he said,
remembering. "Did he really have money salted away? Or was that another of your tricks?"
"The plan worked," said Regor. "You left Hive with the girl. You took her from the protection of her stronghold."
"So it was a lie," said Emil. "And you killed him before he could betray it. Or perhaps he simply died. No matter.
But you have failed, cyber. You still haven't the girl." He crowed in his triumph. "You've failed!"
"No," said Regor evenly. "Not yet. You forget the man Dumarest. And the Cyclan is not without influence on this
world. But you—you know too much."
"And I'm going to know more," said Emil. He had a momentary vision of holding the Cyclan in his power, of the
money he could demand for his silence. He looked down as Regor reached out and touched his hand. A single drop
of blood welled from the broken skin. "What—?"
Death came immediately. Given not for revenge or hate or from reasons of fear. Given only because Emil could
no longer be useful and, worse, could now only be a hindrance to the subtle, insidious, widespread power of the
Cyclan.

***

She walked in a nightmare of strange shapes and stranger voices, of soil that sucked at her feet and stones with
mouths that snapped at her garments. There were pictures traced in screaming lines of pain: a man, paralyzed,
pleading with his mental voice while, about him, spined and hollow vines drank of his blood; another trapped in a pit
at the bottom of which giant mandibles snapped in frenzied anticipation. Death and pain and the fear of death
washed around her like the waves of a sea. Madness was everywhere.
Only the voice was sane.
"Derai. Derai. Come to me." Dumarest speaking. "I'm at the foot of the column of stone. The first landmark to the
right of your map. Derai. Derai. Come to me…"
At times the voice wavered. Twice it ceased and red fury had washed where it had been. But always it had
returned. Blindly she made toward it. "Derai!"
Her feet pulled at sucking ooze. "Derai!"
It was no longer just a mental voice, a repetitious sound in her head, rising by sheer persistence above the other
demanding echoes. It was real, made by a tongue and lips, warm flesh and living blood. "Earl!"
She ran forward and felt his arms around her, strong arms, protecting, shielding her from the horror that was the
operational zone.
"Derai!" He held her, stroking her hair, then pushed her back, his eyes anxious as they searched her for injury.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Are you sure?" Again he examined her. She wore a simple shift of synthetic fiber tied at the waist with a strand
of silk. They had taken her outer clothes and left her with the feminine equivalent of shorts. Her feet were bare; she
had lost her sandals. His lips tightened at the sight of blood against the too-white skin. "Did anything sting you?
Quick, girl. Answer!"
"Nothing." She was positive of that. "I fell against a bush," she said. "It was covered with thorns. They scratched
my legs, my feet." She looked down. "I don't know how I lost my sandals."
"But nothing else?" He held his breath until she shook her head. "Thank God for that!"
His plan had worked. The other thin advantage they possessed had given him the needed edge. To find her had
been hopeless—she'd had to find him. Find him by following his mentally shouted directions. He had trusted to her
telepathic ability to solve the problem. But it had not been easy.
"Earl!" She looked at his face, drawn from long concentration, the haunting fear that he was wasting his time, that
she couldn't hear him, that she was already dead. Blood stained his right arm. Not his own, she realized with a wave
of thankfulness; he was unhurt. The red fury she had felt must have been when he'd fought off attack. "It isn't easy,"
she said, gently touching his face. "To sit and do nothing but think. To concentrate as you did."
"No," he said. "It isn't easy."
"You followed me," she said. "Why?" It was a stupid question. She knew why. "Earl, my darling. I love you. I love
you!"
He looked into her eyes.
"And you love me," she said. "I know that. I've known it all the time but—"
"You tried to save me," he said. "I understand. There's no need to talk of it again. But do you still doubt me?"
Her arms, her lips gave him the answer.
"Steady!" They had found each other but that was all. The journey to the far gate had still to be made, lost time
had still to be recovered. Somberly he looked at her, more like a silver-haired child than ever in the torn and soiled
slip, the bare and scratched feet. Like a child from some industrial slum. It was hard to remember that she was the
successor to wealth and power. Too hard. He preferred to think of her as she was at the moment: young, weak,
needing his protection.
Needing his strength as he needed her ability.
"We can win," he said. "We can get out of this but we have to do it together. Your mind," he said. "Can you tell
distance from what you hear?"
"Sometimes," she admitted. "If a voice is strong then usually it is near. A mind rather—I get confused."
Naturally, there were no words to describe telepathic phenomena. But "voice" would serve.
"You're going to guide me," he told her. "I'm going to carry you on my shoulders. You're to listen for anything like
a threat. If you hear something you must tell me at once. Don't bother to make sure about it. If there's danger let me
know. Understand?"
 Slowly she nodded.
"Can you tell the difference between, say, a vegetable and a man?"
"A vegetable doesn't think," she said. "It—well, just is."
"An insect?"
She shuddered. "No words. Just a cold ferocity."
"All right," he said, deciding. "Concentrate on men. When you hear one close let me know. Climb up now." He
waited as she mounted his shoulders, painfully light, slim thighs to either side of his head. "Settled?"
She gripped his hair. "Yes, Earl."
"Then hang on tight."
Knife in hand he ran toward the distant sanctuary of the far gate.

***

It was a twin of the other, set in a thirty foot wall of spiked stone, a great portcullis, a guillotine to cut short the
lives of men. Above it glowed a great numeral four. Four what? Four had already arrived? Four places yet to go?
Dumarest halted, easing the burden in his arms. Haste now could be suicidal. Men could be lurking, waiting for others
of their group to join them, killing all others who arrived first.
He shook the girl in his arms. "Derai!"
She lolled, waxen, the bruise on her temple livid against the white skin. His face tightened as he looked at it. A
stone flung by an unseen hand had almost killed her. Riding on his shoulders she had made a tempting target and had
recognized the danger too late. For the past three hours he had carried her in his arms, running, forced to smell out
danger alone.
"Derai!"
She moaned, moving her head a little, a person still unaware. He frowned and looked about, eyes darting, ears
strained. Nothing. And that seemed wrong. So close to the gate there should have been the furtive movements of
cautious men. There should have been shouts, cries of despair or triumph and, perhaps, the screams of the dying.
The silence, the stillness, was unnatural.
He fought the temptation to sit and rest. For what seemed an eternity he had run and halted, dodged and circled,
skirted danger and attacked when attack could not be avoided. His body ached and burned with fatigue. His eyes felt
full of grit, dusty, unreliable. But they had made good time. Up until the incident of the thrown stone very good time.
His hands clenched as he thought about it. The man would throw no more stones. But the need to carry her dead
weight since then had slowed him down. The denial of her telepathic cooperation had slowed him even more.
Cautiously he began to advance. Almost at once he halted, realizing how vulnerable he was with the girl in his
arms. He set her down, stooped, threw her over one shoulder, clasping her arm with his left hand, his left arm around
her legs.
Above the gate the glowing sign suddenly changed to the numeral three.
So the sign showed the number of places left. Dumarest scanned the area once more and knew that the time for
caution was over. The time margin was too narrow for that.
He ran, thrusting his feet against the soil, sucking air into his lungs, eyes darting ahead and to all sides. Blood
roared in his ears and sweat stung his eyes. Steel fingers clawed at his lungs as his body used oxygen faster than he
could take it from the air. Blackness edged his vision. Doggedly he ran on.
He saw the man just in time, jumping over the sprawled shape, running on without breaking stride. A second
figure lay slumped to one side. At the third he paused, instinct screaming of hidden danger, conditioned reflex
sending him dropping to the dirt.
Nothing. No shout. No sound of an energy weapon. Not even the soft thud of feet or the rasping of air-starved
lungs. Only the throb of blood in his head, the burning agony of his chest.
Quickly he examined the man. He was dead without visible cause. His neck was intact, there was no congestion
of the throat, no bruising of the flesh. And no cut or stab or burn. He had simply died.
Dumarest felt the crawling of his skin, the primitive warnings of danger. Quickly he picked up the girl and raced
toward the gate. The numeral changed as he neared it, the light now showing a great figure two. Before him the path
seemed to stretch to infinity, the gate retreating as he ran.
Then he had reached it, was falling through it, hitting the dirt as his knees collapsed, the girl rolling from his
shoulder, outraged lungs filling his chest with pain.
Fighting the wave of blackness which threatened to engulf him, he heard the rumble and thud as the door
slammed down.
 Chapter Thirteen
There were boots, a brown and yellow robe, a cold face looking down. "You have a knife," accused the monitor.
He glanced to where the hilt showed above Dumarest's boot. "Weapons are not permitted in the zone."
"I found it." Dumarest raised his head, climbed painfully to his feet. He had made a mistake. He should have
discarded the blade before passing through the gate. The error could be serious. "I found it," he repeated. "I did not
enter with it. You know that. You searched me yourself."
"True." The monitor stood, brooding. "There was a disturbance by the near gate," he said. "A man was killed. You
could have arranged for him to have thrown you the blade."
"I or another," admitted Dumarest. So Jacko was dead. Well, he had known the risk.
"If you had done so," said the monitor, "you would be disqualified. Burned to death for breaking the rule."
"I found it," insisted Dumarest. His eyes were hard, direct as he stared at the man in brown and yellow. "It was in
the zone. Am I to be blamed for using it?"
The monitor hesitated, his eyes straying to the girl. "There is doubt," he admitted. "You may have the benefit of it.
But you will not again be welcome on Folgone."
He left and Dumarest watched him go. Tall, arrogant, holding in this place the power of life and death. He looked
around. Facing the gate a crowd of men stood behind a barrier: aspirants gathered to see if they had won a place. A
small group were walking from it: those who had been successful. Among them he saw Blaine.
The sound of water echoed to one side. A rivulet cut across the gritty soil, a narrow barrier between him and the
vegetation beyond. He picked up the girl and walked toward it, setting her gently down, plunging head, arms and
shoulders into the stream. It was ice cold in comparison with the sultry atmosphere. He plunged fully into the water,
washing the mud, blood and slime from his body. The chill shock caught his breath, dissolved some of his fatigue.
Returning to the girl he carried her to the edge of the stream and gently laved her face, the purple bruise on her
temple.
"Earl." She moved, twisting her face from the cold impact, opening her eyes. "Earl!"
He sensed her terror, her unspoken fear. "It's all right," he soothed. "It's all over. We won. We're out of the zone
and safe."
She relaxed, reading his mind, knowing that he spoke the truth. Her arms lifted, circled his neck. "Earl," she
whispered. "My darling. I love you so much."
He held her, conscious of her elfin beauty, the long, slender lines of her body, the silver wonder of her hair. He
felt an unaccustomed peace. Here, in the circle of her arms, was all he had ever wanted, all he could ever want.
Footsteps approached. Blaine stood beside them, looking down. "You won," he said. "I'm glad." He waited as they
rose to their feet. "The other winning aspirants have gone into the woods," he said. "We're about the last."
"Into the woods?" Derai frowned. "Why?"
"To claim their places. There's a bridge lower down," said Blaine. "But I guess we can cross here easily enough."
He jumped the stream, waited for them to join him. Together they looked at what lay ahead.
It was as Notto had said, a mass of what appeared to be stunted trees, bushy, bearing gigantic pods trailing on the
ground, a few open, the rest tightly closed. Dumarest scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot, stooped, picked up a
handful and let it trickle between his fingers. It was rich, dark, thick with humus. A balanced, fertile loam. He looked
back at the wall of the operational zone; the logic of the system was now obvious. The contenders did more than
provide money; the dead supplied a steady stream of fertilizer.
He looked up at the roof arching high overhead, a shimmer of distant light, then back at the plants. The air held a
jungle-scent, a tropic lushness part soft, part acrid. Beside him Derai took his hand.
"I can hear them," she whispered. "But they think so fast! So terribly fast!"
Dumarest closed his fingers on her own. "The plants?"
"No, the people. But they think so fast. Too fast," she complained. "I can't make out detail. It's just endless noise."
Subjective hallucination, he remembered. A year crammed into a day. The closed pods held people, the old, the
crippled, the dying; partaking in a symbiotic relationship with the parent plant, providing essential minerals and
animal matter in return for a thousand years of endless dreams. The pods—the coveted places of Folgone.
"I don't know if we're doing the right thing," said Blaine dubiously. "I don't know if we should be here at all. We
have no use for a place now," he explained. "The Old Man is dead."
"I know," said Derai simply. "I heard him die."
"Emil too." Blaine frowned as they approached the vegetation. "He was all right when I first left," he said. "I had to
go back for something. I found him lying dead. I don't know what killed him."
Dumarest was sharp. "Did you leave him alone?"
 "Regor was with him. Why?"
"Where is Regor now?"
"Here," said the cyber evenly. "I am here."
He stood, scarlet against the yellow and brown of the plants, very tall, his face thin, austere against his thrown-
back cowl. His hands were buried within the sleeves of his robe. On his breast the Cyclan seal moved a little with the
movement of his breathing.
Dumarest released Derai's hand, took three quick steps toward the scarlet figure.
"That is far enough." Regor glanced at the girl. "You look ill," he said evenly. "Why don't you sit down?"
She shook her head but moved a little to one side, edging forward so that she was level with Dumarest. Blaine
glared at the cyber, twenty feet distant. "You killed Emil," he accused. "It could have been no one else. Do you deny
it?"
"No."
"Why did you kill him?"
"He doesn't need a reason," said Dumarest harshly. "He and his breed operate on a different system of logic than
normal people. Perhaps he was ordered to kill him. Perhaps he did it as you would kill a fly. Why are you here?" he
demanded. "What do you want?"
"The girl."
"I thought so." Dumarest remembered the dead men he had found in the zone. "You were protecting us," he said.
"Why?"
"The Cyclan has friends on this planet," said Regor evenly. "I gave orders that the girl was to be saved no matter
what the cost You were fortunate." he said. "An accident saved you. Had you not been carrying the girl you too would
have died."
"Derai?" Blaine looked baffled. "But why should you go to all that trouble? What is so special about her?"
"She is a telepath," said Dumarest. He didn't look away from the cyber. "She is important to him and to his
people."
"More than that." Regor seemed to grow even taller. "How can you guess at her potential worth? You creatures of
contaminated intelligence, slaves to hampering emotions, living for the moment instead of the centuries to come.
That girl is a telepath. A telepath has power—more than you could ever guess, more than she could ever dream. To
know the thought behind the word, the motive behind the thought, to kindle hate and fear and greed at will. To
soothe, to be able to lie, to have the ability to tell a person exactly what that person wants to hear. To know someone
so well that he has no choice but to act according to your will. A telepath can do that. A telepath can know a man
better than he knows himself. Such knowledge is power."
"Power for the Cyclan," said Dumarest. "To give you the one thing you lack: a true knowledge of emotion. And
Derai could give it to you."
"No," said Blaine. "You know how she is, Earl. Afraid almost all the time. You have given her security. Without it
she will go insane." He looked from Dumarest to the cyber, understanding. "It doesn't matter," he said blankly. "You
don't really care what happens to her mind. You don't regard it as important."
"It isn't," said Dumarest tightly. "Not to them."
"No," said Regor. His even monotone made him seem more robotic than before. "Her mind is nothing. We are
interested only in what she carries inside her body. Her seed. The genes which bear the genetic pattern of telepathy.
Her body to produce young."
"No," she whispered. "No!"
Regor ignored her. "It may be necessary to operate on her brain," he said. "Tranquility will be an important factor
in the development of the fetus. The telepathic ability must appear in the very womb."
"You're forgetting something," said Dumarest. "Derai is the result of a million-to-one chance of successful
mutation. To repeat it would require her mother and father both—and her mother is dead." He remembered the
village. "You," he said. "Your people. The Cyclan raided the village of Lausary and took the inhabitants. Why, cyber?
More experimental material for your laboratories?"
"The Cyclan covers every eventuality," said Regor. "The probability of the girl escaping us was small but not to be
ignored. Her mother came from Lausary. The conditions which led to her mutation may have similarly affected
others. We shall see."
"Perhaps," said Dumarest tightly. His hand dropped a little, falling toward his knee.
"You killed Emil," said Blaine. He seemed baffled by the enormity of what he had heard. "You raided a village of
Hive. Now you calmly talk about stealing Derai. How do you hope to get away with it?"
"Two contenders won two places for Caldor," said Regor. His hand moved a little within his sleeve. "Two places
were won and two will be occupied. The girl will simply vanish. No one will think to blame the Cyclan. Why should
they? What possible connection could we have with such a matter?"
He was enjoying the only pleasure he could ever know, the knowledge that a prediction was proving correct, the
cerebral satisfaction of mental achievement.
"And us?" Blaine asked the question. "What about us?"
Derai threw herself forward as Regor took his hand from his sleeve.
Dumarest saw it, heard the sibilance of the laser beam as it vaporized atmospheric moisture, smelled the char,
the blood, heard the scream of pain. He caught the girl with his left arm, his right hand flashing to the top of his boot,
up, forward, the knife a shimmer of steel as it left his hand. Regor choked, fell to his knees, toppled sidewise, the
handle of the blade an ugly protuberance from his throat.
"Derai!" Dumarest eased her to the ground, looked at what the cyber's weapon had done. "Derai!"
He knew she was dying.
The beam had cut through the lower abdomen, charring muscle, fat and intestine, cutting almost to the spine.
There was little blood since the cauterizing action of the beam had sealed the external wound. But she was dying.
Dying!
"Derai!"
She opened her eyes, looked up at him, lifted one hand to touch his face. "Earl." Her fingers lingered on his
mouth. "I read his mind," she whispered. "I knew what he intended. He forgot I could do that."
Forgot or didn't care or had ignored the possibility of self-sacrifice.
"Derai!" He felt his throat tighten, his eyes sting as if he were again a child. His voice was an echo of pain.
"Derai!"
"It doesn't matter, darling," she whispered. "You are alive and that's all that's important. Important to me, dearest.
I love you, Earl. I love you."
How could he let her die?
He rose, the girl cradled in his arms, careless of the blood welling from the slashed abdomen. His eyes were wild
as he searched the plants. The gleam of an open pod caught his eye and he ran toward it.
"A moment!" A figure in brown and yellow, armed, invisible against the vegetation, moved to bar his path. "What
do you intend?"
"This girl has won a place," said Dumarest tightly. "She's going to get it."
"Agreed," said the guard. "But this pod is not yet ripe. Take the one over there." He pointed with his gun. "And
remove her garment," he called. "She must be nude."
The pod was big, open, lined with an inches-deep fuzz of flaming scarlet; a countless number of hair-fine
hypodermic needles made from the vegetable matter itself. Dumarest tore away the charred, blood-soaked shift, lifted
the slender body, laid it gently within the pod. Immediately it reacted, the fuzz pressing hard against the white skin,
penetrating it, the edges of the pod beginning to close.
"Derai, my darling." Dumarest stooped over her. "You'll be all right now," he promised. "You'll be happy. Happier
than at any other time of your life."
"With you, Earl?"
He nodded. He would be in her dreams as long as she wished him to be there. "I love you," he said abruptly. His
hands clenched as he fought his grief. "I love you."
"I know it, my darling." She smiled, sleepily; already the injected drugs had robbed her of pain. "Earl, my darling,
remember Earth? You thought I was teasing you but I wasn't. It does exist, dear. Regor knew of it. Regor or some of
the others. I forget just who."
"The Cyclan?"
"That's right, darling. At the college."
Dumarest felt the hand on his arm, the tug as the guard tried to pull him back. "You must not impede the
process," he warned. "Please step back where you can do no harm."
Dumarest shook off his hand. The pod was almost wholly closed now, the lower edges sealed so that only her
face and the silver glory of her hair remained visible. Against the scarlet interior she looked ethereal.
"Good night, Derai," he called softly. "Pleasant dreams."
She smiled, too sleepy, too cozy to answer. As he watched, the edges of the pod closed over her face.
He would never see her again.

***

Regor lay where he had fallen, the scarlet from his throat merging with the scarlet of his robe, the thick trail of
blood almost obliterating the seal on his breast, Blaine hesitated beside the dead man. "Earl?"
 "Leave it to rot!" Jacko was dead and wouldn't need his knife. And, for Dumarest, the cyber was a thing of hate.
"I'm sorry, Earl." Blaine fell into step beside him. "About Derai. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry for her." Blaine would miss his half-sister. Johan would miss his daughter. Dumarest could spare
them grief. "She's happy," he said. "She'll be happy for a thousand years. Her time, not yours, but still a thousand
years. She isn't dead," he added. "Don't think that. She has what men would pay high to obtain. What men fight and
die trying to get."
A synthetic existence, cocooned in the pod, her body becoming one with the plant which nurtured her brain,
supplying it with oxygenated liquids to emulate blood, with drugs so that her hallucinatory dreams were as real as
normal life. As real and far more satisfactory for, in the pod, there was no pain, no fear, no disappointment. And no
death. No death at all.
Not even at the very end when only the brain remained and, imperceptibly, her intelligence would merge with
that of the plant itself. Merge and wait for another to fill a pod when she would share the vicarious experience of a
new intelligence.
"I wasn't thinking of Derai," said Blaine awkwardly. "I'm sorry for you, Earl."
"Don't be." The grief was sharp but it would dull. Life had to go on. There would be other worlds, other things to
do, action to fill the aching void, the memory of what might have been. "You're alone now," he said to Blaine. "You've
got to save what you can. We won two places. Derai took one but you can sell the other. The money should help. It
will get you back home and leave plenty over."
"It's yours, Earl."
"I worked for pay. That you can give me. Derai earned the rest."
They walked in silence and then, "What are you going do now, Earl?" Blaine didn't wait for an answer. "Come
back to Hive with me. Well adopt you into the House. Please, Earl. We need you."
He spoke from emotion, not truth. Blaine would return and Johan would do what he should have done long
before. With Emil dead and Ustar in disgrace who else could succeed him but his natural son? The House would
accept him as such. And a ruler should not rely on others.
And how could he live in the stronghold which had held Derai? Be a part of her family with its painful
associations?
"No," he said sharply. "I go my own way."
"All right." Blaine was disappointed. "You know best. But promise me one thing. If you ever need help call on
Caldor. Don't forget us, Earl," he insisted. "Don't do that."
Promises, thought Dumarest. The gratitude of princes. Well, perhaps Blaine was different from the rest. He could
mean what he said. But now?
He straightened, feeling the reviving power of anger. The Cyclan had robbed him of the woman he loved. For
that it would pay. Until now he had disliked the scarlet-robed cybers for what they represented. Now he had cause for
active hate.
And they knew the whereabouts of Earth.
Derai had told him that. She had not lied.
He turned and looked back at the plants, the sealed pods. One of them held the girl in its healing embrace—it
was impossible to tell which.
"Goodbye, my darling," he murmured. "Thank you—for everything."
Then he turned.
And looked back no more.

TOYMAN

Chapter One
For thirty hours the sun had arched across the sky, baking the desert with its oven-heat, but now that it was night
the temperature had already fallen to the point where water turns to ice. It would, Dumarest knew, fall even lower
during the twenty-hour period of darkness. Toy was a world of violent extremes.
He crouched closer to the fire, watching as Legrain fed it with thorned scrub and shards of bleached and
weathered bone. Around them a circle of rock both shielded the fire from casual view and reflected the heat. Above
the piled stones the wind gusted with freezing chill, heavy with the odor of weed and brine, the sullen roar of
crashing waves.
"A bad night," said Legrain. "But all nights are bad for the defeated."
He carefully fed a fragment of bone to the flames. Like Dumarest, he wore a sleeved tunic of vivid scarlet
reaching to his knees. A metal helmet and breastplate shone with the color of gold. A belt at his waist supported a
bag and scabbarded sword. Earlier in the day he had also carried a shield and spear, but both had been discarded in
the conflict. Helmet, breastplate and tunic showed dents and slashes. Blood from a minor wound had dried on one
cheek. Lit by the fire, his big-nosed face gave him the appearance of a disheveled eagle.
"Warmth and rest," he said. "At night, in the arena, the lack of either can kill as surely as sword and spear." He
delved into his bag and produced a scrap of meat. He speared it on the tip of his sword and held it to the flames. "A
bargain," he suggested. "A share of my meat for a share of your water. You have water?"
Dumarest shook his canteen. It made a liquid sound.
"Good. It is agreed?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "But how about Sachen?"
"The boy?" Legrain shrugged. "Earl, my friend, you must accept what is to be. The lad is as good as dead. We did
him no favor carrying him as we did. It would be better to ease his passage. A pressure on the carotids—it would be a
kindness."
Dumarest made no comment, looking instead to where a third man lay against the shelter of the rock. He too
wore a slashed tunic and golden helmet but had no breastplate. His breathing was stentorian and, though he shivered,
his ebony skin shone with a dew of sweat. "Water," he gasped. "Water."
Dumarest rose, crossed toward him, touched his forehead. The skin burned like fire. He gently lifted the tunic and
examined the blood-soaked rag tied and belted about the hips. The material of the tunic was thin plastic, useless to
keep out the cold.
"Water," croaked the wounded man. "Please give me some water."
"No," said Legrain.
"Shut up," said Dumarest. He uncorked his canteen and, supporting Sachen's head, poured a thin trickle between
the parched lips. "Steady," he urged as the man tried to snatch the canteen. "Too much will be bad for you." He set
aside the canteen. "How do you feel now, Jack?"
"Terrible." The boy's eyes held a momentary clarity. "Am I dying. Earl?"
"You're in a bad way," said Dumarest. "But you're not dead yet. Hang on, lad. You can get over this if you try." He
found the boy's hand, squeezed it, held it until his eyes clouded in fevered delirium.
"Mother," muttered the boy. "Mother, I'm cold, help me."
"A spear in the guts," said Legrain as Dumarest returned to his place by the fire. "Without antibiotics or medical
aid the end is a foregone conclusion. Pain, fever, delirium and death." He turned his scrap of meat, sniffing at the
odor. "He should have made better use of his shield," he commented. "His shield and his legs. To stand and fight the
way he did was foolish. He didn't stand a chance."
"He did his best," said Dumarest.
Legrain shrugged. "It obviously wasn't good enough. You now, you fought well. I watched you often."
"I fought to stay alive," said Dumarest coldly. "But we both had an advantage over the boy. He wears nothing but
fabric beneath his tunic."
"While you and I wear metal-mesh buried in the plastic of our clothing." Legrain nodded. "Yes, Earl, I noticed
that. I noticed too that you did your best to protect Sachen. Are you so close?"
Dumarest was curt. "We traveled together."
"On Low passage?" Legrain turned his meat. "It would be Low," he mused. "You, an experienced traveler, and he,
a novice perhaps on his first journey. A bad end to a short life, Earl," he said seriously. "But it happens, my friend. It
happens."
Yes, thought Dumarest bleakly. It happens all too often. Youngsters with adventure in their hearts and the galaxy
to roam. A million worlds and adventure waiting at the end of each journey. Cheap travel if you were willing to
accept riding doped, frozen and ninety percent dead. Willing also to accept the fifteen percent death rate. One
journey, he thought, and Sachen had used up his life. Not in the ship but on this insane world where men were set to
fight each other for the entertainment of those who ruled. Fight and die and rot in the sand and scrub of the arena.
He rose and stared into the darkness, narrowing his eyes against the impact of the wind. How many other fires
burned on the desert? he wondered. The victors had gone, airlifted away, now feasting and enjoying the fruits of
success. The losers? Those who had survived had the battle still to finish: the struggle against the dark and cold, their
wounds, fatigue, the voracious nocturnal life lurking in the sand. Unless they won that battle only their accouterments
and bones would greet the new day.
 ***

The meat was hard, seared, tasteless, but it was hot and provided sustenance. Dumarest chewed, passed Legrain
his canteen, felt himself begin to relax from the fatigue of the day. But relaxing brought its own problems. His uniform
and clothing had protected him against penetration but not against bruising. He ached from head to foot.
"Why?" he demanded. "Why this nonsense?"
"The battle?" Legrain swallowed and took a drink of water. "You should know, my friend. You wore the red and
gold against the green and silver."
"But not from choice," said Dumarest bitterly. He glanced to where Sachen lay whimpering against the rock. "We
landed yesterday at dusk. Guards were waiting as we left the field. The choice was simple: show the cost of a double
High passage or stand trial, be convicted and sentenced to a year of forced labor as a vagrant. That or agree to enlist
for one engagement. A day," he said, "against a year. What choice is that?"
"For the boy the difference between life and death," pointed out Legrain. "But I see your point. One engagement
and then money and the freedom of Toy. An attractive offer, especially to someone traveling Low." He bit at the last
of his meat. "You were unfortunate, my friend. You arrived at a bad time."
A bad time on a bad planet, thought Dumarest. There were too many such places. Dead ends, restricted worlds,
planets where transients were unwelcome and unwanted. Societies in which there was no place for a man who simply
wanted to work, to build up the cost of a passage, to move on to somewhere new.
Legrain probed thoughtfully at his teeth. "I too was given that same choice and, like you, I elected to fight." He
smiled as he met Dumarest's eyes. "That's right, my friend. I too am a traveler. Or was," he corrected. "I visited a
score of worlds before bad luck brought me to Toy. Toy," he mused. "An odd name, is it not? Legend has it that
Director Conrad of Grail, on learning of the birth of his firstborn son, promised to give the lad a world as a plaything.
This is it."
Dumarest made no comment.
"The stockholders are jaded," said Legrain. "They seek always for new pleasures, new sensations. Insults must be
avenged in blood and men must be found to spill that blood. A hundred, five hundred, sometimes a thousand men
facing each other with primitive weapons. A fine spectacle of blood and death and pain. Did you not see the rafts
floating safely above?"
"I was busy," said Dumarest dryly. "But I saw them."
"Spectators." said Legrain. "Gamblers. Vultures at the feast. Lovers seeking new titivation." He stabbed at the fire
with the tip of his sword. "Rest," he said abruptly. "I will stand the first watch."
Dumarest stretched, lying beside the fire, feeling the heat warm his face. The breastplate was uncomfortable but
he didn't think of removing it. In this place protection was of prime importance. He closed his eyes, seeing again the
taut faces, the wild eyes, flashing steel, dust, gaping wounds, the sudden gush of blood. In memory he heard again
the rasp of breath, the shouts, screams, clash of weapons, tasted the swirling dust, felt his overstrained muscles jerk
to sympathetic exertion.
Irritably he turned, opening his eyes and looking up at the stars. The sight was disturbing. There was something
wrong about the sky: the stars were too thin, too scattered. He missed the sheets and curtains of brilliance, the
nebulae, the close-packed suns of the center. And yet, if he could trust memory, the planet he sought had skies much
as this. Dark skies with a single moon, few stars and a band of light tracing its way from horizon to horizon. Stars
assembled in vaguely remembered patterns, cold, remote, burning in the stillness of the night. So far, so distant it
seemed incredible they could ever be reached.
He jerked, aware that he had fallen asleep, nerves taut with the consciousness of danger. He looked around.
Legrain had vanished and the fire had shrunk to a glowing ember. Shivering, he rose, drew his sword, held the yard
strip of edged and pointed steel ready in his hand. He did not like the weapon: the blade was too long, too clumsy,
impossible to throw with any force or accuracy. Transferring it to his left hand he drew the ten-inch knife from his
boot, poising it as his eyes searched the darkness.
Against his rock Sachen muttered in his delirium. "Mother," he said. "Mother."
"Easy," said Dumarest softly. He stepped across the fire, staring into the starlit dimness. Light and shadow made a
vague chiaroscuro of blurred and indeterminate detail. Abruptly a stone rattled off to one side. Legrain? Dumarest
faced the direction of the sound, ears strained, eyes narrowed to catch the slightest hint of movement. A second
rattle came, this time closer and then something, a shadow, the disturbance of the air, primitive instinct, caused him
to duck and spring to one side.
A spear flashed through the space in which he had been standing.
A second followed it, thrust by an indistinct shape rushing from the darkness, the broad blade aimed directly at
his eyes. Dumarest swung up his left hand, parrying the shaft with the sword, his right hand thrusting forward with the
ten-inch blade of his knife. He felt the jolt, the stench of foul breath on his cheeks, the weight of a lunging body.
Caught off-balance he fell, rolled across the fire, sprang to his feet in a shower of sparks.
"You fool," he said. "Don't—"
The spear lunged at him again, held rigid by two hands backed by wild eyes, a gaping mouth. Dumarest had lost
both sword and knife. He dropped to one knee, rose as the blade passed his shoulder, gripped the shaft with both
hands as he twisted aside. Momentum carried his assailant forward, toppled him over as he clung grimly to the spear.
Dumarest pulled it loose, lifted it, thrust down with the blade. Tearing it free, he spun to face the sound of crunching
sand.
"Easy, my friend." Legrain came from the darkness beyond the circle of stone. He carried a heap of thorned scrub
in his hands. He threw down the fuel, then raked together the embers, blew them to life, fed the dancing flames. In the
light he looked down at what Dumarest had killed. "A man," he said. "He doesn't look it but that's what he is." He
stirred the body with his foot. "A man who tried to survive."
He was thin, emaciated, face masked by a heavy growth of beard. His clothing was an assortment of bulky rags
overlaid with a dozen tunics of various colors. His helmet and breastplate were black. Beneath the beard his face was
mottled with sores. Eyes, open in death, shone redly in the light of the fire.
"A loser," explained Legrain. "Someone who managed to avoid the hunters. Hiding among the rocks, living on
what he could find, driven insane by hardship and the poison in the local insects. He must have seen our fire." He
kicked again at the body. "I saw the end of the fight," he said. "You were fast, Earl. I don't think I've ever seen anyone
as fast."
Dumarest bent down, searching the dead man. His knife had glanced from the breastplate and was buried to the
hilt in the mass of clothing. He drew it out, wiped it, thrust it back in his boot. He sheathed his sword, stooped,
gripped the dead man by the shoulders. "Help me," he said to Legrain.
Together they carried the body from the circle of stone, dumping it between two boulders.
"Tomorrow it will be gone," said Legrain as they returned to the fire. "The metal and bones will be all that
remain."
Reaching the fire he sat down and warmed his hands. "Tell me, Earl. Why did you come to Toy?"
Dumarest added more scrub to the fire. "On business."
"Here that can only have one meaning," mused Legrain. "The wealth of the planet rests on the computer." He
looked curiously at Dumarest. "What reason could a traveler have for consulting the Library?"
"The same as any man's," said Dumarest. "To ask a question and to receive an answer."
"The question?"
Dumarest hesitated, then mentally shrugged. What difference could it make to confide in the man? It could even
be to his advantage. Legrain was a traveler and could have learned what he wanted to know. "I am looking for a
planet," he said. "The planet Earth. Do you know it?"
"Earth?" Legrain frowned. "An odd name for a world. Who would call a planet by a name like that? As well call it
soil or dirt or loam. Earth." He chuckled. "Earl, my friend, you surely jest."
"You have never heard of the name?"
"The name, yes." Legrain leaned forward, scooped up a handful of sand, let it trickle between his fingers. "This is
sand. Is there a planet with such a name? On the mainland I would have picked up a handful of earth. You see the
analogy?"
It was another defeat, one of a countless number, but Dumarest wasn't disappointed. What men had forgotten the
Library must remember. If the knowledge was available at all it could well be here on Toy in the banks of the famous
computer.
He turned as Sachen whimpered and suddenly called out. The boy was no longer sweating. His dark skin held a
flat, grayish pallor beneath the pigment. "Water!" he croaked. "Water!"
Legrain dropped his hand to the canteen. "No," he said. "It would be a waste."
Dumarest looked at the hand, then at the big-nosed face.
"All right," said Legrain. "Why not? Tomorrow we shall all be dead."
Dumarest rose, fed the boy the last of the water, threw aside the canteen as he sat facing Legrain across the fire.
The shifting light stained his face with dancing color, accentuating the hard lines and planes, the strong jaw and
mouth. It was the face of a man who had learned early to rely on no one but himself. Legrain moved uneasily beneath
the impact of his eyes.
"Explain," said Dumarest. "What do you mean when you say that we shall be dead?"
Legrain shrugged. "I mean nothing but the truth, my friend. Three times have I fought in the arena. Twice I was
fortunate to be on the winning side. Each time I lived high, for there were few survivors and so the share of each was
all the greater. But this time I chose the wrong side. This time I die."
"You are not dead yet," reminded Dumarest.
"Listen." Legrain drew a pattern in the sand, a rough circle joined to a curve by a thin line. "This," he said, tapping
the circle, "is the arena. This line is the neck of land joining it to the mainland. Across it is the Barrier, wired, fenced,
guarded with towers, impossible to pass without permission. Around the arena are cliffs three hundred feet high
falling to the rocks and the sea. If you descend them there is only rock and water waiting to tear out your life. No
boats. No way of escape. We lost," he emphasized. "The red and gold were beaten, scattered, smashed to ruin. And
we fought for the red and gold."
"So?"
"How do you make men fight?" demanded Legrain. "Pay them well? True, but that is only the carrot. High pay
and rich rewards if you win. But how to make men really fight? A carrot isn't enough; there must also be a whip. The
whip is death. You win or you die. That is why it isn't enough to fight to stay alive. You must fight to win. For, if you
do not win, you die. And," he added grimly, "we did not win."
"We can escape," said Dumarest.
"How? Do you intend to grow wings and fly across the sea? Become invisible so as to pass the Barrier? Hide here
among the rocks without food or water? Have you wondered why you've seen no old-dead, only bones? Look at the
bones, my friend. See the marks on them. At night the arena vomits forth its own life. Only a fire keeps them away;
the light and warmth delude them into believing that it's day. But for how long could you live with a fire alone?"
Dumarest looked into darkness where they had dumped the body.
"Do you want to end like that?" Legrain had guessed his thoughts. "Perhaps you could survive for a while, but the
end is inevitable. No," he ended. "Tomorrow we die."
"Are you so in love with death?"
"No, my friend, but I am a realist. I accept what has to be." Legrain stretched himself before the fire. "Your watch,
Earl. Wake me when you become tired."
Dumarest nodded, not answering, sitting tensed and thoughtful as he stared at the slowly wheeling stars.

***

Dawn came with a flush of rose, of pink and gold and crimson, of spears of violet and tinted clouds of cerise
drifting against an azure sky. The sun lifted from beneath the sea, bringing warmth to thaw the rime and frost from the
region. And with the dawn came the antigrav rafts, the hunters, the men and women eager for the kill.
They came from the north, beyond the Barrier, riding a comfortable fifty feet above the ground, too high for
danger from below and, like dogs chasing rats, they sought those who had survived the frozen night.
"Target practice," said Dumarest. He stood watching, hearing the sharp, spiteful sounds as the hunters stood in
their rafts firing primitive missile weapons at the survivors below. "But why?" he demanded. "Why kill when those
men could be put to better use?"
"Orders of the Toymaster," said Legrain. In the dawn his face was pale, peaked, the dried blood ugly on his cheek.
"No reprieve—a man wins in the arena or he dies. One way or another he dies." He looked to where Sachen lay
slumped against the stone. Sometime in the night the boy had died. "He is a lucky one."
Dumarest grunted, annoyed at the pessimism. He drew his sword and examined it. The hilt was a simple cross-
piece. Two of them could be lashed together to make a six-foot bow. Using a spear as an arrow perhaps…? He tested
the blade, swore as the metal curved and remained bent. Cheaply produced like the armor, which was little better
than plated tin. Tin soldiers, he thought bleakly. Toys in a giant nursery with a spoiled child in command. But the pain
had been real enough, the wounds, the blood and death. There had been nothing childish about those.
"What are you doing?" Legrain watched, his eyes huge with their smudging of shadowed fatigue. "A bow? What
will you use for an arrow?"
"Nothing." Dumarest threw down the sword. "The metal isn't good enough," he explained. "But we need
something to reach those rafts." He stood thinking, then snapped his fingers. "Got it! Find me some stones. Smooth
and round and about the size of an egg. Hurry!"
As Legrain searched, Dumarest took off the useless helmet and breastplate, stripped off the tunic and slashed it
with his knife. He plaited, knotted and hefted the crude sling. Legrain returned with the stones. Dumarest fitted one
into his crude weapon, spun it around over his head, let the stone fly. It arched into the sky well above the desired
height.
"That thing," said Legrain. "Can you aim it?"
"I used to be able to use a sling," said Dumarest, remembering. "When I was a boy back on my home world."
Back on Earth, he thought, where small game was scarce and noise to be avoided. But that had been a long time
ago now. How long? There was no way of telling. During the long journeys sleeping in Low or doped with quick time
in High, time was a swift-passing phenomenon. Biologically his life was measured in decades, chronologically in
centuries. He could only hope that he had not lost all his skill.
"They're coming," said Legrain, squinting at the rafts. Heading this way. If they get suspicious, rise higher…"
"What are their weapons?" Dumarest crouched against the rock, the gray of his clothing blending with the stone.
"Missiles, I know, but high-velocity or what?"
"Powerful," said Legrain. "I won the last two times, remember? A few of us were invited to join a cleanup squad,
collecting trophies, things like that." He didn't look at Dumarest. "Mostly they aim for the body, and those bullets went
right through."
"All right," said Dumarest. "Get rid of that uniform. Wearing it makes you too good a target." He stared at the
oncoming rafts. One had swerved and was heading directly toward them. Somehow he had to divert the attention of
the occupants, gain time to use the sling. He looked at Sachen. The boy was dead, nothing could hurt him now.
Urgently he called to Legrain, told him what he wanted. The man hesitated, then nodded.
"All right," he said. "But, Earl, don't miss."
"I'll do my best," promised Dumarest.
He loaded the sling, put other stones to hand, stood crouched against the stone as Legrain heaved the dead boy
from within the circle. The sun caught his vivid red tunic against the brown and gray. From the air he looked like a
man, wounded, helpless, signaling for aid. The raft veered, presenting its side to the target as Dumarest began to
rotate his sling.
The raft drifted closer. A voice echoed from it. "Hands off, people, this one is mine!"
A man appeared at the side, the upper part of his body above the low railing. He lifted a rifle to his shoulder,
aiming as Legrain half-fell behind the body of Sachen. Dumarest stepped free of the stone, air whining as he spun the
sling, releasing the stone as the man fired.
The bullet hit the dead boy, knocking him sidewise from Legrain's grasp, leaving Legrain a clear target. The stone,
winging upward, smashed the marksman just below the breastbone. He doubled, rifle falling out and down as he fell
backward into the raft. Legrain ran for it, caught it as it fell, turned and raced back to where Dumarest whirled his
reloaded sling. Fire spurted from the raft as he released the second stone. Legrain stumbled, fell, the rifle flying from
his hands. Dumarest dropped the sling, caught the rifle, dived for shelter as bullets chipped splinters from the raft. The
pilot, white-faced, froze his hands on the controls as Dumarest yelled up from the ground.
"Drop the raft! Drop it or I'll kill you!"
He tensed as the raft slowly lowered itself to the ground. Legrain, limping, came toward him.
"You've got them, Earl! You've got them!"
"Are you hurt?"
"No. They shot the heel off my boot." Legrain edged forward as the raft came within reach. "Now, Earl?"
"Now!"
They ran forward, jumped into the open body of the vehicle, searched it with quick glances. A dead man stared at
them, a hole between his eyes. Another fought for breath as he lay in a pool of his own vomit, blood frothing from his
mouth as broken ribs tore at his lungs. A third had an unrecognizable pulp for a face—the second stone had found a
target. The pilot sat at his controls rigid with terror.
"Is that all?" snapped Dumarest.
"That's right, sir." The pilot was shaking. "That's all."
"All right," said Dumarest. "Out."
"But—"
"Out!" The pilot took one look at the bleak face and sprang from the raft to the desert. Dumarest turned, glared at
Legrain. "Don't waste time, man. Get them over the side."
"A moment." Legrain was busy rifling the bodies of the dead, the pockets of the injured. "We'll need money," he
reminded. "The means to buy a passage." Grunting, he heaved them over the rail. "All right, Earl. Take us up." He
relaxed as the raft climbed into the sky. "We've done it," he gloated. "We've beaten the Toymaster."
Dumarest was curt. "Not yet, we haven't. Grab one of those rifles. Shoot anyone who comes too close." He
looked at the other man. "You've been here longer than I have. What now?"
"Rise high, head out to sea, aim for the sun. Well swing in a wide circle and hit the mainland well past the Barrier.
The cliffs are rotten with caves. Well find one and hide out until dark or maybe until tomorrow. Then we'll head back
into the city and arrange a passage. Mother Jocelyn will help us."
Legrain laughed, a man reprieved from death.
 Chapter Two
Leon Hurl, Stockholder of Toy, woke two hours after dawn and lay staring at the patterned ceiling as he waited
for the slave to bring his morning tea. It was going to be a busy day he decided. Aside from his normal duties there
was the meeting of the Spinners Association, during which they would decide future production, among other things.
This time, he hoped, they would avoid sterile rehashing of the obvious. They had already taken greater risks than he
cared to think about. It would be easy to go just that little bit too far.
A discreet knock signaled the arrival of his tea. The girl was young, nubile and not adverse to his favors, but
today she was disappointed. Leon had other things on his mind.
The phone hummed as he sipped the hot, spiced liquid. Irritably he reached out and hit the button. Mere Evan, a
fellow stockholder, stared at him from the screen. "A bright day, Leon. Did I wake you?"
"No."
"Then the offense is not as great as I feared. You accept my apology?" He didn't wait for Leon's nod; excitement
shattering the formal routine of polite behavior. "Leon, we did it! We beat the Toymaster!"
Leon sighed. "I know. And now I expect you want to call a special meeting of the cabal."
"Well, yes," admitted Evan. "I thought that—"
"You think too much," said Leon gently, "and don't understand enough. The last thing we can afford is to call
attention to ourselves. If Groshen ever guesses that we were aligned against him he would take violent action. Very
violent." He looked steadily at his caller. "I made the wager. I shall collect the winnings. We shall discuss details at the
regular meeting of the Association scheduled for later today. Or had you forgotten?" Evan flushed.
"You are too eager," said Leon. "There is no need of haste. The plan—"
"You are wrong, Leon," interrupted Evan. "Things aren't as they were. Did you know the Toymaster has a cyber in
attendance?"
Leon frowned. "Are you sure?"
"I saw him myself. His name is Creel. Why would Groshen want a cyber, Leon?"
Wrong question, thought Leon. What interest the Cyclan could have in Toy would be more to the point. The
services they offered were here totally unnecessary. He smiled blandly at the anxious face on the screen. "You worry
too much, Mere. We must do nothing without careful thought. This morning I will be at the factory. Later we shall
meet as arranged. Until then do nothing."
He killed the instrument and sat frowning on the edge of the bed. He was a broad, stocky man with close-
crimped hair and ebony features both showing his unsullied descent from, the original settlers. Evan was too anxious,
he thought.
The man was getting to be a positive danger. And yet his news was important. A cyber? Here on Toy? The thing
made little sense, but the man had to be taken into account. He must find out more about the sudden interest the
Cyclan was taking in the planet.
Rising, he bathed, used a depilatory cream on his stubble, adjusted his hair. He seemed even broader dressed
than he really was, wide epaulets extending his clavicles, a broad belt cinching his waist. Flared pants and boots of
polished jet increased the illusion. Casually he slipped the ceremonial whip over his left wrist and his attire was
complete.
Breakfast was a compote of juice, cereal and dried fruits washed down with more of his favorite spiced tea. His
personal antigrav raft carried him from home to the factory situated well beyond the limits of the town.
It was a huge place, the roof of the main hall soaring almost a hundred feet above the ground, the looms wide-
spaced on the park-like floor. Despite the gusts of air blowing through the ventilators the place had an insect-smell,
an acrid, musty odor. The air was still warm to compensate for the chill of the night; later it would become cool to
check the heat of the day.
Leon paused in the shadow of a loom, watching, sensing rather than seeing the smooth efficiency of the place.
The floor was clean, he noted, the weavers busy on their looms, overseers standing by with electronic goads. In the
glare of the overhead lights the place was a shimmering blaze of color.
Webmaster Vogel was busy entertaining a group of off-world buyers, giving them, Leon noted, the special
treatment which was composed of deference, humor, explanation and a subtle implication that they knew as much as
he did and could, if they wanted, do as well. That was ridiculous, of course. It took twenty years to make a
webmaster and even then most of them couldn't be trusted to produce a new pattern.
"As you see, Gentles," Vogel was saying, "the weavers are mutated spiders genetically selected for size, dexterity
and color of thread. You will note the development of their spinnerets. We use the injection method of teaching. A
selected weaver is trained to perform a certain task and, when it has mastered what is required, it is killed, a serum
drawn from its major ganglia and that serum injected to others of its kind. The 'memory' of the training is thus
transmitted from one weaver to many others. The rest is a simple matter of setting up the looms, overseeing, feeding
and all the rest of it."
Simple, thought Leon wryly. The mere fact that the spiders could be trained at all was an achievement in itself. To
get them to weave as they did was little short of miraculous.
"We have three hundred and seven regular pictorial designs," continued the webmaster. "And seven hundred and
twenty-eight repetitious patterns of various sizes. Therefore carpets, wall coverings and dress fabrics can be made to
suit any requirement." Vogel stooped, picked up a gossamer piece of fabric, a carpet large enough to cover a room.
Crushing it into a ball, he held it within one clenched fist. Releasing it, it sprang open, unmarked and uncreased.
"The colors are inherent in the material and so are permanent. Weight for weight the fabric is stronger than any
plastic or metal alloy and, treated as it is, is both fire-and weatherproof. If you own nothing else, Gentles, you should
possess a web of Toy. With it you have a tent, a cloak, a pattern to beguile the weary hours. A means of signaling if
you are in distress, a soft embrace for a partner and something to leave your heirs."
He had ventured close, thought Leon. Perhaps too close, for off-worlders were inclined to be touchy. Then they
chuckled and he relaxed. Trust the webmaster to successfully gauge the tolerance of his audience. A man who could
breed the irritable and ferocious arachnids would find human emotions child's play.
He caught the webmaster's eye, gestured with his head. Vogel made his apologies and came to where he was
standing. "Stockholder Hurl."
"How is it going, Webmaster?"
"Well," said Vogel. "I think these buyers will look no further after they see what we have to offer." He hesitated.
"May I be so bold as to offer my congratulations, Stockholder? The battle," he explained. "I watched it yesterday on
the screen. An obvious victory for the green and silver."
Leon nodded his acknowledgment of the praise.
"I won myself the entire dividend of a total share," said Vogel with pride. "Are you wagering again, Stockholder?"
"No," said Leon. "And if you are wise neither will you. It would be a great pity to see you standing on the block to
be sold for non-payment of debt."
Familiarity and a conscious knowledge of his own value edged Vogel's tongue with impertinence. "But you would
buy me, Stockholder Hurl. Who else would train your weavers?"
"There are others," said Leon sharply. Vogel was as dark-skinned as himself, but the smoothness of his hair told
of his polluted descent. And, an even greater difference, the man held no stock. It would do no harm to remind him
of the fact. "Get put on the block," he said deliberately, "and I will buy you. That is true. But only to keep your skill
from others. You would be put to work in the feeding pens. Good as you are, Webmaster, that is how I would treat
you. Remember it."
"Yes, Stockholder."
"You have offended me." Leon brought the lash of his whip hard against the side of his leg. "See that the offense
is not repeated. Now return to your duties."
Vogel bowed, shielding his eyes.

***

Outside the huge building Leon paused, breathing the crisp morning air, glad to be away from the looms. The
mutated spiders provided a constant stream of wealth but even so he could not overcome a lifelong repugnance for
the creatures. It stemmed, he thought, from the time his father had forced him to watch them feed. To gain energy
they needed a diet high in protein and so had been bred with a taste for meat. Even now he could remember the
screaming of the slaves. Broken men, criminals, the debris of the auctions it was true, but men just the same.
He shook himself; such thoughts were dangerously weak. Things were what they were because the system was
what it was. Before anything could be changed the system had to be shattered. Well, he corrected, not exactly that
but altered to a major extent. It was long past the time when Groshen could really be permitted to wield the power
that was his heritage. And yet the system was such that his power was virtually unbreakable.
In his office, Hurl touched a button. The screen lit with the pale face of a common worker. "This is Stockholder
Hurl," said Leon shortly. "The state of my account."
"One moment, Stockholder." A half-minute slid past. "You still have five percent of your last dividend to your
credit, Stockholder."
Five percent, thought Leon, killing the phone. As much as that? He sat thinking. What more did he need? A new
antigrav raft? More webbing for his palace? A few extra slaves? Deciding, he hit a button. The face of his social
secretary looked from the screen.
"Elgar," said Leon. "Those embroideries of Sha'Tung art. Buy them."
 "All of them, Stockholder?"
"As many as my credit will stand. Best to hurry," he reminded. "The next dividend is due in five days. Buy before
the price rises."
"As you order. Stockholder."
Leon sighed as he turned from the screen. A frugal man, he hated this regular necessity of spending the last of
his credit. And yet what else could he do? Unless spent it would be canceled. On Toy a stockholder could not
accumulate wealth.
The intercom hummed at his side. "A man to see you, Stockholder," said his receptionist. "Are you available?"
"Has he an appointment?"
"No, Stockholder. But he is a monk of the Universal Brotherhood."
"His name?"
"Brother Elas, Stockholder."
Leon was intrigued. "Send him in."
Monks of the Universal Brotherhood were scarce on Toy. Some had set up a church close to the spacefield,
others dispensed medicines and benedictions among the poor. Some even haunted the auction place, rattling their
chipped bowls of cheap plastic in an endless plea for alms. What could they want with him?
"Charity, brother," said the monk quietly when he shot the question. "The gift of kindness from one member of
humanity to another. The gift of life itself in all too many cases."
Leon gestured to a chair. "Such as?"
"There was a battle yesterday. Five hundred men fought in the arena. One hundred and ten survived to enjoy the
victors' feast. What of the rest, brother?"
"They died."
"Of cold, exposure and wounds," agreed the monk. "Many could have been saved had they medicine and fire,
food and medical attention. Far more would have lived to see the dawn had we been permitted to render our
services."
"No." Leon was emphatic. "In the arena they either win or die." He held up a hand to still the other's protest. "It is
not my ruling, Brother. Grego Groshen rules Toy. You must address your pleas to him, not to me. I am not the
Toymaster."
"You are a stockholder."
"I and twenty million others."
"But you hold more stock than most," reminded the monk shrewdly, "and so have greater influence. Please,
brother, I beg your charity on behalf of those who cannot help themselves."
Leon sat back in his chair, studying the monk in his rough, homespun robe. The man was cultured—his voice
betrayed his education—and if rumor was correct he would be a master of the psychological arts. What made such a
man content to wear a simple robe, crude sandals on naked feet? His eyes lifted to the close-cropped head, the thin
ascetic face wreathed by the thrown-back cowl, the eyes deep-sunk in shadowed sockets.
"Listen," he said abruptly. "As yet you have given me no reason to help you. Answer one question to my
satisfaction and I will see what can be done. You accept the challenge?"
Brother Elas bowed his head. "I accept."
"Very well," said Leon. He drew a deep breath. "Give me one good reason why I should help you."
The eyes of the monk met his own. "Look at your fellow men, Stockholder. The slaves, the ruined men, the
broken women, those stricken with disease and poverty. Look at them and remind yourself of one simple fact. Say it
to yourself: There, but for the grace of God, go I."
"Your creed?"
"Yes, brother. The day that all men look at others with that thought in mind the millennium will have arrived."
Leon was ironic. "Perhaps, but I do not think that many alive today will see it."
"No, brother, that is true," admitted the monk. "But we do what we can."
And what you do, thought Leon, Is very well done. Somehow the man had made him feel guilty, a little ill at ease,
and yet there was no reason for anger or impatience. To yield to either, Leon knew, would make him appear foolish.
Thoughtfully he looked at the monk. The Universal Brotherhood could not be assessed by appearances. They had
spread to a multitude of worlds and had friends in high places. To antagonize them would be unwise. To appeal to
their friendship, even, perhaps, gain their support would be a clever move.
He thumbed the button on his phone. "Those embroideries," he said to his social secretary. "Cancel their
purchase. Instead give the credit to a monk of the Universal Brotherhood. I'll give him a note." Killing the phone, he
scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper. "Here. I have five percent of my last dividend left. Use it as you will."
"Brother, you are most generous!"
 "Perhaps." Leon held the man with his eyes. "Or perhaps I am ambitious," he said softly. "It could be that I seek
your aid. Another question, Brother. What can you give me in return?"
"Our prayers, brother. Our aid in case of need."
Leon shrugged. "Your prayers I can do without, your aid also. Come, man, can't you do better than that?"
Brother Elas rose, held out the order, let it fall to the desk. "Charity, brother, is the act of giving without asking, a
gift without hope of reward," he said quietly. "We seek your charity, nothing else."
"Offering nothing in return?"
"Charity is an act of virtue, brother. Virtue is its own reward."
Small return for five percent residue of dividend, thought Leon. But how could you argue with a fanatic? The
monk could be nothing else. And yet he had to admire the man. At least he lived by his principles. "Here," he called as
the monk reached the door. "You have forgotten to take what you came for." He pushed the order across the desk.

***

Stockholder Mere Evan paced the room, his impatience mounting with every step. A thin film of sweat shone on
his ebony features, ran from beneath the crimped wool of his hair, telltale signs of high living which even the air-
conditioning could not prevent. He turned as Leon entered, relaxing as he gestured to a table ringed with chairs, all
but two occupied. "At last," he said. "What kept you?"
Leon glanced at his watch. "Am I late?"
"No," admitted Evan as he took his seat. "It's just that I thought you would have been more anxious," he
explained. "After the success of yesterday. Well," he defended, "it is a special occasion."
"Because we won?" Leon stood by his chair, glanced around the room. It was paneled in warm-grained wood
polished to a delicate glow, the ceiling a mass of intricate carving, relic of a bygone fashion. "Has this place been
checked for electronic devices?"
"It has." Restern, the chairman, short, square, laconic, gestured to the man at his side. "Sheem took care of that.
He has also fitted a mechanism which emits a heterodyning barrier. We are safe from spies."
Perhaps, thought Leon, but are we safe from traitors? It was impossible ever to be sure of that. Touchy pride
could seek revenge at any time for an imagined insult. Greed, still the most potent motivation, could lure someone
into making a quick profit, fear the same. Sitting down, he looked at each of his fellows. Nine men, ten including
himself, the whole of the Spinners Association playing the conspirator. Was it the danger, he wondered, that led them
on? The added spice to enliven uneventful living? That was easier to believe than that they were all altruists working
together for the common good.
Sheem rose to speak. "As you all know, the challenge met by the Toymaster has resulted in our gaining yet
another block of stock. This will be shared among us as agreed. We now have to consider our next move."
"Another challenge," said Evan impulsively.
Sheem raised his eyebrows and looked around the circle of men. "Any in favor?"
No one moved.
"Any other suggestions?"
Leon resisted the impulse to raise his hand. Let others be in the forefront, he thought. The last thing he wished
was to gain a reputation like Evan's. The man spoke too long and too often. Worse, he spoke without thinking. A child,
thought Leon. A danger. But the man was a stockholder, a member of the Association. He had to be tolerated.
"I do not think we can repeat another similar wager," said Restern quietly. "For one thing, the Toymaster is no fool
despite his erratic behavior. For another, the risk of losing is too great." He glared at Evan as he tried to interrupt. "We
managed to contract all available fighters of experience to wear our colors. Groshen was reduced to skimming the
block, snatching freshly arrived travelers, impressing inexperienced men. Naturally, because of that, he lost. But if we
should make a similar wager he will use his personal guards. Do any of you imagine that paid mercenaries could beat
that elite corps of men?"
He paused, waiting.
"There are others ways of making and winning wagers," said Evan. "We don't necessarily have to put men into
the arena. How about challenging him to a personal game? Chess, perhaps, or skag?"
Sheem was cutting. "Who will play? You?"
Evan hesitated. "I would if I had the skill," he said. "But…"
"Who, then?" Restern, careless of the offense his interruption may have caused, looked around the circle. "As I
thought. No one here is willing to risk the Toymaster's displeasure by an outright attack. I cannot blame you. Even
now we cannot tell the repercussions of Stockholder Hurl's victory. Groshen does not like to be beaten. His pride is a
tender thing." He looked at Leon. "It would be as well for you to allow him to best you in some small matter," he
suggested. "I apologize for any offense the concept may hold."
"Your apology is accepted," said Leon. "I have already given the matter my attention. A pair of matched slaves
who have caught the Toymaster's eye. I will lose them to him when the time is ripe."
Restern nodded. "You will not delay too long?"
"No."
"You are wise. The Association will, naturally, recompense you for your loss." Again he glanced around the table.
"Suggestions?"
"Let us pool our dividends, hire a band of trained mercenaries, attack the palace and take over." Mulwo was as
impatient and as hotheaded as his ancestors. "And we won't fight with those stupid swords and spears either. We'll
use automatic weapons, lasers, gas even. A hundred worlds are eager to supply what we need."
"Revolution," said Restem. "Armed men, blood in the streets, wanton destruction. And we would have no
certainty of winning. You should know what will happen then."
He knew, thought Leon, watching Mulwo's set features. His maternal grandfather had tried direct rebellion. Of
the entire family only his mother had survived and that because she was off-world at the time. It had taken twenty
years, half her stock and a new Toymaster before she had been permitted to return.
Mulwo cleared his throat.
"My apologies," said Restern quickly, "for any offense my words may have caused."
"I accept your apology," growled Mulwo. "Will you take a vote?"
The vote went against his suggestion and he sat, glowering at the table, a volcano ready to erupt.
"May I suggest attrition?" Another man broke the uneasy silence. "Subtle but direct influence on the Toymaster?
The bending of his will by the use of drugs and suggestion? I have a slave," he explained. "A girl, young and lovely,
who would be perfect as a weapon. Treated by my technicians she would—"
"—be spotted the very first time he put a mentaprobe to work on her psyche," interrupted Restem. "And that
would be before he ever saw her. A good suggestion, Amish," he said gently. "But one based on insufficient
knowledge." He looked about the table. "Anything else?"
"A direct challenge," said Leon slowly, wishing that the suggestion had come from somebody else. "It will come
sooner or later," he defended. "One of us or someone working for us must face the Toymaster and challenge him. The
situation is allowed for in Original Law. A Toymaster can be displaced by a majority vote, which is impossible to
achieve, or by a direct, personal challenge to prove his mental and physical right to rule this planet. A defense against
decadence," he explained. "Director Conrad of Grail knew the dangers attending a corporate society and guarded
against them in the Certificate of Corporation."
"True," mused Restern. "But such a challenge can only be issued by a stockholder owning ten percent minimum.
Who do we know who owns that amount of stock?" Regretfully he shook his head. "It is one of those impossible
dreams, Stockholder Hurl. It could have been done at first, perhaps, but not now. The diversity of stock is too great.
Long before we could negotiate even temporary possession of such an amount the Toymaster would strike."
"Quara," said Evan suddenly. "She must own almost the necessary amount."
"The sister of the Toymaster?" Mulwo snorted his contempt. "Are you insane? Do you imagine that for one
moment she would join us against her brother?"
Even was stubborn. "Why not? He dies and she inherits. The prize would be worth her while."
"And if she loses?"
"Death in torment." Evan looked around the table. "But if we all back her how can she lose?"
"Very well, Stockholder Evan, let us assume that." Sheem put his finger on the glaringly obvious. "She wins and
becomes the new Toymaster. Are we fighting to set a different foot on our throats? The same family," he pointed out.
"The same blood. The Groshens are not noted for their mercy." He watched their faces, their disappointment. He
spoke before that disappointment could grow, before tempers could fray. "I suggest we leave all plans to the future. It
will give us time to consolidate our winnings and to think not only of the advantages but also the flaws in any plan.
Now, Stockholders, let us attend to the normal business of the Spinners Association. Stockholder Sheem?"
Leon sat back, half-listening to the business details, the figures of production, sales, weights, patterns and prices
which governed the sale and supply of webs. Another failure, he thought. Another dead end. More delay as the cabal
found reasons for not doing what so obviously had to be done.
Of them all Mulwo had produced the only really practical suggestion.

Chapter Three
Dumarest sighed, stretched, jerked fully awake with the realization that something was wrong. He cautiously
extended his hand, felt for the rifle he had placed beside him, found nothing but the harshness of stone. He turned.
The place where he had chosen to sleep was far back in the cave they had selected for a hiding place. From outside
birds screamed as they wheeled through the salty air. Sunlight streamed through the opening, thrusting golden spears
into the dimness, illuminating the entire area on which the antigrav raft had rested.
It was gone. The cave was empty. The vehicle, Legrain, the rifles, all had vanished.
Dumarest rose, eyes narrowed as he searched the uneven floor. He could see no signs of a struggle, no trace of
blood. He looked again, then checked the spot where he had lain, felt in his pockets, his boots. He found nothing but
his knife. There was no message of any kind.
A pool of water stood to one side against a wall. He knelt, scooped up a double handful, laved his face and neck.
Cautiously he sipped some of the liquid; it was loaded with brine, undrinkable. Rising, he walked to the edge of the
cave and stared thoughtfully outside.
He saw nothing but the wheeling birds, the eye-bright orb of the sun. It hung low in the sky, almost touching the
horizon. He had slept for a long time; the dryness of his mouth and the hunger in his stomach confirmed this. Soon it
would be night. Then would come the freezing wind, ice-spray carried from the sea, the rapid fall in temperature.
From a haven the cave had turned into a trap.
He edged closer to the opening. A clump of vegetation offered a handhold. He grasped it, tugged, made certain
that it would hold his weight. Gripping it, he leaned far out and looked below, staring at the rocks, the spuming waves.
He twisted his head to look up at a vertical wall of gray stone blotched with the chalky droppings of birds. It was
weathered, eroded, the surface flawed so that an agile man would have a chance to climb to the summit. Against that
were the wind, the slippery surface, the wheeling birds whose guano crusted every niche—birds who would attack
any menace to their nests. And a fall would mean certain death on the rocks below. To remain in the cave without
food, water or fire held a predictable outcome.
Dumarest had no choice but to climb.
Easing himself back into the cave, he sipped a little of the brackish water, again laved his face and neck, cleansed
his hands of dirt and grime. Clamping his teeth on the blade of his knife, he returned to the mouth of the cave,
gripped the clump of vegetation and swung himself through the opening. Left hand holding tight to the sparse
growth, left foot still on the ledge of the cave, he sought for hand- and toeholds for his right hand and foot. He found
them, muscles straining as he pulled himself up and away from the mouth of the cave. Slowly, spider-like, he crawled
up the vertical wall. The wind pressed against his back like a giant hand.
His fingers brushed twigs, the structure of a nest perched on a ledge. He moved his hand, pushed aside the
obstruction, clamped fingers on the smeared surface. A bird screamed and flung itself at his back. The blow was hard,
punishing, only the metal mesh buried in the gray plastic saving him from the vicious beak. Its neck broken, the
creature fell, its place immediately taken by its mate. Dumarest released his right hand, snatched the knife from his
mouth, slashed as the bird lunged toward his eyes. Feathers spun in the sunlight as the headless creature plummeted
to the sea. Grimly Dumarest continued to climb.
A ledge gave him a respite. He rested, chest heaving, uneasily conscious of his physical limitations. He had done
too much too soon. The exertion of the battle, the strain of running, hiding, the fight against the cold and darkness,
the capture of the raft and the long, tedious flight over the sea. All with scarcely any sleep or food. For any man it
would have been an ordeal, but they had taken him fresh from traveling Low, his body-fat depleted, his reserves of
energy at a minimum.
Rising, he peered up at the cliff, searching for handholds, a way to the top. A thin, jagged crack ran diagonally
from the ledge, promising a relatively easy path. Teeth clamped on knife, he thrust his hands into the narrow opening,
boots scrabbling as they searched for a hold so as to relieve the strain. Inch by inch he moved up and away from the
ledge, conscious only of the rock before his eyes, the wind at his back, the dragging ache of his muscles.
The crack narrowed, petered out; beyond was nothing but sheer, polished stone. Dumarest reared back, looking
directly overhead. The wind gusted from the cliff, came between his body and the rock, threatened to push him from
his precarious hold. Sweating, he forced himself closer to the stone. He had seen a streak of darkness above, a thin
fissure revealed by the light of the setting sun. He gripped his knife, aimed, drove the point hard in the crack. It was
narrow, too close to penetrate with a finger, but it accepted the blade of the knife. He pounded it home with his fist,
gripped the hilt, pulled on it as he lifted his weight, left hand searching for purchase. He found it, muscles turning into
iron beneath the necessity to grip or fall. A foot fitted into the hold relinquished by his right hand. Another into the
one vacated by his left. Releasing his grip on the knife Dumarest reached out, felt despair as his fingers met smooth
stone, desperation as they touched a rough edge. Touched but could not grip.
Carefully he lifted his right foot, rested it on the knife, prayed that it would hold. A surge and he had risen, total
weight balanced on the blade, right hand reaching, gripping, the fingers turning into steel claws as the blade snapped
beneath his weight. Suspended by one hand, he hung against the cliff, arm and shoulder muscles dull with pain. Then
his left hand found a hold, then his boots, and with the strength of desperation he was up and away from the danger
point.
Above there now remained only a crumbling slope thick with vegetation, scarred and fissured by the forces which
sought constantly to topple the summit of the cliff into the sea. Dumarest crawled up it, reached the top, pulled
himself over. Ten steps from the edge he stumbled and fell, grass and sky whirling as he fought the nausea of
exhaustion, the gusting wind merging with the roar of blood in his ears.
"Get up!" The voice came from above and behind, deep and strong yet feminine. "You there! Get up on your feet!"
Dumarest rolled, looked to where a raft floated just above the ground. A woman stared at him from the pilot's
seat. She wore a sleeved tunic of brilliant yellow embroidered with a pattern of scarlet. A short cloak of similar
design hung from her shoulders. Her face was dark, lined with age and experience, the crinkled hair tight against her
skull. Her eyes were deep-set, hard. Her mouth and jaw were those of a man. Jewels gleamed from the lobes of her
ears.
"My lady?" Dumarest fought for time, for breath, for energy. This was a member of the ruling class of Toy. His
eyes left the mannish face at the sound of bells and laughter.
Behind the woman stood two children, their skin-color a delicate olive. They were dressed in red and yellow, the
garments all of one piece, the colors in a checkerboard design. Snug hoods rimmed their faces. Crest-like protrusions
carried tiny bells, their sounds ornamenting the wind. In the dying sunlight they resembled dancing flames as they
balanced on the rail, jumping, moving, never still.
"You had better do as Stockholder Ledra says," said one.
"That's right," echoed the other. "Get up on your feet while you still have the chance."
Their voices were incongruous. Not children, thought Dumarest, studying their faces as he rose and approached
the raft. Small people. Men less than two feet tall but perfectly proportioned. The fruits, he guessed, of biological
engineering, A strain bred for smallness to be used as novelties, toys, pets, amusing additions to a wealthy household.
He looked at the woman. "My lady," he said. "I beg your charity. I need assistance. Food, water, transportation to
the city. I was dumped," he explained. "Left in a cave to starve or freeze. I had to climb up the cliff to escape."
One of the little men whistled. "Dumped? In a cave?"
Dumarest nodded.
"What did you do?" The other was eager. "Sleep with the wrong woman? Win from the wrong man?" The small
face looked wise and somehow cunning. "You can tell us," he urged. "We know what goes on in the city."
"We certainly do," said the other. He winked at Dumarest. "It's all in our education," he explained. "To command a
good price we have to be versatile. Very versatile." The wink turned into a leer. "You'd be surprised how many women
have a use for a surrogate son. Mother love," he said. "I could tell you things about that."
"Be silent!" snapped the woman. "Be seated! Remain still!" She looked at Dumarest. "Excessive development of
the thyroid," she explained. "It burns them out but makes them tireless playthings. Sometimes they irritate but are
conditioned to obey a certain tone of voice. You understand?"
"Yes, my lady." Dumarest glanced to the rear of the raft. The two manikins sat perfectly still, apparently asleep,
their eyes closed, faces lax.
"So you were dumped," said Ledra thoughtfully. "Such a thing is unusual on Toy. Killed, crippled, tormented, yes,
but never before have I heard of a man being taken to a place of jeopardy and there abandoned. Their names?"
"I do not know, my lady. They were masked. Paid bravos, no doubt."
"No doubt," she said dryly, and then, "I saw you climb the cliff. The latter part at least. You must have great
courage and stamina. They are qualities I can use."
Dumarest was cautious. "My lady?"
"I am the Stockholder Ledra. On Toy that is both title and respectful form of address."
"My apologies, Stockholder Ledra."
"The title is sufficient. Well?" She recognized his bewilderment. "I am offering you a bargain. Medical attention
which you so obviously need in return for a supply of your germ plasm. Your genes bear certain characteristics which
I may find of use. I am a biological engineer," she explained. "Among other things I am attempting to breed a strain
of warrior-guards. Courage and stamina are two qualities they must naturally possess. If you agree to the bargain get
into the raft."

***

It was almost dark when they reached the factory. The sun had lowered itself beneath the horizon and already
the heat of the day was streaming into space, untrapped by the almost total lack of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.
Lights shone on the large, flat roof of the main building. A section slid aside, closing behind them as the raft settled. A
white-coated attendant came forward as Ledra stepped from the vehicle.
"Success, Stockholder?"
"Failure." The hard, mannish face was in direct contrast to that of the young girl assistant. "The bone structure is
still far too heavy. We must reduce the size even more and risk the loss of intelligence. I think the wing-span is as
large as can be managed but the legs could be sacrificed if necessary."
"That would be a wide divergence from the initial specifications, Stockholder."
"True, but we may have to compromise. An experiment," said Ledra, turning to Dumarest. "An attempt to
manufacture a flying man. I was testing the latest result just before I found you. The wind was too strong. The
creature was unable to control its wings."
"And, Stockholder?"
"It fell into the sea." She snapped brisk orders at the attendant. "Wake those two manikins. Give them both two
minutes of punishment at level eight. They must learn to control their tongues. Impertinence is not a salable
commodity."
"As you order, Stockholder."
"Flush the vat containing experiment eighty-three. We shall have to start from scratch. When you have finished
report to me in the laboratory." Ledra turned to Dumarest as the girl walked away. "Do you find her attractive?"
"She is pleasing to look at, Stockholder."
"You are cautious," said the woman. "Another desirable trait." She rested the white palm of her hand on his
forehead, his wrist. "You are close to exhaustion. We had best waste no more time."
Dumarest followed her down a corridor, past a series of cages in which crouched shadowed figures, through a
door and into a place of machines and sterile brilliance. An oddly shaped chair stood beside a tall cabinet studded
with dials and buttons.
"Strip and wash," ordered Ledra. "There is a shower through that door. Leave your clothes. They will be cleaned
and returned."
The water was hot, comforting, helping to ease the pain of bruised flesh and overstrained muscles. Dumarest
took his time, washing his hair, his body, enjoying the impact of the spray, taking advantage of the opportunity to
think. It was hard. His body was poisoned with too great an accumulation of toxins. Any great physical exertion now
would throw him into a coma in which he would hover on the edge of death. There was nothing he could do but take
full advantage of the present opportunity to regain his strength.
He stood naked before a drier, the hot air helping to relax him even more. He returned naked to the laboratory
where the woman waited.
"Stand here." She weighed him, stared at him as if he were another specimen she was about to dissect. "Thin,"
she commented. "Too thin. Where did you get all those bruises?"
"The men who took me to the cave, Stockholder," he said. "They were not gentle."
She shrugged, not commenting on the lie. "Sit down," she commanded. "Drink this."
She handed him a pint of warm, thick fluid. Cautiously he tasted it. Like basic, he thought. Sickly with glucose,
loaded with protein, laced with vitamins. A cupful contained enough energy to keep a spaceman alive for a day.
Gratefully he swallowed the contents of the beaker.
"And this." She refilled the container. "That will give your stomach something to work on," she explained. "You
know, the human digestive system is remarkably rugged and efficient. You eat food, it is processed in the stomach,
certain essences removed, the rest evicted. But that takes time. By eliminating the processing we can save that time."
She reached out, took the empty container from his hand. "Now lie back and relax."
He watched as she brooded over the panel.
"The most efficient way to get you into full physical condition would be to use slow time," she mused. "Accelerate
your metabolism up to a ratio of forty-to-one, feed you intravenously, keep you unconscious with drugs. You know of
slow time?"
"Yes, Stockholder."
"You would. Travelers usually do. Quick time also, no doubt?"
"It is used on a High passage," he said, wondering what she was getting at. "It shortens the apparent time of the
journey by slowing the metabolism and altering the time-sense. An hour becomes a minute."
"Exactly, but I intend to use neither. There is a better method." She deftly inserted hollow needles into his arm.
Tubes led from them to the cabinet. Dials kicked as she pressed buttons. "As I suspected, a dangerously high toxic
level." More buttons sank beneath her finger, then she turned to look at Dumarest. "Your blood is being processed
through this machine. It will determine the optimum constitution and remove all fatigue-inducing toxic elements. It
will also add a stream of easily assimilated concentrates to restore your physical energy. In effect, you are now in the
position of a man who is both asleep and eating great quantities of highly nutritious food."
 Uneasily he wondered what else was being added to his blood. Hypnotic agents? Truth serums? It was obvious
that the woman hadn't believed his story. Even now she could be rendering him helpless for later collection by the
authorities. He forced himself to be calm—there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing but be polite. "Thank you,
Stockholder," he said.
She shrugged. "We made a bargain. When you are fit I shall collect my share of it." She looked up as the door
opened. Heels rapped across the floor and the girl who had met the raft stood beside the chair. "Have you done as
ordered?"
"Yes, Stockholder."
"Good." The woman turned, a swirl of yellow and scarlet against the sterile whiteness of the laboratory. "I am
fatigued. Stay here with the man. When I am rested we shall collect his germ plasm."

***

Time, thought Dumarest. How much time? How long dare I wait? He opened his eyes and looked at the girl. She
sat on a chair at his side, reading, unaware of his examination. Dumarest maintained the regularity of his breathing. It
hadn't been hard to counterfeit sleep; the difficulty had been in staying awake. Despite the machine processing his
blood the warmth and comfort had done their work. That and the silence broken only by the sound of breathing, the
rustle of a turned page.
Hard, he thought, studying the girl's profile. The mouth and jaw bore a resemblance to the stockholder's. Still
young, still attractive, she would harden into masculinity with the passage of years. To appeal to her sympathy would
be a waste of time; people who manufactured monsters could have none of the soft, human emotions. And why
should she help a man who had killed those of her own kind?
Carefully Dumarest moved his right arm, the fingers reaching toward the needles embedded in his left, clamping
about the tubes, squeezing them shut. He would lose, he guessed, about half a pint of blood if he tore them free,
maybe a little more. It was a loss he had to stand. Any any moment the machine could add some sleep-inducing drug
to his bloodstream. It was logical to assume that it would. Logical to assume that it hadn't done so yet because it was
still working to remove present toxins. But why hadn't they used restraints?
Psychology, he thought. A trick to keep him calm and amenable. That or a sublime arrogance which precluded
the concept that he would dare to escape, to do other than what the stockholder desired. But, even so, she had left
the girl as a watchdog.
A lamp flashed on the cabinet and a warning device gave a harsh buzz. The girl looked up, rose, spun toward
Dumarest as he tore the needles from his arm. Before she could scream his hand was on her throat, fingers pressing
hard against the carotid arteries. She slumped unconscious; gently he eased her to the floor.
Pulsing blood welled from the wounds left by the needles. He stooped, ripped fabric from the girl's dress, bound it
tightly about his arm. His clothes lay where he had left them, still uncleaned. He dressed and returned to the
laboratory. The warning device still emitted its harsh noise. He pressed a button beneath the flashing light and both
light and buzzer died. In the following silence footsteps echoed from the corridor outside.
Dumarest crossed the laboratory, passing enigmatic machines, electronic microscopes, meson probes, dispensers
holding a thousand chemicals, the working tools of a biological engineer. He crouched behind the door, waiting,
hands stiffened to chop and stab. The footsteps grew louder, came level, diminished as they continued down the
corridor. A patrolling guard, he thought; the footsteps had carried the regular, mechanical beat of such a person.
There would be others and with good reason. Stockholder Ledra would have no desire to be surprised by an attack of
the monsters she had created.
Outside, the passage had a faint, acrid smell, the taint of chemicals and caged beasts. A faint mewing came from
further down where the cages ran from floor to roof, a stirring and a strange rattle as of claws on steel. Beyond lay
the landing stage beneath the roof, the raft, a way to the open air. Dumarest ran toward it, freezing as light blazed at
the end of the corridor, the harsh glare reflecting from the polished floor.
Creatures muttered in the cages, crying out as the light seared their eyes. A group of men surrounding the light
halted, staring at what it showed. "Incredible!"
A thin falsetto echoed above the cries. "See, Amrush? A cunning blend of bird. man and reptile. Note the clawed
feet, the scales, the crest of feathers. How, I wonder, would a pair of these mate?"
"Buy me, Stockholder," said a thick, drooling voice. "Buy me and find out."
"And this." The light moved closer to where Dumarest hugged the wall. "Amazing. Have you ever seen such a
plethora of feminine charms? Such a one would be worth an entire harem of ordinary slaves. Think of the
combinations, the permutations."
"It would kill you with loving," said another of the group. "But have we come to see such as these? Where are the
manikins?"
"In a lower chamber, Gentles," said the man who carried the light. An attendant, thought Dumarest. A guide. A
salesman whose task it was to display the wares of the factory. "Men and women both, Gentles. Young, virile and
highly trained in amusing arts. If you will follow me I shall be honored to display their prowess."
Dumarest turned as the light grew brighter, ducked through a door, found it gave onto a flight of stairs leading
down. He followed it, another, two more. He must now be at ground level, he thought, or even lower. The air held a
musty, dank smell despite the soft breeze from the air-conditioners. A passage led into darkness, water splashing at
the far end. He hesitated, then, as sounds echoed from above, ran down the corridor.
Halfway along something grabbed him by the ankle. He fell twisting so as to land on his shoulders, kicking out
with his free foot, feeling something yield beneath the impact of his boot. Water splashed and a faint green
phosphorescence illuminated the area. In the dull light Dumarest could see an amorphous shape floating in a tank of
water, a naked skull in which shone blue eyes, a fringe of tentacles, a lipped mouth from which came bubbling words.
"Come, my pretty. Come to me. Share my home." He slashed with the edge of his stiffened hand as a tentacle reached
for his throat. Another wound around his waist, tightening, dragging him to the edge of the water. Desperately he
leaned forward, thumbs stabbing at the shining blue eyes. The thing screamed, threw him backward, threshed the
water into foam.
"Cruel!" it blubbered. "Cruel to treat me so!"
Sickened, Dumarest climbed to his feet, raced down the passage. A woman, he thought. The thing had once been
a woman or a scrap of germ plasm which would have grown into a girl had not the biological engineer interfered. She
had cut, altered, adapted, grafted a new gene pattern, stimulated with chemicals, treated with forced growth under
the impetus of slow time. Created a freak for the titivation of her fellows. A pathetic thing destined to provide a
momentary amusement. On Toy not only the weather was cruel.
The passage ended in a steel door dogged fast but unlocked. He dragged it open, found stairs, raced upward. A
face gaped at him from a landing. He struck out, felt cartilage yield beneath his fist, ran on. Behind him came shouts,
cries, the thud of running feet. The stairs ended at another door. He tore it open, passed through, shut and bolted the
panel. Beyond lay the landing stage, rafts, the controls governing the sliding panel in the roof. An attendant turned,
stiffened as Dumarest clamped his hands around his throat.
"Open the roof," he snapped. "Quick!"
The attendant gurgled, reached for a lever. Night air streamed through the opening panel, frigid, numbing with
cold. Dumarest clubbed the man senseless and ran toward the rafts. One rested directly beneath the opening, a
covered vehicle, probably used by the visiting party. He dragged back the canopy, climbed inside, flung himself at the
controls. Engines whined to life, fans blasting the almost weightless raft upward, sending it forward as he cleared the
roof. Slamming shut the canopy, he advanced the forward speed and searched for the heater control. Turning it full on
he sagged back in the pilot's seat.
Free, he thought, but for how long? Within seconds they would be after him in the remaining rafts. Messages
would be sent ahead to watch for his vehicle. Patrol ships would be watching to blast him from the sky.
Irritably he shook his head. It was the reaction, the sudden cessation of effort, the effect of accumulated toxins in
his blood. The rapid action had once again depleted his reserves, that and the savage chill of the night. Shivering, he
tried to turn the heater control even higher.
For the moment he was safe. Lightless, the raft could not be spotted at night and, by the dawn, he should be well
away from the factory, with luck safely hidden in the city. Leaning back, he stared at the stars visible through the
transparent canopy. About midnight, he guessed. Say another six or seven hours to dawn. Long enough for him to
reach the city, leave the raft, proceed on foot. Long enough, even, to catch a few hours of sleep.
The thought was tempting; resolutely he pushed it away. A sleeping man was helpless to avoid the most trivial
danger and he had to stay awake to guide the raft, find a landing place, merge with the life of the city.
Again he looked at the stars, checking his position, wondering a little at the distant points of light, the worlds
circling those suns. Which was Gath? Which was Folgone? Folgone where Derai lay in a thousand-year subjective
sleep. Long gone now, of course, but it would be nice to know where she rested. Folgone and Hive and Gath, a
hundred remembered worlds.
But, above all, which was Earth?

Chapter Four
Battle had been done on a table, men attacking, falling, swept aside to lie in careless disarray. The survivors
stood, cold and silent, glowing with the colors of ruby and emerald, the board on which they stood fashioned of
diamond and jet.
Groshen, Master of Toy, took a sip of wine and frowned as he considered his next move. Three consecutive times
he had been beaten and now it had become a matter of pride. To Creel it was child's play, a means to while away an
idle hour, an opportunity to educate the ruler of Toy.
"Check." Groshen moved a piece.
The cyber moved a knight, captured a pawn. "Checkmate."
"Again? But how—?" The Toymaster fell silent as he examined the board. Irritably he gulped his wine. "I thought I
had you," he said petulantly. "I would have wagered a thousand units of stock on the outcome."
"It is a matter of prediction," said Creel evenly. His voice was an inoffensive modulation. "I have been trained in
such matters. With respect, my lord, you have not."
"I have been trained to rule!"
"That is true, my lord. My ability is nothing against yours but, even so, it has some use. If you will remember I
predicted when you moved your first piece that I would checkmate you in seventeen moves. As a matter of curiosity,
if you should wish to play again, move as you will and give me the number of moves at the end of which I must have
you in checkmate. Any number above seven."
Groshen puckered his lips. "You are confident, cyber."
"Certain, my lord."
"It is a trick." Absently the Toymaster set up the pieces, ringed fingers flashing in the light. He was a man of early
middle age, tall, in superb condition, his thick neck corded with muscle. His eyes held a peculiar brilliance and he had
a mannerism of inhaling through his mouth and exhaling through his nose. "You are trying to prove something."
Creel made no attempt to deny the accusation. "That is true, my lord. I am attempting to prove to you the worth
of the service offered by the Cyclan. Many rulers are pleased to retain a cyber."
"To influence their decisions?"
"To advise, my lord. Nothing more. To tell you the logical outcome of any proposed action. To help you arrive at
a decision by presenting you with the inevitable result of any sequence of events."
"At a price," said Groshen shrewdly. "The maintenance of yourself and your acolytes. A heavy sum paid to the
Cyclan. Why should I pay for what I already possess?"
"A cyber, my lord?"
"The Library." Groshen leaned back in his ornate chair. It reflected the barbaric leanings of the rulers of Toy as
did the sumptuous furnishings of the room. The hangings were of the finest weave, blazing with color, each tapestry
depicting an event in the history of Toy. The floor was tessellated with slabs of precious metal. Even the guards, each
seven feet tall, armed with ceremonial sword and shield, were dressed in cloth of silver. The Toymaster himself wore
white and gold, his dark skin in startling contrast to the snowy fabric. "The Library," he repeated. "As I told you,
cyber, Toy owns a computer. A very large and very efficient machine. With it I can predict all I wish to know."
"Everything, my lord?"
"All I need to know," Groshen repeated testily. "Can any man or machine predict everything in the universe? To
do so they would need to know all that can be known. An apparent impossibility." He helped himself to more wine.
"So you see, cyber, you waste your time. Toy has no need of the services of the Cyclan."
Creel picked up a chessman, placed it on a square, picked up another. In his scarlet robe he looked like a living
flame, the Cyclan seal glinting on his breast as he moved, his shaved skull death-like above the thrown-back cowl.
"You have probably asked the Library to predict the future demand for pattern one-five-three of the factory belonging
to Stockholder Hurl. Am I correct, my lord?"
"How should I know? These details are not of my concern." Groshen narrowed his eyes. "You are after something,
cyber. Very well. Let us find out what you want to know." He lifted a communicator, spoke into the instrument.
"Library. What is the sales prediction on pattern one-five-three, Hurl?" He raised the amplification.
"The prediction is that an extra fifty percent will be sold this month, Toymaster," said a thin voice.
"And after?"
"One hundred percent for the next three."
Groshen smiled at the cyber. "Well?"
"The machine is wrong, my lord. My advice is to discontinue that pattern for at least six months. A singer is
becoming prominent on Artus," he explained. "That world is your biggest customer for that particular design."
"The woman's name is Melange. It is the name of a flower and it has become a fad on Artus. The design of one-
five-three is that of a bird. A bird, my lord, is not a flower."
Groshen spoke into the communicator. "Listen to this."
"The buyers from Artus will want designs incorporating the flower melange. I would suggest that Stockholder
Hurl concentrate on pattern six-three-two and also pattern five-four-nine. Both have a melange as their central
theme."
A transient fashion, Toymaster," said the voice from the communicator."
"If a fashion cannot be created then it must be followed," snapped Groshen. "Incorporate the information and
issue as necessary. And, Vohmis, one more such error and I shall have you arraigned for inefficiency." Scowling, he
slammed down the instrument.
Creel was quick to salve his wounded pride. "The Library is a machine, my lord. It can only base its predictions
on information already in its memory banks. It can only extrapolate from known data. The Cyclan does not work with
such limited tools. A cyber must consider the effect of intangibles, influences, latent desires, unsuspected directives."
"The Library was founded by my ancestors," said the Toymaster curtly. "It has been added to over the centuries.
It is the largest instrument of its kind in this sector of the galaxy—perhaps even the largest there is. On it rests the
wealth of Toy. Not only for its predictions governing production and trade, but as an instrument for hire. And," he
added viciously, "it is impersonal. It owes allegiance to no group or clan. Can you, cyber, say the same?"
Creel remained silent, only the shifting gleam of the seal on his breast betraying a sign of life.
Groshen rose, crossed to a window, the polarized glass clearing as he touched a control. Outside shone the stars,
the glimmering night lights of the city. From the landing field came a cold glare of brilliance. There, men heavily
muffled against the cold sweated as they loaded cargo into the holds of waiting spaceships.
The Toymaster scowled. He hated the night, the cold, the mystery of darkness. To him the stars were alien eyes
peering down at his domain, the darkness a cloak for intrigue and subterfuge. What were they planning now? he
wondered. Safe in the darkness, faceless shapes of menace, shadows aligned against his will. He squinted down into
the courtyard beneath the window. Irritably he snatched up the communicator.
"Courtyard," he snapped. "Give me light."
Immediately the area was bathed in the glare of floodlights. Stark in their brilliance hung the bodies of three men.
They were naked, wrists lashed to a crossbar, ice forming a pool at their feet.
"Look," ordered the Toymaster. He waited until the cyber stood at his side. "Those men are guards. One coughed
while on duty, another moved, the third followed my sister with his eyes. If they live through the night they will not
again be so careless." He spoke into the communicator. "Water," he commanded. "Hot. Immediately."
Gloating, he watched as men came forward with hoses.
Vapor rose as they bathed the men with near-boiling water, melting the ice at their feet, the frost from their
bodies.
A child, thought Creel dispassionately. A spoiled, vicious child, venting his anger on those helpless to defend
themselves.
"A small mind," said a voice from behind the watchers. "Only my brother could find amusement in a thing so
trivial."
"Quara!" The Toymaster turned, eyes glinting with anger.
"Yes, my brother. Aren't you glad to see me?"
She was tall, magnificent in her carriage, large-breasted, wide-hipped, full lips betraying her sensuous nature. She
wore green, the gown hugging her body, sandals mere strips of leather on her naked feet. Emeralds glinted in the
crimped hair. Crushed jade sparkled from the nails of fingers and toes. She wore a poniard in a narrow belt of flexible
green metal.
Smiling at the Toymaster, she reached forward, took the communicator from his hand, spoke into it. "Release
those men. Tend them. The Stockholder Quara Groshen speaks."
"You go too far, sister!"
"How far is too far, brother?" She looked at him and shook her head. "Will you never learn? A guard is but a man.
He can hate and love and fear as other men. He can brood and nurse a desire for revenge. Our father would never
have treated men so. To kill, yes. To torment, never." She set down the communicator. "You are but human, brother.
Your skin is no thicker than that of any other. A knife, the beam of a laser, poison, a microbe in the air, all can kill you
as easily as your meanest slave."
"I am the Toymaster!"
"You are the largest stockholder on Toy," she corrected evenly. "Lose that stock and what do you have? Certainly
not the protection of those who love you."
For a moment Creel thought that she had gone too far. Groshen's eyes reddened, the whites becoming bloodshot
with suppressed fury. The ebony skin dulled, drained of blood. The lips thinned to an invisible line. And then,
incredibly, he laughed.
"You jest, sister. You tease. You do your best but you cannot hide your envy. It is foolish for me to become
annoyed." He lifted his goblet, sipped a little wine. "Fate, sister." The irony which determined that I was the first-born,
you the second. To me the stock and the rule of Toy. To you nothing but the crumbs from the table."
 It was her turn to display rage. Watching, Creel sensed the tension, the boiling anger barely controlled. She turned
and he met the impact of her eyes. "My lady?"
"Leave us!"
"Stay!" Groshen was quick to assert his authority. "This is my palace, sister. Here I give the orders, not you. Here,"
he added significantly, "and everywhere else on Toy. I advise you never to forget that."
She bowed, hiding her eyes, hating him and hating the cyber for having witnessed her humiliation. She was too
much of a woman to like the robot-like thing of flesh and blood. He was devoid of all emotion. He could not be
manipulated like other men. A cyber never knew the meaning of hate and love, envy and fear. An operation
performed at puberty divorced the thalamus from the rest of the cortex. The result was a living machine which could
not be bought or coerced. His only loyalty was to the Cyclan, his only possible pleasure the stimulation of mental
achievement.
"My lord." Creel bowed to the Toymaster. It was, he knew, time for him to leave. A cyber always did his best to
avoid personal involvement. "With your permission, my lord. There are things which require my attention."
"On Toy?"
"Personal matters, my lord."
Groshen nodded, watched the tall, thin, scarlet figure move toward the door. Beside him Quara gave a low
expression of disgust. "That thing!" she said. "Why do you tolerate his presence."
"He has his uses," said the Toymaster mildly.
"We don't need him." Quara looked at her brother. "What uses?"
"He is a clever man," said Groshen obliquely. "I am beginning to realize why a ruler needs someone like him." He
crossed to where the chessmen stood on their board. He sat, fingers absently toying with the pieces. "Not that he has
told me anything I did not already suspect," he added. "But sometimes it is as well to have confirmation."
"You talk in riddles, brother." She moved so as to stand at his side. "What do you mean?"
"You do not know?" His fingers touched the pieces one after the other. "Amish," he said. "Mulwo, Restern, Hurl,
Sheem, Evan, the rest of the Spinners Association. They play a game, my sister. Perhaps you know of it?" He didn't
wait for an answer. "A dangerous game similar to this. Perhaps you have been tempted to aid them; if so accept my
advice. No matter what they do they cannot harm the king." His fingers touched the king and queen. "The Toymaster.
They can put him in check but that is all. But you, the queen, that piece they can sweep from the board." His hand
moved, spilling the pieces, sending them to the carpeted floor. "Be warned, my sister."
She stooped, picked up the pieces, not bothering to remind him that life was not a game of chess.

***

On Toy the nights were coldest just before dawn. Then ice glittered in the streets and frost masked closed
windows; few were in the streets and those that were hurried to places of warmth and comfort. Muffled, a shapeless
bundle in heavy furs, Quara was certain that she had not been followed. Even so she was cautious. Three times she
passed the door which was her destination, waiting, listening for footsteps. Within her muff her hand was tight on the
butt of a laser, small, silent, deadly. Only when she was convinced that she was unobserved did she halt at the door
and press the button in a series of pulses. It opened. She stepped inside, heard the panel close behind her, blinked in a
gush of sudden light.
"Stockholder Groshen!" Leon Hurl stared at her. He was fully dressed, in the middle of his second period of
activity. Not even after hundreds of years had the human metabolism managed to adjust itself to the thirty-hour day,
the fifteen-hour night. Men worked and slept much after the old pattern. "Is this wise?"
"I think so." Swiftly she shed her furs, tucked away her weapon, shivered to the memory of outside cold. "Is this
how you greet me, Leon? No hot spiced tea?"
"My apologies, Stockholder. I am remiss. If you will follow me to the solar I shall attend to your needs."
"Please, Leon." Her hand rested familiarly on his arm as he led the way to a room whose roof blazed with sun-
lamps. "Must you be so formal? Haven't you known me long enough to talk as a friend?"
"Again I apologize." He turned, looked at her, eyes soft with memory. A long time, he thought. Long enough to
have played with her when she was a child. To give her rides on his shoulders. To dangle her on his knee. How much
like her mother she looked! He felt the old pain, the hopeless yearning still undulled by time. Estar was dead now,
ashes with her husband, but she lived again in her daughter.
He ushered her into a chair, went to order tea, carrying it himself to shield her from the curious eyes of the
household slaves.
She sipped, looked at him across the vapor rising from the cup. "The Toymaster," she said abruptly. "He knows."
He looked at his hand. The liquid in his cup remained still. Well, he thought, it had to come sooner or later. Ten
men could not hold a secret for long. But did he just suspect or did he have proof ? And, if so, could the girl be
involved? He sipped, thinking. It was unlikely. She met none of the cabal aside from himself and they always
exercised the greatest caution.
"Leon!" She was disturbed at his silence. "Don't you understand? He knows!"
"He probably does," he admitted. "But what does he know? That we of the Spinners Association have combined
to obtain more stock in a variety of ways? That is not against the regulations. It isn't contrary to Original Law. Does
he guess at your part in all this?"
"I'm not sure," she said. "I think so. He spoke oddly and warned me not to be involved. It could have been an
empty threat or more of the workings of his twisted mind. Leon! What shall we do?"
He poured himself more tea. "Nothing."
"But—"
"What can he really know? That we meet and talk and that is all." But, he reminded himself, some of the talk had
been less than wise. Mulwo with his suggestion to hire mercenaries and stage an armed rebellion. That alone would
be enough to incriminate them all. Who could be the traitor? he wondered. Restern? Evan? How to tell among so
many? "Tell me," he said quietly. "Did the Toymaster name names? State facts?"
"Names, yes. Facts, no."
"Then it could all be surmise," he pointed out. "A desire to claim greater knowledge than he has. With respect,
Quara, your brother is not wholly sane. Such a man would be suspicious of a shadow. Did he say anything else?" he
urged. "Give a source of information, perhaps?"
Slowly she shook her head, then, "The cyber! He claimed that Creel had his uses, that a ruler would be wise to
have such a one at his side." She frowned. "What could he know? A stranger to Toy."
"Do not underestimate the Cyclan," said Leon somberly. "The red swine are clever. From two facts a cyber can
make a third, more. A hint and he will predict the logical development of events. And, for some reason, he wants to
gain the favor of the Toymaster. Do you know why?"
Quara shook her head.
"It could be important," mused Leon. "The Cyclan does nothing without reason. I wish that I knew."
"The meeting," she said. "What was discussed? Did you make any resolutions?"
"Nothing of importance. Just to postpone any future action. It was the usual thing," he explained. "Mulwo wanted
to stage an armed rebellion but lacked any support. Amish suggested eroding the Toymaster by planting an
instrument pliant to our will. Evan—" He broke off.
"Well?"
"He made a wild suggestion," he said carefully. "He could not know of your interest."
"Tell me."
"I mentioned the possibility of challenging the Toymaster as provided for in the Original Laws but, as Restern
pointed out, it is an impossible dream. The challenger has to hold at least ten percent of stock to become eligible.
Evan mentioned your name. He pointed out that you hold the necessary amount."
He fell silent, not looking at her, hearing the faint exhalation of her breath.
"A challenge," she said thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of that."
"The risk is too great," he said quickly. "If you lose you will be ruined and perhaps worse. And you will lose. The
place, style and choice of weapons reside in the control of the Toymaster. It would be impossible to best him." He
looked down at his hand. The fingers were curved to reflect his thoughts. "He has us," he said. "In the hollow of his
hand. All we can do is sit and wait for him to move against us."
"And while you wait he will ruin the planet." She rose, paced the floor, eyes blazing with the memory of past
humiliations. "Already we are a mockery to more cultured worlds. Slaves! Battles! The iron grip of tyranny! Our
ancestors did not plan for this, Leon! Somehow he has to be stopped!"
True, he thought tiredly. But when, how and by whom?

***

Feet soundless on the thick carpets, Creel strode through the corridors of the palace toward the rooms which had
been placed at his disposal. Even as he walked his mind evaluated the data around him. The guards, magnificent
examples of humanity, stood in alcoves, living statues of flesh, bone and muscle, yet their eyes were dulled, betraying
their lack of intelligence. Tapestries livened the darkest corner with boasting colors, carving adorned every surface.
Even the air held the taint of incense.
Barbarians, he thought. Children displaying their love of garish color, easily amused, violent in their passions,
thoughtlessly cruel. Not a decadent society but one which had flowered in its own fashion, unchecked by the
influence of older worlds. But here, he thought, motives were transparently obvious: greed, desire, the struggle for
personal power, hate and fear coupled to envy. Trusted tools with which to work. It should not be hard to gain a
foothold on Toy.
One of his retinue stood outside the door to his private chambers. A young man,, sternly impassive, fanatically
dedicated to the service of his master. He stiffened as Creel approached, deferentially opened the door.
"You appear fatigued," said Creel, halting. A tired brain was an inefficient one. "Your relief ?"
"Due in thirty minutes, master."
"Relay my instructions. Total seal. No interruptions for any reason." Creel's voice retained its modulation. There
was no need for aural emphasis.
Within his private room he crossed to the window, cleared it, frowned at the external layer of frost. Either the
heating elements were at fault or the window was devoid of the attachment. Turning, he surveyed the chamber. It
was small, fitted with the minimum of furniture, a place with a window, a door, a bed and little else. The Toymaster
was either expressing his indifference or knew more about the Cyclan than he admitted. Luxury was something any
cyber could do without.
Creel touched the bracelet locked about his left wrist. Invisible forces flowed from the instrument to set up a field
which ensured that no electronic device could be focused in his vicinity. Spying ears and eyes would remain deaf and
blind if they tried to pry into his room.
Lying supine on the bed he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formula. His breathing grew
slower, shallow, regular as that of a man asleep. He gradually lost the use of his senses; had he opened his eyes he
would have been blind. He floated, detached, unstimulated by external reality. Within the confines of his skull his
brain became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness his only connection with normal life. Only then did the
grafted Homochon elements become active.
Creel entered a new sphere of existence.
No two cybers had the same experience. It was something uniquely individual, impossible to either explain or
fully communicate. For him it was as if he were a droplet in a universal sea, a mote drifting in a pulsing ocean of
shimmering brilliance, each droplet shining with the pure light of intelligence. They swirled and rotated about a
common center, an inexhaustible sea reaching to infinity, and he was a part of it while it was a part of himself. He
saw it, shared in it, belonged to it as one of a tremendous gestalt of living minds.
The center was the pulsing heart of the Cyclan. Deeply buried in the heart of a lonely world, the central
intelligence was the nexus from which streamed the complex power of the organization of which it was the heart and
brain. It touched his mental emissions, absorbed his knowledge as if he had been a squeezed sponge, took it,
assimilated and correlated the data in a flickering instant of time. There was no verbal communication. Words were
unnecessary, too slow, too tedious. Instead there was an instantaneous cerebral transmission against which the speed
of light was a veritable crawl.
Financial pressure unnecessary at this time. Events moving to culmination of desired aim. Use to full advantage.
A question.
Use any and all means to achieve desired end. Failure not be tolerated.
That was all.
The rest was an ecstasy of mental intoxication.
After rapport, during the time when the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the machinery of the
body began to re-associate itself with mental control, there always came this period of supreme enlightenment. Creel
floated in a darkening nothingness while he sensed strange memories and unlived situations, caught flashes of eerie
thought concepts. Scraps of overflow from other minds, the residue of powerful intelligences, were caught and
transmitted by the power of central intelligence, the tremendous cybernetic complex which was the power of the
Cyclan.
One day he would be a part of that nexus.
Creel opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling, seeing not the carved surface but his own future. His body would
age and die, but his brain would be salvaged, incorporated in central intelligence, there to remain living and aware, a
unit among countless other such units. A part of a superior brain, sharing and belonging to each and every other
living mind in the entire network of freed intelligences.
His reward. The reward of every cyber—if they did not fail.

Chapter Five
There were guards at the gate, a small knot of men talking, lounging at their ease. Dumarest looked at them, at
the ships resting on the landing field beyond, graceful silhouettes against the lightening sky. The guards were no real
problem; there were other ways to get on the field and once among the ships he could contact a handler, arrange for a
Low passage. But he could do nothing without money.
He looked around. A short distance from the gate the monks of the Universal Brotherhood had set up their
portable church on a patch of cleared ground. Half a dozen men stood in line outside, waiting to enter, to sit beneath
the benediction light, to confess their sins. Hypnotized, they would suffer subjective penance, gain comfort and
mental ease, receive the traditional bread of forgiveness. Most of them, Dumarest knew, were more interested in
getting the wafer of nutritious concentrate than easing their souls, but to get it they had to accept the hypnotic
conditioning against violence to their fellows. The monks considered it a fair exchange.
He fell into line, hearing the low murmur of voices coming from the interior of the church. The man ahead, thin,
pale, bearing the obvious marks of malnutrition, turned as Dumarest nudged him in the back.
"Take it easy, mister. You're not the only one who's hungry."
"I want information," said Dumarest. "Have any ships left since yesterday afternoon?"
"Maybe. What's the information worth?"
"A broken arm if you don't give it," said Dumarest curtly. He'd walked five miles in biting cold since leaving the
raft and his temper was getting short. "And tell me the truth," he added. "I'll know if you lie."
The man hesitated, saw the pale, strained face, the scarred clothing. "All right," he said. "You don't have to get
tough about it. One ship left yesterday. A small freighter bound for Toris."
"All right. Now where can I find Mother Jocelyn?"
A dirty thumb jerked over a shoulder. "Her place is down there. The house with a turret. But unless you've got
money you'll be wasting your time."
Early as it was the establishment was open for business. It was, Dumarest guessed, never closed. A place mainly
catering to those who rode Middle, the men who crewed the metal eggs which traveled the gulfs between the stars; a
taste of adventure for those who spent their lives in a gray monotony of emptiness.
He pushed opened the door, stepped into a vestibule warm with circulated heat. Soft music drifted through the
air, the wail of pipes, the beat of drums, the metallic clashing of cymbals. The air held a jungle-scent, raw, lush,
animal. Womb-shaped, the vestibule reached from the door to a wide desk.
"Your pleasure, master?" The receptionist was young, superbly shaped, black rippling hair framing an olive face.
"We have analogues to suit all requirements. Pain, fear, torture, death. We can give you the sensory excitement of a
harem, a battle, invigorating delights of a hundred kinds."
Her voice chilled as Dumarest came closer. "What do you want?"
"Mother Jocelyn."
"You have an appointment?"
Dumarest leaned forward, his hands resting lightly on the desk. "Don't play with me, girl. Just tell your boss that I
want to see her."
She swallowed. "Your business?"
"Private." Dumarest straightened, turned as a man entered the vestibule from a side door. He wore the uniform of
an engineer. His eyes were glazed, unfocused. He walked unsteadily, as if he was not quite sober.
"Wonderful!" he said, looking at Dumarest. "I've never known anything like it. Take my advice and try number
thirty-one. Expensive but it's worth it. Number thirty-one." He weaved past on his way to the door.
Dumarest turned back to the girl. Her eyes met his own, as level as the laser she held in her hand. "You will take
three steps backward," she said. "Away from the desk. If you do not move I shall burn you between the eyes. I am a
very good shot," she added. "At this range it would be impossible for me to miss. Now move!"
He relaxed his knees, dropped and fell forward across the desk, snatched the weapon from her all in one, swift
movement.
She looked at him with incredulous eyes. "Fast," she said. "I have never seen anyone as fast."
"Nor as desperate," he said grimly. He rested the laser on the edge of the desk. "Now may I see your boss?"

***

Mother Jocelyn sat primly upright in her chair. She weighed no more than a child, skin tight over the bones of her
face, eyes deeply set in their sockets. A crimped wig sat on her skull. Her hands were thin, heavily veined glittering
with rings. A voluminous dress of purple and gold masked her figure. She looked at Dumarest as he was ushered into
her room.
"Your business must be very urgent for you to have taken such risks," she said. Her voice was a piping treble. "I
hope for your sake that you are not wasting my time."
 "The importance is relative, my lady." Dumarest glanced at the guards standing to either side. "We have a mutual
friend," he said abruptly. "A man named Legrain."
"Mac Legrain?"
"That is the one. I want to find him."
"You owe him something?" The thin voice held amusement. "It must be a heavy debt for you to have taken so
much trouble. You realize that you could have been killed downstairs? That you could still be killed?" Abruptly she
gestured to the guards. "You may leave us," and then, to Dumarest, "Mac Legrain is a friend of mine. You believe
that?"
Dumarest shook his head. "No, my lady. What would a person such as yourself have in common with a man like
Legrain? You may be business associates, nothing more."
"Not even that," she admitted. "He has been a customer here and that is all. If he told you otherwise he lied." She
dropped her hand to a carved box resting on a small table at her side, lifted the lid, took out a slender tube which she
placed between her lips. A thin, acrid scent filled the air. "Malash," she said. "You know of it?"
"Yes, my lady."
"In time it will kill me," she said. "But beneath its influence, I am young again." Sucking thoughtfully she stared at
Dumarest. "Yesterday," she mused. "About this time or maybe a little later. Two men managed to escape from the
arena. They killed three men doing it and put another in the hospital."
Dumarest made no comment.
"The guards are searching the city," she said casually. "Do you know what happens to men who do a thing like
that?"
"You are going to tell me," said Dumarest.
"They get thrown into the pens. Food for the weavers." Her eyes were bright as they watched him over her tube.
"Spiders," she explained. "Ugly brutes as large as your head and with an appetite for living flesh. It is not an easy
death. I have," she added, "an analogue of the experience for those with masochistic tendencies. Number eighteen. It
is not in great demand."
"No," said Dumarest dryly. "I can understand why not."
"The best thing those men could do would be to leave Toy as quickly as possible." She lifted a ringed hand,
removed the tube from her lips, studied its tip. It was charred with chemical heat, the inhaled oxygen breaking
narcotic compound into its active constituents. "It could be arranged," she said softly. "It would depend on many
factors but it could be arranged."
"Tell me where I can find Legrain and you'll have the money," promised Dumarest.
"Money?" Gently she shook her head. "Did I mention money? There are other forms of payment, my friend. You
are strong, fast, ruthless. Only such a man could have escaped the arena. A good subject for an analogue. The battle,"
she said. "You must have fought well. And perhaps there are other adventures you have experienced which could be
of value. A trade," she suggested. "A passage for an analogue. A fair exchange."
Dumarest hesitated. Analogues were usually taken at the time of the experience, machines recording every
mental and physical detail. Such a recording could be played back to a receptive mind, the recipient seeming to
actually live the recorded experience. Surrogate adventure, better than real life because predictable and safe. Death,
even, vicariously enjoyed.
"You hesitate," she said sharply. "You are afraid? No," she amended, looking at him. "Not afraid. Cautious. You do
not trust me?"
"My lady," he said frankly, "life has given me little cause to trust anyone."
"You are wise," she said, unruffled. "There is no honor among thieves—as you have reason to know." She
replaced the tube between her lips, sucking hard so as to fill her lungs with the euphoric vapor. "A pity," she
commented. "An hour with my technicians and your troubles would be over."
And that, he thought grimly, is exactly what I'm afraid of. She wants to raid my mind, snatch what is useful and
leave what is not. But how careful would she be? What damage would she cause? What interest could she have in
keeping me sane and well? No, he decided. There has to be another way to get off Toy.
The same guards who had ushered him into the woman's presence ushered him out, leading him down corridors
lined with doors which leaked disturbing noises: groans, screams, laughter, a soft whimpering, other, less human
sounds. Customers locked in their worlds of make-believe, paying to enjoy or suffer another's pleasure or pain.
Emotional ghouls.
The receptionist looked up as he entered the vestibule, her eyes cold, distant. He walked down the womb-like
room, to the door, the cold air of the street.
Into the arms of the waiting guards.
 ***

Restern's face was taut on the screen. "Leon. Have you heard the news?"
His lack of the usual punctilious address betrayed his agitation. Leon leaned back in his chair and looked at his
caller. "No," he said. "I haven't heard anything of interest. I've been at the factory all morning," he explained. "Since
shortly after dawn. What is it?"
"Mulwo's dead. Sheem called and discovered the body."
Leon frowned. "How do you mean? Where was he? Where were his servants?"
"Gone," said Restern curtly. "His personal valet was found in the bath with his throat cut. His bed-slave had been
shot with a laser. The rest had vanished. We'll find them," he said after a pause. "But it's obvious what the story will
be. The valet went insane, perhaps through jealousy. He shot the girl and Mulwo, then killed himself."
"After terrifying the others to make them run." Leon frowned, thoughtful. "How many were there? Mulwo didn't
maintain a large town establishment, as I remember."
"Not since his wife died. His only son is out at the estate. Sheem is calling to break the news. My guess is that
there'd be only four or five more servants. Six at the most. His raft is missing," he added. "The pilot also."
"Naturally," said Leon dryly. "The one who did this had no desire to leave witnesses."
"You don't think it was as it appears?"
"Do you?" Leon met Restern's eyes. "Who is working on the case? Commander Gyrn of the city guards?"
Restern nodded.
"Then we know what the verdict is going to be. The missing servants will never be found. Mulwo was killed by his
valet, who then cut his throat, probably forgetting he held a laser. Before doing that he somehow managed to terrify
all the rest of the servants into getting aboard the raft; they headed out to sea and there drowned themselves." His fist
made a drumming sound as he slammed it on the desk. "Raw," he said. "Too raw. Does he think we are all fools?"
"Groshen?"
"Who else?" Leon sat, drumming his fingers, wondering how much to tell the other man. Nothing at all, he
decided. With an obvious traitor in the cabal no precaution could be too stringent. But to him it was obvious what had
happened and why it had been done. A warning, he thought grimly. The one who had advocated armed rebellion was
dead. Who would be next?
"Listen," he said to the anxious face on the screen. "There is nothing we can do, therefore we shall do nothing.
Aside from sending the usual condolences, of course. Do you know how his son wishes to dispose of the body?
Cremation? Converting it into a Figure? Of course, you couldn't know that yet," he said, remembering. "The
Association must send a tribute." He shook his head. "This is bad," he said. "Mulwo was a good man."
Restern cleared his throat. "Perhaps," he said carefully, "we shouldn't make too much of that."
"No." Leon was emphatic. "He worked with us," he explained. "We saw much of each other. He was a personal
friend to you, me, others. To deny that now would be to admit we knew him to be an enemy of the Toymaster." He
paused. "To do that," he said softly, "will be to act like dogs on the run. I, Stockholder Restem, am not a dog."
"My apologies if any words of mine could have inferred that you are, Stockholder Hurl."
"I accept your apology." Ritual, thought Leon. But it had its uses. It kept men facing reality if nothing else. But I
shouldn't blame him too much, he thought. I had the benefit of advance knowledge. This does not come as the
surprise it does to him. Him and the others, he thought. The next meeting of the cabal could well be its last.
Frightened men made poor conspirators and Mulwo's death would give them cause for fear. Unless…?
"I have some business to conduct," he said. "I may need to contact you in haste. You will be at home?"
Restern shook his head. "No," he said. "Your advice is good. I shall be working as usual. That," he added grimly,
"or I shall be under interrogation."
It was a likely probability. The Toymaster was not the sort of man to ease up once he had someone on the run,
Leon reflected as he hung up.
A call brought his raft the the door. He climbed in, settled back on the cushions, snapped an order to the pilot,
"The Library."
"At once, Stockholder."
Leon relaxed as the raft hummed high into the sky. To one side he could see the city, wide streets and beautiful
buildings, spacious and gracious, a machine designed for luxurious living, the landing field and warehouses discreetly
placed to one extremity. Or at least, he reminded himself, that was how it had been in the beginning. Now hovels
rested where open spaces had looked at the sky. Ugliness and squalor had shamed the original conception.
And it had been a wonderful conception. True, the Director of Grail had given his son the world as a plaything,
but the boy had had a love of beauty and he had been guided by older minds. Guided but not trammeled. He had
done his best to build a Utopia.
 He had almost succeeded, thought Leon. Had succeeded for the first few generations before the race had become
contaminated and the population divided into those who held stock and those who did not. Broodingly Leon thought
of the Figures at home in his country palace: the bodies of his ancestors, treated so as to render them proof against
corruption, which sat at the long table in the Hall of Memories. They had known the good times of building, the
exciting times of vigorous growth. They had died peacefully of age, honorably in combat, but how many had felt the
vile touch of an assassin?
What would they have thought of the lunatic progress of the present Toymaster?
"The Library, Stockholder." The voice of the pilot broke into his retrospection. He guided the raft into a wide lazy
circle. "The main entrance, Stockholder?"
"No." That would be too crowded, thronged with those who wished to hire the services of the machine, busy with
agents acting on the behalf of clients light-years away. "The technicians' entrance," he decided. And if Vohmis didn't
like it that was just too bad.

***

There were the usual formalities. Leon stood, controlling his impatience as a technician checked his identity
against the master role. Like a priest, he thought. A guardian of one of the old religions. A temple-keeper jealous of
his prerogatives, automatically against anyone who did not belong to the cult of which he was a member. And the
Librarians were a cult, a closed circle of those who could operate and maintain the machine. You can't blame them,
Leon told himself. They are working for the common good, for all the residents of Toy.
And yet he was irritated. He was a stockholder with all its attendant privileges. He had the right of access to the
Library at any time.
"Stockholder Hurl!" Vohmis, the Head Librarian, rose as Leon entered his office. He was old, skin dulled with the
passage of years spent poring over his charts and graphs in his sunless office. A human mole, thought Leon. A man
who never left the precincts of the Library. "This is an unusual pleasure."
"One that has been delayed too long, Stockholder Vohmis," responded Leon politely. "I must thank you for your
prediction in regard to my patterns. The melange is an unusual bloom." He hesitated, then: "One that is of limited
popularity. I trust there can be no mistake?"
"None!" Vohmis was always quick to defend his predictions. Too quick, thought Leon. He pressed a little harder.
"Odd that the prediction should have changed so abruptly. You are certain as to the validity of the new data? I
ask," he said, "because of the importance of the change. We do not want to be loaded with unsalable designs."
"The prediction is accurate," said Vohmis. He returned to his desk, sat, toyed with the sheaves of paper which
always cluttered the flat surface. "You need have no fears on that score, Stockholder Hurl."
"My apologies if I unwittingly questioned your integrity," said Leon.
"I accept your apology."
"You have a position of tremendous responsibility," said Leon, sitting without waiting for an invitation. "In a sense
you are the real ruler of Toy. The financial ruler," he hastened to add. "A wrong prediction and the dividend would
suffer. Too many of them and our wealth would dissipate. And it would take so little," he mused. "A scrap of faulty
data. A misleading fact. Information which turned out to be inaccurate. Information," he said meaningfully, "which
could originate from someone who has not the welfare of Toy at heart."
"You are talking of the changed prediction," said Vohmis shrewdly. "The data came direct from the Toymaster."
"From Groshen?" Leon leaned forward in his chair. "Or," he said softly, "from the cyber Creel?"
Vohmis hesitated. "From the cyber," he admitted. "But I checked," he hastened to add. "By ultra-wave with Artus.
What the cyber said is true."
"Of course." Leon backed, smiling, casual. "What else could it be? A lie at this time would defeat his purpose. It
would rob him of the regard of the Toymaster. No, Stockholder Vohmis. The cyber will not lie, not yet."
Vohmis snatched at the bait. "You think he will later?"
"I mention it as a possibility," said Leon smoothly. "On an assumption based, I will admit, on suspicion rather than
fact. But if the Toymaster should come to rely on the cyber, choose his predictions over your own, what then? The
Library will not be as it is now." He laughed, shrugging. "But who knows what the cyber will do? Or the Toymaster?"
"It might," said Vohmis slowly, "be possible to find out."
"An analogue, you mean?" Leon looked thoughtful. "I hadn't considered that," he lied. "But now that you mention
it I assume it would not be hard for you to run a few problems through the machine based on assumed data. What
would happen if the cyber should lie in some probable future, for example." He shook his head, gesturing with his
hands. "But I hardly need to tell you what to do. You, better than any man on Toy, need no such advice."
Flattery, he thought. The cheapest coin of intrigue but still the most reliable. Appeal to a man's ego. Hold up a
mirror so that he can see his image in gross exaggeration. Plant a seed of doubt, of suspicion and let it grow as grow
it must. Point out that the cyber was the Librarian's greatest enemy, hint as to why, leave the rest to the highly
developed survival instinct of the stockholders of Toy.
But now it was time to change the subject. He leaned forward, looking with interest at a small model half hidden
by the papers on the desk. "Something new, Stockholder Vohmis?"
"This?" The Librarian picked it up, turned it in his hands. Made of transparent plastic, it held odd, distorted lines.
Leon tried to follow what appeared to be a convoluted tube, lost it, blinked suddenly aching eyes. "An experiment in
three-dimensional topography," said Vohmis. "An idea of the Toymaster's. We are building it close to the machine."
Leon frowned.
"It was Groshen's direct order," said Vohmis. "He said that the tunnels would be of later use for the storage of
needed memory banks. He has a point," he admitted, setting down the model. "Excavations are costly and we always
seek extra capacity."
"But what is it?"
"A maze." Vohmis gently touched the model. "An interesting development utilizing the principles of both the
moebus strip and the Klein bottle. Two and three dimensional objects which have only one surface," he explained. "I
am surprised that you did not know about it."
"The Toymaster rarely takes me into his confidence," said Leon dryly. "On such a matter as this I would have
been compelled to object on the basis of its close proximity to the machine. As you should have done," he pointed
out.
Vohmis took offense. "Are you imputing that I lack courage?"
"No," said Leon quickly. "I apologize for any such implication my words may have contained."
"I accept your apology." Vohmis shook off the stiffness of formality. "I did protest," he admitted. "But the
Toymaster insisted, claiming that the area could be put to later use. Also, as it is being built by my technicians, it
would have been inconvenient at any great distance."
"A maze," said Leon thoughtfully. "A toy. But what is its purpose?"
"Does a plaything need a purpose?" Vohmis was cynical.
"No," admitted Leon, "but normally it has one." He frowned, thinking. Utilizing laser-power excavations took little
time and specialized machines spraying plastic soon sealed the raw tunnels. More tedious was the installation of air-
conditioning and other facilities. "How far has it progressed?" he asked casually.
Vohmis shrugged. "It is almost finished. A few days and it will be complete."
"When was it begun?"
"Before Creel arrived on Toy," said Vohmis shrewdly, guessing what was in Leon's mind. "The cyber had no hand
in this."
"Then who did?" Leon touched the model with the tip of his finger. "Groshen is no scientist. He could never have
designed this himself. Someone must have given him the idea."
"A traveler, perhaps?" Vohmis shrugged; to him the question was of no importance. "A seller of novelties or a
topologist who managed to catch the Toymaster's attention. But the thing is clever," he said reluctantly. "An incredible
amount of surface area compressed into a small volume of space." He pushed aside the model, looked at his visitor.
"You will forgive me, Stockholder Hurl, but there are matters which require my attention."
Leon smiled, recognizing the ritual formula for parting, but he wasn't going to let Vohmis escape so soon.
"There is another matter," he said casually. "I wish to consult the Library."
"A personal consultation?" The Librarian made an effort to mask his annoyance. "Every outlet is fully booked,
Stockholder Hurl. It would be most inconvenient to alter the schedules. If it is a matter which could wait I will
personally attend to it as soon as possible."
Leon was curt. "The matter permits of no delay."
"But—"
"I apologize for any offense." interrupted Leon, "but much as I hate to inconvenience you, I must insist on my
right as a stockholder of Toy to consult the Library as and when I wish."
Vohmis bowed, accepting defeat. "As you wish, Stockholder Hurl. What do you wish to ask?"
"Several questions," said Leon blandly. "One of them being the predicted time of my death."

Chapter Six
A man lay whimpering, crying, the tears streaming down his face. "No," he pleaded. "Oh, no. No. Please no."
He was ignored by the four men playing cards, the two playing chess. A thick-set, burly man dressed in stained
leather clothing looked over at Dumarest.
"Crazy," he explained. "Used a chemical analogue and butchered his wife and kids. Now he's just beginning to
realize what he's done." He turned at the sound of footsteps. "Food," he said. "And about time too."
It was stew, thick and nourishing if not fancy. Dumarest sat at the table with the others, eating from a soft plastic
plate with a similar spoon. The cell was twenty feet square, lined on two sides with a dozen bunks, fitted with toilet
facilities and washbasins. The air was warm, scented with the faintly acrid tang of disinfectants. Everything was
spotlessly clean.
He had been in a lot worse places, decided Dumarest. He finished his stew, ate a second helping and pushed plate
and spoon aside. Since his arrest he had eaten and slept. Now he wondered how long he would be kept waiting. Not
long, he guessed; the appointments of the cell showed it to be a place for transients. To spend time in such a place
would be no punishment.
A guard halted at the bars. "Dumarest!"
"Here."
"You're wanted. Step outside." The guard stepped back as the door slid aside, closed again as Dumarest passed
through into the corridor. Both ends were fitted with heavy bars behind which sat armed guards. There were no
windows. Escape from the underground cell-block looked, impossible, Dumarest's eyes were watchful as he followed
the guard through barred gates and down narrow passages.
"Here." The man halted, gestured at a door. "Inside. Your advocate is waiting."
He was small, delicate, his olive face as smooth as a woman's, his hands those of a child. He wore a colorful
weave, and a pomander dangling from his left wrist. He held it beneath flaring nostrils, sniffing, his muddy brown eyes
examining his client. A limp hand gestured to a chair. "Be seated. I do not like a man to loom above me."
Dumarest sat down.
"My name is Krailton," said the dandy. "I am to defend you at your trial."
"I must tell you," said Dumarest. "I have no money to pay your fee."
"I am aware of that. The matter has been attended to."
"By whom?"
"There is an old proverb," said Krailton blandly. "One should never examine a gift beneath a microscope."
Perhaps not, thought Dumarest, but some gifts cost too high a price. He frowned, thinking. Mother Jocelyn?
Hardly. She must have sent for the guards even before she'd made her offer. They had waited discreetly outside like
trained dogs ready to pounce. Stockholder Ledra? Why should she want to help him? But who else could it be?
"I cannot tell you," said Krailton impatiently when Dumarest asked. "The matter is confidential. I suggest that we
concentrate on more important matters now. What is the nature of your defense? Not that you have any," he said
without waiting for an answer, "but I am hopeful that something can be done. Are you accustomed to lying?"
"If the necessity arises," said Dumarest curtly, "I can lie."
"Don't. The monitor will be able to gauge the veracity of your replies," explained Krailton. "There are electronic
devices fitted to the dock. Justice on Toy is simple, fast and efficient. A criminal will condemn himself. If you cannot
tell the truth say nothing at all. In fact," he added, "I insist on it. Silence, I mean. As your advocate I shall plead for
you. Speak only if the monitor demands a direct answer. Do you understand?"
Dumarest nodded.
"I shall not delude you," said the advocate. "There is little hope. However, Monitor Thyle is not favorably disposed
to the arena. It may be possible to save you from the pens." He crossed to the door, opened it, stood looking at
Dumarest. "Well," he snapped impatiently. "What are you waiting for?"
Light streamed through the transparent roof of the courtroom. Dumarest squinted, stumbled as a guard led him
toward a raised platform that was railed and ringed with vicious spikes. A throng of sightseers faced the bench where
the monitor sat. The preliminaries were brief.
"For the prosecution," said a man dressed in shimmering black. "The prisoner, being a member of the losing side
in a battle conducted in the arena, did kill three men and injure a fourth, all innocent spectators and all unconnected
with the battle in any way. He did then steal a raft…"
Dumarest looked around, not concentrating on the droned words of the arraignment. Legalistic procedure was
much the same on all civilized worlds in that it followed the pattern of accusation and defense. He turned his
attention to Krailton as the advocate climbed to his feet. Against the black of the court officials he was a blaze of
defiant color.
"The arena," he said, "is an area divorced of all law but the law of survival, as this court and all men know. It
follows that the so-called 'innocent men,' those killed and injured by my client, by venturing into the precincts of the
arena voluntarily surrendered the protection of Original Law. More. They, by adopting the role of hunters, reduced
the status of the prisoner to that of an animal. An animal cannot be blamed for its nature. The men knew the risks
inherent in what they did and tried to minimize it by the use of a raft and powerful weapons. They were careless.
They fell to the nature of the beast. We submit there is no case to answer."
Clever, thought Dumarest. His unknown benefactor had picked a good man. If the court accepted the basic
premise he had put up a perfect defense.
The monitor cleared his throat. "The court accepts the submission as to the charges of murder and mayhem.
They will be stricken from the arraignment. However, there remains the matter of theft."
"Which we do not contest," said Krailton quickly. "It is true that the prisoner did steal the raft. However, in
mitigation, I again plead the nature of the beast. To escape from imminent death is a matter of survival. To use any
means to ensure that end must be accepted as a matter of principle."
The prosecutor rose, somber in his black, eyes gleaming with triumph. "The pilot could, had he been requested,
have flown the prisoner from the arena. Had escape been of prime importance and the sole motivation that is what
would have happened. But the raft was stolen and has not been recovered. Who else but the prisoner was responsible
for its loss? I contend that the charge of theft must remain."
The monitor looked at Krailton, raised his eyebrows, glanced at the prosecutor. "Is there anything else?"
"A complaint from Stockholder Ledra. The prisoner was given medical aid at her factory. Guessing the man was a
criminal, she notified the authorities, arranging to hold him through the night for collection at dawn. Before then be
escaped, doing certain damage and stealing another raft."
"Which has been recovered," said Krailton.
"Which has been recovered," agreed the prosecutor. "But the matter of damages remains to be assessed."
The monitor leaned back in his chair, eyes raised to the ceiling, fingers toying with a stylo. "Has the prisoner
money?" he demanded.
Krailton stepped closer to the bench. "None."
"Then the matter of assessment of damages is academic. Yet the robbed must be recompensed and so must the
state." He picked up a gavel. "Therefore, by the regulations as laid down in Original Law, the prisoner is sentenced to
be sold on the block at the next auction." The gavel slammed down. "Next case!"

***

Brother Elas stepped close to the cell and looked through the bars. "Brother," he said, "you seem to be in a
parlous state. Is there anything you need?"
"A gun," said Dumarest. "A means of escape. A passage away from Toy."
"Those things are beyond our power to provide, brother," said the monk. "Do you need medical aid? Counsel? A
message carried to a friend?"
Dumarest shook his head. The man meant well but what could he do? Irritably he paced the narrow confines
facing the bars. They hadn't taken him back to the spacious cell below after sentence; now he was caged like an
animal in a place only large enough for one. Other cells ran to either side. Strangers came and peered through the
bars, assessing the value of the goods to be offered for sale. Among them, drab in their homespun robes, the monks
moved quietly, offering what help they could.
"Are you of the church, brother?" Elas caught his eye, gestured for him to come close.
"I don't make a habit of sitting beneath your benediction light," said Dumarest shortly.
"And yet you are not unknown to us," said the monk evenly. "Do you believe in the virtue of forgiveness?"
"Of course."
"There is one who seeks it, brother. From you. You will see him? Speak to him? He asked me to approach you,
brother. He fears lest you betray him." The monk turned, gestured. Legrain stepped into view.
He was smooth, sleek, neat in his new clothing of chocolate brown. Dumarest looked at him, knuckles white as
he gripped the bars. Deliberately he relaxed. "You," he said flatly. "This is a surprise."
"I know how you feel, Earl." Legrain stepped closer, his voice low. "I took too long getting back to the cave. But
you should have waited. My message told you to wait."
"I saw no message."
"But I left one. A scrap of fabric weighted with a stone. I pricked my finger to get something to write with."
Legrain held out his left hand. "See? The wound is still open."
Dumarest dropped his eyes, looked at the tiny cut. His hands fell from the bars. "The wind must have blown it
away," he said. "That or a bird must have taken it. What happened?"
"You were sleeping," said Legrain softly. "Dead to the world. I figured that it would be best for me to sell the stuff
as quickly as possible. Before the descriptions had been passed around. I wrote the message and flew to a place I
know. The man I had to see was out. I waited, finally closed the deal and returned to the cave. You were gone.
Honestly, Earl, I didn't know what to think. At first I wondered if they'd caught you. Then I thought that maybe you'd
fallen into the sea."
"And?"
"I was desperate. I knew that if you were still alive you'd head for the landing field so I had a couple of friends of
mine keep watch. They saw you grabbed. I couldn't do anything but hire the advocate. He came expensive too," he
added. "Took most of what I made on the deal. But it was the only way to save you from the pens."
"And half of it was mine anyway, of course," reminded Dumarest. He frowned. "How did you expect to get me
out of the cave if you'd sold the raft?"
"I'd hired another. That was part of the deal. I intended to throw down a rope from the top of the cliff. But I left it
too late. I'm sorry, Earl." he said. "All I can say is that I did my best."
"I suppose I should thank you," said Dumarest slowly. "You'll understand why I don't feel grateful."
"You saved my life," said Legrain. "But for you I'd be lying dead in the arena. If you'd talked I'd be with you in that
cell. Don't you think I feel bad at what's happened? Listen," he said. "I could have shipped out. A freighter headed for
Toris. I could have been on it. But I stayed, hung around in case I could be of use." His hand came through the bars,
open, inviting. "All right, Earl?"
Dumarest gripped the hand, squeezed. "All right," he said. "What happens now?"
"You get sold," said Legrain. "Put up on the block, knocked down to the highest bidder. The state takes its cut and
passes over the rest to those who have a claim against you for damages. If the sum obtained is higher than what you
owe the balance is put to your credit. It's the way they settle debts here," he explained. "If a man owes what he can't
pay then he's sold. Women too. Some of them get a better deal out of being a slave than they could ever hope to get
by remaining free. And you can always buy yourself out of bondage. Your owner has to release you as soon as you
give him your purchase price. That's the law."
Dumarest looked at the monk. "Could you do that? Pay what I owe? I swear that you will get back whatever it
costs."
Regretfully Brother Elas shook his head. "Earlier, brother, it could have been done. Stockholder Hurl was most
generous in giving us the balance of his dividend. But we bought food, medicines, clothing, a host of immediate
necessities."
It was normal procedure, thought Dumarest. The Universal Brotherhood did not hoard wealth
.
***

Sunlight, blazing, splintering from the stone of the square, shimmering from the brilliant weaves worn by those
thronging the area, reflected in a thousand shades of kaleidoscopic color from the glassite walls, the windows, the
tinkling fountains. Naked, Dumarest looked down from his raised platform. He stood in line with a dozen others from
the prison, each chained to the other by a thin manacle. Bodies white and olive, brown and ebony black, all waiting to
be sold.
"A farmer," said the auctioneer. He was a tall, thin, elderly man wearing spotless white; a man fully conscious of
the dignity of his position. "A man of youth yet experienced in the growing of crops and the tilling of the soil.
Gentles, I await your offers."
A hand arose, another, several in quick succession as voices stated the price they were willing to pay for the
young man.
"A bad time for auction, this," said the man standing behind Dumarest. "The dividend is almost due. That means
they've the rest of their credit to get rid of. Price now has no meaning."
And the higher the price the greater the difficulty of getting free, thought Dumarest. If a slave could ever hope to
earn a respectable sum at all. No owner would be stupid enough to lose a good investment—and a slave could not
demand payment for services rendered.
"An engineer," said the auctioneer, his voice carried by electronic apparatus hidden in his rostrum. "Old but with
many years of skill living in his fingers and many years of service yet to give. Gentles, this man would grace any
factory. Your offers, if you please."
Hands lifted among the gaily dressed throng. Laughter echoed above the tinkling of the fountains. Holiday
makers, thought Dumarest. Men and women out for a little fun, degenerates looking for fleshy targets, the bored for
something to ease their boredom. To them the prisoners were animals, some amusing, some beautiful, none to be
considered as wholly human.
Dumarest restrained his anger. Rage was a luxury no slave could afford.
The chain jerked his wrist. He mounted the steps to the higher rostrum, eyes searching the crowd as the old man
droned his preliminary to asking for offers. He could see no recognizable face, but that meant nothing. Neither
Stockholder Ledra or Mother Jocclyn need buy in person.
A man lifted his arm, called an offer. Immediately it was topped. A women screamed her bid, swore at the ribald
comments and bid again. The auctioneer sucked in his breath with satisfaction. Not often did he sell such a prize.
"A fighting man," he said again. "One who has both fought and escaped from the arena. Now, Gentles, let us not
tarry."
Again the woman bid, a man, another man, a young girl with a ravaged face, a crone ridiculous in her finery.
Dumarest looked at none of them. A jerk at the chain told when the bidding was over.
"You did well," said the guard as he slipped off the manacle. "Full damages and something over. The cost of a
Low passage at least."
The cost of a passage, thought Dumarest grimly. Escape—but no chance of using it. He stared at his owner, a
swarthy man with crimped and oiled hair, cicatrices on his face.
"I am Techon," he said. "A fair man. Work well, cause no trouble, and we shall get along fine." He nodded to a
servant. The slave was of the same breed as the Toymaster's guards, seven feet tall, superbly muscled but with a
loose, vacuous expression. A half-wit, thought Dumarest. A reject. More an animal than a man. He stepped back as
the slave reached for his throat.
"Steady," warned Techon. "Krul only wants to fit you with a collar. The same as he wears, see?" He lifted the cane
he carried and touched the metal band around the slave's neck. "You can let him fit it." he said casually. "Or he will
knock you down and do it just the same. Is a broken jaw worth a moment of useless resistance?"
Dumarest remained silent, letting the slave fit the collar, feeling the smooth, flexible metal clamp snugly around
his throat.
"You are a man of sense," said Techon. "Now slip on this robe. If these sex-hungry bitches want to see a real man
they'll have to pay for the privilege." He nodded as Dumarest fastened the thin, knee-length robe of cheap fiber.
"You're thin," he said. "Wasted. But we'll soon fix that. Now follow me."
A raft stood waiting outside the area. It lifted them, dropped them on the flat roof of a low building. Inside was an
odd mixture of spartan simplicity and extravagant luxury. Small bedrooms held a narrow cot and little else while
others, ten times the size, were draped in blazing weave, the wide beds a mass of feathery cushions, the
appointments to match.
"For visitors," explained Techon. He slammed the door and led the way down a passage. "They come here to be
entertained. It is strange the fascination an athlete can hold for a certain type of person. But I cater to them as a
sideline. My profession is that of fightmaster."
He led the way to the ground level. A padded door gave onto a small room smelling faintly of sweat and oil.
Beyond it lay another, much larger, fitted with hanging ropes, mats, apparatus designed to strengthen muscle.
"This," said Techon, "is where you will train." Abruptly, without any warning, he slashed viciously at Dumarest's
face with his cane. It whistled unimpeded through the air as he ducked. "Good," said the fightmaster. "You are fast. Or
perhaps it was luck. We shall see. Krul!"
The slave trotted to the side of the room, returned bearing rods, two thin ones of metal and one of much thicker
wood. He handed the wooden one to Dumarest.
"This is what we shall do," said Techon. "Krul and I will try to hit you with these steel rods. You will do your best
to defend yourself against them with the one of wood. Ready?"
"A moment." Dumarest rested the tip of his rod on the floor, stamped down with his bare foot. The rod snapped
halfway down its length. Throwing aside one piece he poised the other.
Techon narrowed his eyes. "You are accustomed to the knife?"
"I have had cause to use one a few times."
"And so consider yourself an expert, no doubt." The fightmaster sucked in his lips. "Well, we shall see."
He sprang forward, slashed, thrust, slashed again, the steel rod whining through the air. Dumarest protected
himself with quick movements of the stick, the impact of metal on wood making a series of sharp, rapping sounds.
He grunted as Krul joined in, the thin, whip-like rod burning across his shoulders. He backed in an effort to face both
men, slowing, sweat glistening on his face as they speeded and coordinated their attack. Blood showed on the thin
robe as lashing steel lacerated the skin beneath.
"You are not as good as you imagined, my friend," commented Techon as his rod cracked home. "Fast, yes, but
not fast enough. And you are a little clumsy, but that could be because of lack of training." He stepped back. "Krul!
Enough!"
The slave reluctantly discontinued his attack.
"Strip," ordered the fightmaster to Dumarest. He pursed his lips as he examined his new possession. On the white
skin the weals stood out, dark with congested blood. "A hundred hours of subjective treatment beneath slow time,"
he decided. "Three hours of normal. Expensive, but I think it's worth it in this case. In any event we have no time to
lose. The Toymaster has demanded a spectacle for the entertainment of his guests and I am not the man to let him
down." His hand made a meaty sound as he slapped Dumarest on the shoulder. "Treatment, then hard training. You
agree?"
Dumarest was curt. "Have I any choice?"
"No, but a willing fighter is a good fighter. I didn't pay what I did for a fool to be butchered to amuse the ladies.
There will be heavy wagers. I want to win a lot of money. We want to win a lot of money." Again his hand slapped the
shoulder. "Cake for the master, crumbs for the slave, admitted, but that is life." His eyes searched Dumarest's face.
"You object to being called a slave?"
"No. I object to being treated like one."
"Proud," commented Techon. "Well, pride has its uses, but not in my establishment." He rested the fingers of his
right hand on the instrument strapped to his left. "There is one lesson you have yet to learn," he said softly. "To obey.
To go to your death if I order it. But to obey always."
"And if I do not?"
"This," said Techon.
Pain blazed from the collar around Dumarest's throat as the fightmaster adjusted the instrument. A red tide of
screaming agony tore at every nerve and cell of his brain. Dumarest dropped to his knees, hands tearing vainly at the
band around his throat.
"And this," said the fightmaster softly.
Dumarest cried out as fresh agony rasped along nerve and sinew, doubling him in helpless writhing, filling the
universe with an encompassing flood of unbearable torment.

Chapter Seven
Leon Hurl lifted the delicate porcelain of the cup and carefully savored the steaming bouquet. Odd, he thought. I
must have taken tea at least forty thousand times during my life, but how often have I really appreciated what I
drank?
He sniffed again, flaring his nostrils, brows creased as he tried to identify the spice. Some frenshi, perhaps?
Certainly more than a little wenclin. A touch of gish and a suspicion of honeydew. He must remember to ask.
He sipped, letting the hot, spiced tea lave his palate before it slid down his throat to warm his stomach, then
swallowed the rest and put down the empty cup. Rising, he walked around the room. He had deliberately arrived early
so as to give himself time to think, but it wasn't wholly that. He wanted time to see something else. A desire to
inspect the room in which he had so often sat. See it without the distraction of others, the cabal, the other members
of the Spinners Association.
It seemed larger now that he was alone. He carefully examined the warm-grained wood, the intricacies of the
carved ceiling, seeing in both something he had never noticed before: Waste, he thought. Men spend their lives
creating beauty for the enjoyment of others and we are all too busy to appreciate what they have done. What they
have left us. Too eager for the future to spare any time for the past.
He turned, slowly, eyes drinking in what he saw. From now it would always be like this. He would taste everything
he ate and swallowed, study everything he saw, weigh each word spoken and heard, each sound, each little
modulation. For him every second had become a precious jewel to hold as long as he was able. And yet what had
really changed?
Nothing but a temporal shift in an objective viewpoint.
Simply that.
He turned as Evan came bursting into the room. "Leon! Why did you call a special meeting? What is wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong," said Leon quietly. He gestured to where the pot and cups stood on a small table against the
wall. "Will you join me in tea?"
Impatiently Mere Evan shook his head. "There must be something wrong," he insisted stubbornly. "Why else
would you call another meeting so soon after the last? What is it? Stockholder Hurl, I demand to know!"
"Demand?" Leon raised his eyebrows. "Stockholder Evan, I take offense at your tone."
"My apologies." said Evan quickly. "I am distraught. Mulwo's death you understand." He trailed off, spread his
hands. "Please. If it is a matter of importance I should know. As a member of the Association I have a right to know."
"And know you shall." Leon crossed to the small table, poured himself more tea. How, he wondered, could he
have tolerated the fool for so long? Tolerance, he thought. The secret of all successful civilizations. But could a plan
for living be considered a success when it forced a man to quell his natural desires? His natural reactions?
Sheem, Amish, others of the group entered the room as he finished his tea. Soon all were gathered except
Restern. Leon cleared his throat, called the meeting to order.
Evan objected. "Stockholder Restern, our chairman, is not yet present."
"Nor will he be," said Sheem somberly. "At this moment he is being interrogated by Commander Gyrn of the city
guard." He glanced around the table. "I have no objection to Stockholder Hurl's conducting this meeting. Has anyone
else?" He waited, nodded to Leon. "There are no objections, Stockholder Hurl. Please continue. We are in your
hands."
Not quite, thought Leon. In someone's hands, yes, but we have yet to find out whose. Not that it matters, he told
himself. Not now.
"You must all have learned by now of Stockholder Mulwo's death," he said without preamble. "You may even
have heard the official version of what is assumed to have happened. Some of you may believe it. I do not. I would
be interested to know how many of you share my opinion that Stockholder Mulwo was assassinated by order of the
Toymaster?"
He counted hands.
"Unanimous. Stockholder Restern is at this moment being interrogated. Could anyone suggest why?" He looked
at Evan. "You perhaps?"
Evan shook his head.
Sheem broke the silence. "Stockholder Mulwo, in this very room, spoke of raising a group of mercenaries and
instigating an armed rebellion. Stockholder Restern was the chairman at the time. The two incidents have an obvious
connection."
"Very obvious," said Amish dryly. "Stockholder Mulwo was killed because of his traitorous suggestion and
Stockholder Restern is in trouble because he did not report what was said and therefore can be considered to have
agreed with it."
"Exactly." Leon looked around the table. "But who did report it?" he asked softly. "Who, in this room, is a spy for
the Toymaster?"
A man spoke from the far end of the table. "Must it be one of us? Could not the room have been under
surveillance?"
"No." Sheem spoke without waiting for the chairman's permission. "The room was electronically sealed. This I
swear."
"It could have been a servant," suggested another. "A man in the pay of Commander Gym. A woman even.
Stockholder Mulwo was not in the habit of lowering his voice."
"And neither are you," snapped Amish. He had been a close friend of the dead man. "If you take offense," he
added, "I am ready and willing to meet any action you may contemplate."
"Please!" Leon slammed his hand hard on the table, his voice rising above the hollow booming of the wood. "We
are not here to quarrel among ourselves. The situation is too serious for that. Stockholder Amish, you will apologize."
Amish scowled, then shrugged. "As you direct, Stockholder Hurl." He turned to the man at his side. "I apologize
for any offense my words may have caused."
"Your apology is accepted."
Children, thought Leon. But protocol is important to a child. Our ancestors knew their own nature when they
devised the ritual. It places a barrier between thought and action, between word and deed. Hot tempers need a tight
rein.
"I did not summon you here to indulge in mutual recrimination," he said coldly. "There are facts we must face and
decisions we must make."
"The spy," said Evan wildly. "We must discover who is the spy!"
"What good will that do us now?" Leon shook his head. "His reports have been made. We are all as guilty as
Restem and the Toymaster knows as much as we do. Almost as much," he corrected. "There is one thing which his
spy does not know. His treachery will not save him. He is already as good as dead."
He fell silent, waiting, continuing as no one spoke.
"We do not need to worry about the spy," he said evenly. "The Toymaster is not a man to nurture danger. A man
who betrays once will do so again, and the hire of an assassin comes cheaper than the transfer of stock." He searched
faces with his eyes. Evan? Sheem? Amish? One of the others?
"I have consulted the Library," he said abruptly. "I asked certain questions. As you know, the machine can predict
the future with an amazing degree of accuracy if given enough data. That is why I say we do not have to worry about
the spy among us. I know his future as I know the future of us all."
He paused and again his eyes searched the watching faces.
"In one month from now," he said deliberately; "unless something untoward takes place, all of us now present in
this room will be dead."
 ***

Quara was waiting in the solar when he returned home. She rose from a chair, a kill-time toy spilling from her lap
in a shower of brilliant sparkles. She was, he noted, wearing pearl and orange, the inevitable poniard at her belt.
"Leon!" Her eyes were penetrating, direct. "You look so tired."
"Quara!" His lips touched her fingers in old-fashioned greeting, lingering on the smooth surface of her skin. Estar
had had skin like that, he remembered. Soft, richly black, unblemished. He caught himself on the edge of nostalgia.
Estar was dead and, if the prediction of the machine could be relied on, he would join her wherever the dead waited
within a matter of ten Toy days. Five hundred hours, he thought. Thirty-six thousand beats of a human heart. A short
enough span in which to do all the things he had so consistently postponed. Too short. To attempt the impossible
would be to accomplish nothing.
"I forget myself !" He straightened, smiling, releasing her hand. "Would you care for tea? Cakes? I have some
delicious candied fruits you may care to sample."
"Thank you, no. Your slave is a charming young girl. She insisted that I have some refreshment. A compote which
she said was a favorite of yours."
"She is young," he said. "Eager to place."
"And perhaps a little jealous?" She smiled and shook her head. "Leon, you are too considerate. Your slaves love
you too much." And then, without changing either voice or expression, "How did the meeting go?"
"Slowly. We had much to discuss."
"And?"
"Nothing. No decision."
He felt the impact of her eyes. "Vohmis called," she said slowly. "He told me what you had asked the machine."
"He should not have done that!" Leon felt a rising wave of anger. "To abuse privacy so! I have a mind to—"
"—face him and demand satisfaction?" she said, interrupting. "To call that poor old man out somewhere and fight
him until he bleeds or dies?" Her hand fell to his arm, gripped, shook it a little. "Leon! Vohmis is a friend. An old friend
of us both. He had to call me. He is worried."
He isn't the only one, thought Leon grimly"Is there another?" Impulsively he gripped her upper arms. He
remembered those he had left at the meeting, their horror and refusal to accept what he had told them, their blind
panic. They would check, of course; the matter was too grave for them not to do that. But they would learn what he
had learned. Gain what he had gained. A temporal shift in an objective viewpoint. But they wouldn't thank him for
that. No man likes to know the hour of his death.
"Why?" she demanded. "Why did you do it?"
He shrugged. "What else could I do? Mulwo's death proved what you had hinted. The Toymaster has a spy
among us. To sit and do nothing was to wait as he cut us down one after the other. We need something to hold us
together, bind us close. Frightened men make poor conspirators—unless they are frightened enough. Then they
become what conspirators ought to be. Desperate. Willing to take any chance, any risk which promises success. Well,
perhaps now they'll do something."
"And if they don't?"
"They will," he said positively. "They must. Our survival instinct is too strong for them not to. Faced with certain
death what can they lose?"
"Their pride," she said bitterly. "Leon, men are not as they were. The old days are gone. Now they think more of
wealth and comfort than decency and honor. Why else has the Toymaster been permitted to rule as he does? Even
the stockholders' meetings have become a farce." She moved restlessly about the solar, turned, came very close. The
scent of her perfume was strong in his nostrils. "Leon. Must it be this way?"
Strange, he thought, how the knowledge of imminent death can encourage the use of small familiarities. "No," he
said. "There is no other. But you have nothing to worry about, Quara. This doesn't concern you. It is time the
members of the Spinners Association began to act like men. I think they will do it."
"If they try and fail," she pointed out, "the Toymaster will be less than merciful."
"Another spur," he agreed.
"Or another reason for running. They are weak," she said. "This has been a game to them. Now that it has
become real and they scent the odor of blood do you think they will gain strength? You know them," she insisted.
"Aside from yourself who is strong enough to face the Toymaster?"
His hands fell from the soft roundness of her arms.
"You flatter me," he said dryly. "Against your brother I would be fortunate to last more than a minute. But it will
not come to that. Commander Gym does not believe in the old courtesies. And," he added, "I could never challenge
the Toymaster. I could never get the necessary stock to make me eligible."
"You could," she said impulsively. "Leon! I could give you mine!"
"No!" He was emphatic in his refusal. "We have discussed this before. The risk is too great. The Spinners
Association will act as a group or die as individuals. There is no other choice."
"You could leave," she suggested. "Get off-world."
"Run?"
"A word," she said impatiently. "Must you die when ships are leaving every day?"
He frowned, reluctant to admit that he had already considered the possibility. Considered it and decided against
it. It would mean leaving everything behind. His dividend could only be spent on Toy. Had he more time he could,
perhaps, convert his possessions into portable wealth, jewels, artifacts of high intrinsic value. But he had no time,
even if he were permitted to leave with so much.
"You would be alive," she said shrewdly, guessing his thoughts. "At least you would be that."
True, he admitted to himself. But as what? A pauper? He would rather die a Stockholder of Toy.

***

"More," said Techon. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Add another ten pounds."
Dumarest sweated beneath the strain. He stood, naked but for a snug pair of briefs, back pressing hard against
the wall of the apparatus. Both arms were extended, hands gripping a bar, muscles standing out on arms, back and
shoulders as he fought the pressure. Should he yield the bar would snap forward, stopping just short of his chest,
searing his nerves as electrodes made contact. Twice already he had suffered the pain of defeat. It was not an
experience he wished to repeat.
"Another ten," snapped the fightmaster. He rose from his chair, came close to the edge of the apparatus, looked
sharply at Dumarest's face as Krul increased the pressure. The sweat was to be expected, the lines of strain, the anger
in the eyes. "The best training devices are often the simplest," he said conversationally. "But a man has need of an
incentive if he is to do his best. The desire to avoid pain is strong. It is remarkable how much extra effort a man is
capable of if he is driven to it." He raised his voice. "Add ten."
The tips of his fingers touched Dumarest's arm, felt the straining quiver beneath the skin.
"A little more, I think," he mused. "Already you have shown a remarkable improvement." He fell silent, watching,
gauging just how much more Dumarest could take. Not much, he decided. He fell back from the straining man. "Add
another five."
Before Krul could increase the pressure Dumarest acted. He released the bar, ducking so that he dived beneath
the vicious snap, springing clear of the platform and escaping the punishing agony. Techon shook his head, his right
hand caressing his left wrist.
"Will you never learn? How often must I teach you to obey? You were supposed to withstand the pressure of that
bar as long as you could. How else can I determine your full capacity?"
Dumarest glared at the fightmaster. "Capacity for what? Accepting punishment?" He took one step toward the
fight-master.
And collapsed in a red tide of pain.
Water shocked him back to full awareness. He rose, moisture running down his face, dripping onto the mats
beneath his feet. He took a long, shuddering breath, then visibly relaxed. While he wore the collar there was nothing
he could do to escape the electronic whip.
"That is better," said Techon. He came closer, thrust his scarred face into Dumarest's own. "Listen," he snapped.
"I have spent time, trouble and money on you. More than a hundred subjective hours of slow time therapy. The best
of training. I've put flesh and muscle on your bones. I am a fair man," he said. "I do not ask for gratitude. But I do
demand cooperation."
"I'll cooperate," said Dumarest.
"Yes," said Techon softly. "You'll cooperate or I'll sear your brains with continuous punishment. I'll have you
whining, crawling like a dog, begging for release. Think about it, my friend. Here only I am master."
He looked around the gymnasium. Men were busy at their training, some young, a few old, most scarred with old
wounds. They studiously avoided his eyes. Techon nodded, glanced at Dumarest.
"They appreciate the lesson," he said. "Now wash and eat. After that we shall continue with your training."
There was a rough camaraderie in the establishment. Men watched each other's progress with interest, eager to
learn, to spot a weakness or strength, never knowing when they would be matched one against the other. But that
was not often and, at mealtimes, they could relax.
"You're rubbing the fightmaster the wrong way," said a man as he helped himself to more food from the pot. It
was succulently flavored, heavy with protein, devoid of fat-producing carbohydrates. Three kinds of fruit and a thin,
sharp wine completed the menu. "Techon isn't too bad when you get to know him."
Dumarest looked up from his plate. "Perhaps I don't want to get to know him."
"Have you any choice?" The man burped, swallowed some wine. "You're his property," he reminded. "His slave.
We all are. But things aren't so bad if you play along. Good food, decent beds, a bit of fun now and again." He winked.
"Techon is worried," said a man from lower down the table. "He's got the concession to supply the entertainment
at the Toymaster's party on Dividend Day. Our kind of entertainment, that is," he amended. "It means a lot to him. If
he puts on a good show he'll be made."
"A lot to him but not to us," said a man facing Dumarest. "We get butchered and he gets the credit." He reached
for the jug of wine. "Still, that's life."
"It isn't so bad," insisted the first speaker. "I was a fisherman before getting into debt. Have you ever been out on
the sea at night? Ice on the decks. The wind cutting right through to the bone. Hard work and small reward. I can
make more with a lucky bet than I could in a month."
Dumarest looked at him. "Are you allowed to bet?"
"Sure, if you've got the money. In fact the fightmaster encourages it. Gives a fighter that much extra incentive," he
explained. "You have to back yourself, of course, and to win." He chuckled. "Not much good winning a bet if you
have to die to do it." He drank the rest of his wine. "Well, let's get back to work."
Techon drove them savagely, viciously, paying special attention to Dumarest. The fisherman explained as they
showered after the session.
"You're a special prize. You escaped from the arena. With that sort of reputation the Toymaster will expect
something special. The fightmaster doesn't intend to let him down."
Dumarest soaped his throat, fingers lingering on the collar. Every man in the establishment wore a similar device.
His fingers slipped beneath the flexible band, closed, twisted the metal.
"Don't do that!" said the fisherman sharply. "You might just be unlucky," he explained. "You might manage to
break it."
"That was the idea." said Dumarest dryly.
"Then forget it. It's loaded with explosive. Unless unlocked with the proper key it will blow your head off. Break it,
cut it, burn it apart and it will do the same. And," he added, "if you run off, try to escape, Techon can send a signal to
reach you anywhere on Toy." He touched his own collar, shrugged. "Well," he said philosophically, "it's all a part of the
game."
Your game, thought Dumarest bleakly. Not mine. He looked down at his clenched hands. He would never be able
to adopt the mental resignation of a slave.

***

High against the dull brown of the slope something moved: an animal, hoofed, horned, blended into the
background, its natural fur camouflage making it one with the scenery. Groshen lifted his bow, a thing of metal with a
weight of a hundred and twenty pounds, the arrow a feathered shaft of viciously barbed steel. Muscles bulged
beneath cloth of silver as he drew slowly on the string. "Three hundred yards," he commented. "Agreed?"
Commander Gyrn shaded his eyes. "With respect, my lord, fifty yards more." He wetted a finger, held it to the breeze.
"And, if I may suggest, aim five yards to the right. The wind is stronger on the slopes."
"You are accustomed to the bow?" Groshen was ironic. "But of course, I forgot. Were you not a hunter of game
before you became a hunter of men?"
Gyrn bowed. "As you well know, my lord."
"A poacher on my father's estate. Only my friendship saved you from the block." The string gave a deep thrum;
the arrow flashed, rose a little, sank deeply into the soil inches from the beast. It started, sprang to a hummock,
sprang again. Groshen flung aside the bow and snatched a proffered rifle. He lifted, aimed, fired all in one movement.
The animal fell lifeless to the dirt.
"Get it," snapped Groshen to an attendant. He looked at the rifle in his hands. "You said five yards," he accused.
"This should not have been necessary."
Gyrn swallowed. "My lord, I was mistaken. It should have been more."
"Much more." As if by accident the muzzle of the rifle centered on the commander. "You judged wrongly, Gyrn. I
hope that it is not a habit of yours?"
"No, my lord."
"Perhaps it would be best for you to cease from making judgments," suggested the Toymaster softly. "You see how
easily you can be mistaken?"
 Gyrn bowed, conscious of the eyes of the attendants, the tall, scarlet figure of the cyber. Creel stood with his
back to the wind, hands buried in the wide sleeves of his robe, face shadowed by the cowl. To one side lay the rafts,
the appurtenances of the hunt. The clothes of the servitors made bright splotches against the vegetation.
Gay, thought Gyrn. Bright and cheerful, with a picnic-like atmosphere. A strange place for him to make his report,
but who could tell the motives of the Toymaster?
Had he been summoned merely to be taught a lesson? To be made to look small? To be given a secret
instruction?
The latter, he thought, and relaxed. He had nothing to fear. The instruction had already been given. To obey. Not
to question but to obey.
Groshen lowered the rifle, stepped closer, the wind tearing his words. "You have something to report?"
"Yes, my lord. Of the Spinners Association four are now dead. Mulwo, Restern and two others. They—"
"Name them," snapped the Toymaster. "Explain."
"Keen and Wylie, my lord. They were detained when attempting to book passage off-world. It was discovered
that both sought to export items of high intrinsic value. They protested, struggled and were unfortunately shot while
attempting to avoid arrest."
Groshen nodded.
"As regards the matter of their stock," said Gyrn carefully. "It—"
"—will revert to their heirs," snapped the Toymaster. "You know the law. A man's family cannot be
disenfranchised. However," he said slowly, "there are grounds to extract a heavy fine." He smiled at the commander. "I
haven't forgotten, Gyrn. You shall have ten percent of whatever extra stock I obtain."
"Thank you, my lord."
"You may go." Groshen stared after the commander as he walked to his raft, then closed the distance between
himself and Creel. "Your prediction has proved itself correct," he said. "Already they try to run."
"It was an obvious move, my lord. The landing field is sealed?"
"Yes."
"Then you must anticipate concerted action against yourself by those that remain," said the cyber evenly.
"Desperate men will go to desperate lengths. It is possible they may be tempted to employ an assassin."
Groshen was contemptuous. "Let them. How can they hope to succeed?"
They couldn't, thought Creel. The Toymaster's fantastic dividend enabled him to build and maintain a wall of
guards, electronic devices, barriers through which no assassin could hope to penetrate. But it was as well to make the
suggestion, to allow the Toymaster to underestimate his intelligence a little. The man was still adamant in his refusal
to allow the Cyclan to provide its services. Still insistent that, because of the Library, he could do without any other
aid.
"I was not wholly thinking of the possibility of an assassin," he admitted. "I mentioned it, that is all. There is
another, far stronger danger."
"Which is?"
Creel remained silent.
"I asked you a question, cyber. I am not accustomed to being ignored." Anger flared the Toymaster's nostrils. His
knuckles showed taut where he gripped the rifle. "Do I have to make you answer?"
"You could not." Creel spoke nothing but the truth. "But, my lord, surely the Library could give you the same
information?"
"Possibly," admitted the Toymaster. "But the Library does not volunteer predictions and suggestions. It has to be
asked." He relaxed, smiling. "You have made your point, cyber. I shall bear it in mind when I come to make my
decision regarding your offer. And now?"
Transparent, thought Creel. A mental child despite his arrogance, so quickly had he snatched the bait. And yet
not so much a child that he was without natural cunning. No ruler could be without that.
"I spoke of your enemies planning concerted action," Creel said in his even modulation. "It is something to be
considered. Study of the regulations and Original Law shows that there is a way in which they could, perhaps, best
you."
"A challenge?" Groshen laughed, white teeth flashing against the red of his throat. "Impossible! To do that they
need to acquire more stock. They haven't enough."
"Perhaps not," said Creel. "But your sister, the Lady Quara, has."
"Quara?" Groshen frowned, thoughtful. "She wouldn't," he decided. "She is too selfish for that. Why should she
seek to destroy me?" He looked down at the rifle in his hand. "Unless Hurl…?"
"A wise man takes precautions against every dangerous possibility," urged Creel. "No matter how remote it may
seem. Your sister is your greatest danger. Alone she holds the means to destroy you. Why take a needless risk?"
 Groshen scowled. "Are you suggesting that I kill her? The child of my father? My sister in blood?"
"There are other ways. For example, it is not unknown for brother to marry sister. On many worlds it is the
custom among those who rule." He caught the expression on Groshen's face. "Or, perhaps, you could gain her stock in
other ways. A wager, perhaps? I give you the conception, my lord. I can do no more."
It was enough. Greed and ambition went hand in hand.
Her stock added to his would make him inviolate. A little and he would have the majority percentage. Then he
would literally control the destiny of the planet. Toy would become his personal plaything.
Groshen stretched, laughing, deep echoes rolling from the slopes. "I'll do it, cyber. Tonight, at the Dividend Day
party. Within a month I'll be the absolute ruler of this world. Then, my friend, I will show men how to rule."

Chapter Eight
Dividend Day and all Toy threw a party. The festivities began as the sun died. The streets glowed with colored
musicians ignored the cold as they led lines of singing dancers in tortuous patterns. Fires blazed and animals were
roasted whole. Wine gushed from the fountains, kept warm and potable by electronic heat. Gaudy weaves, grotesque
masks, laughter and loving ruled as the stockholders celebrated their new acquisition of wealth. It had been a good
dividend; they could afford to be generous. As the night chilled the streets would empty but within the houses the
party would last until dawn.
At the palace the Toymaster had invited selected guests to share his fun. They sat around a sunken enclosure,
slaves running with sweetmeats and wine, tidbits and sprays of refreshing perfume. Guards stood motionless, statues
in the flaring light of scented flambeaux. Pipes, drums and cymbals stirred the air together with nerve-tingling sonics
and electronic stimulants. Each female guest had been given a gift.
A girl shrieked as she opened her package and saw the flash of jewels. Another echoed the scream as a crawling
insect, as large as her hand, scuttled over her lap in a frantic search for darkness. A woman, more cautious, probed
her package, felt a resistance. Looking up, she met Groshen's eyes. She thinned her lips and pressed, burst the sac.
Liquid vileness fouled her hand—but within the sac rested a diamond.
"Wine!" The Toymaster was enjoying himself, the success of his practical jokes. "A toast," he commanded. "To
Toy!"
They drank.
"Another!" He waited as slaves refilled the goblets. To a record dividend!"
They drank again.
"One more toast!" He stared at them with mocking eyes. "To me. To the master of Toy!"
For the third time the goblets were emptied. It made a good foundation, he thought, for the success of the
evening. Quara was not noted for her ability to carry wine. All he had to do was get her high enough, angry enough
and the rest would be automatic. Hot words such as they had exchanged a thousand times before in family quarrels.
But tonight she would be speaking to the Toymaster, not to her brother.
Groshen turned, looking to where a scarlet shape sat like a living flame in the dancing light of the flambeaux.
Who had need of a cyber when he could use his own cunning? When he had sucked Creel dry he would send him
packing. Until then let him sit and wait and hope to ensnare another fish in his net. It would not be the fish of Toy.
He leaned to where Quara sat. "More wine, my sister? Come, this is a time for celebration." He looked past her to
where Leon sat at her side. "Drink up, Stockholder. Have you nothing to celebrate?"
Passively Leon allowed a slave to replenish his goblet. He lifted it, sipped, eyes direct as he stared at Groshen. "I
drink," he said. "To the death of friends and the abuse of privilege."
He felt the girl tense at his side. Reflected light shone from the Toymaster's eyes, his teeth, filling sockets and
mouth with the color of blood.
"You are a brave man, Stockholder Hurl. Or a foolish one."
"Just a man," said Leon evenly. He lowered his left hand. Only Ouara was armed, the inevitable poniard in her
belt, more a decoration than a weapon, but it had a point and could kill. To snatch it, thrust it deep into Groshen's
throat, to kill the man while he had the chance. After all, what had he to lose? Then the Toymaster leaned back, safely
out of reach, and the moment had passed.
The music rose as dancers swept into the enclosure, naked bodies shining with oil, men and women depicting an
age-old ritual in stylized formation, merging, parting, uniting in coordinated frenzy.
Leon felt Quara's hand on his thigh. "You wanted to kill him," she whispered. "I read your face."
He nodded.
"You would have died trying. He is fast, Leon, trained. Don't let him goad you into throwing away your life."
 "Is it so valuable? Now?"
"To me, yes. And you are not dead yet, Leon. We can still hope."
Hope, he thought dully. Hope for what? A miracle? He glanced at the circle of rapt faces, beyond them to the
statuesque guards, past them to the hanging weaves. A trap, he thought suddenly. I'm in a trap. Quara was right. It is a
time for caution.
The dancers ended their performance, bowed, scrabbled for the coins flung at their feet. The music broke,
recommenced with a solemn beat. Fightmaster Techon strode before the assembly.
"My lord!" He bowed to the Toymaster. "Gentles one and all." His gesture included the rest. "With respect to your
pleasure a small entertainment. A diversion which I trust you will not find unamusing."
He bowed again, backed from the enclosure. Naked men, oiled, sprang into view, muscles rippling as they
grappled, each trying to throw the other. The preliminary, Leon knew, to more violent events.
Groshen spoke from where he sat. "A wager, sister? Ten units of stock on the one with the white skin." He waited.
"No? Then you, Stockholder Hurl? Will you take my bet?"
Leon nodded, too disinterested to argue. Again he felt the warning pressure on his thigh.
"Be careful, Leon," whispered Quara. She leaned forward, pretending an interest, turning her face from Groshen's
watching eyes. "Do not wager too much. And." she added quickly, "do not tell me that it does not matter now. The
Toymaster has some plan, I am sure of it. I know him too well to doubt."
The bout ended with Groshen the winner. Others followed. Two men fought with spiked gloves. Another two with
vicious maces. A man with a sword was paired with another armed with a quarterstaff. The match was ridiculously
uneven; the swordsman didn't stand a chance and Leon won heavily from the Toymaster.
"More wine!" ordered Groshen as the contenders left the enclosure. "A toast to your victory, Stockholder Hurl."
He gestured to a slave, pointed at his sister's empty goblet. "Come, Quara, you cannot refuse to toast our old friend.
Our very old friend," he repeated meaningfully. "He knew our mother… perhaps too well."
Leon looked down. His hand was tight around his goblet, the wine slopping as he fought the temptation to throw
it in the Toymaster's face. To talk so of Estar!
"To you, Leon!" Quara drank hastily, determined to avoid a quarrel between the two men. Angrily she glared at
her brother. "Must you mention our mother? Have you no pride?"
Groshen smiled, reached out and helped himself to a tidbit from a tray. The smoked fish dressed with sharp sauce
rested tantalizingly on the tongue. Slowly he chewed, swallowed, savoring the moment. Now? A little more pressure
and Quara would explode. He knew her temper too well. Now?
Drums thundered, insistent, demanding, claiming attention for the next bout.
Groshen reached for another tidbit. Quara could wait.

***

It was familiar, the men, the scent of oil and sweat, the little sounds, a cough, the rustle of movement, the thin,
spiteful rasp of a whetted blade. Dumarest had known it all before. Only the collar was different, that and his status.
Never before had he fought as a slave. For money, yes. For dangerous sport against all contenders with a prize at
stake and the money going to the one who drew first blood. But not this deliberately managed slaughter for the
titivation of a jaded crowd.
Facing him, the fisherman tried to smile. "It's the luck of the draw, Earl. It could have been anyone. It had to be
you."
Dumarest made no comment. Beyond the door he could hear the cheers and laughter of those who watched as
men tried to kill each other.
"You're fast," said the fisherman. "Too fast. Maybe we could arrange something?" He lowered his voice. "I don't
mind taking a cut or two. Somewhere yielding lots of blood." He spat. "That's what they want out there. Blood and a
lot of it."
"We could refuse to fight," suggested Dumarest.
"We could," agreed the man. "But what would Techon do then?" He touched his collar. "We would still provide a
spectacle. I've seen it happen. I know." His big hands knotted, clenched where they rested on his bare knees, moved
uneasily over the skin. He was, Dumarest thought, either afraid or putting on an act. He sat silent, waiting.
"Listen," said the fisherman abruptly. "Let's play it smart. We could play around for a while, plenty of footwork
and blade-clashing; you know how it's done. Make it look good. Then I'll come in low and aiming up. You block and
touch my ear. Slit the lobe. It's a minor wound but bleeds a lot." He looked anxious. "Understand?"
Dumarest nodded. "And?"
"We keep it up. Maybe you'll let me make a hit. A touch on the shoulder, maybe, or on the side. Nothing serious
but looking good. Then you touch me again. After a while I drop. Techon won't like it, but so what? We'll both be
alive."
Dumarest doubted it. Such an arrangement would leave him wide open for an easy kill if the fisherman decided
to go for it. And he would so decide. He'd be a fool to do anything else.
Techon came bustling to where they sat. The fight-master was sweating, his scarred face betraying his agitation.
"All right, you," he snapped at the fisherman. "You go on next. Knives and made it good." His hand fell on Dumarest's
shoulder as he made to rise. "Not you. You're being saved for something special."
"Such as?"
Techon sat in the place the fisherman had vacated. "I don't like it," he admitted. "I'm a fair man and I like a fair
match. But what can you do against the Toymaster? You escaped the arena," he said. "You were on his side—and his
side lost. According to him you should have died with the rest."
Dumarest looked at the man. "So?"
Techon didn't answer, cocking his head so as to hear the noise from the enclosure. There was a burst of laughter,
a yell of applause. "That didn't last long," he said, and hesitated. "Look," he said. "I worked for a webmaster once.
Most men panic, they sweat fear. They get bitten and it slows them down to the point where they can't move. They
know everything that's going on but they can't do a thing about it. So don't panic and don't get bitten." He rose.
"Come on."
"You're trying to tell me something," said Dumarest. "What?"
"You'll find out. Now get on your feet and move!" Techon dropped his right hand to his left wrist." Don't make me
use this," he said. "Not now."
Dumarest stood up, walked with the fightmaster to the door opening onto the enclosure. It opened. A hand thrust
at his back to push him forward. He took three steps, then halted, staring at what lay ahead.
A wire-mesh cage, twelve feet square, ten high, fitted with rotating doors at either end, panels of mesh which
permitted entry. Tied to one of the doors, naked, his big-nosed face reflecting his terror, was Legrain. He looked at
Dumarest.
"They got me," he said. "The guards grabbed me at dusk. It looks as if we're going to end the same way together
after all."
Dumarest looked past him at the contents of the cage. A dozen weavers crawled in restless anticipation. Spiders
used to eating raw, living meat. Starved. Eager to feed. Hands caught his arms, lifted him, carried him to where the
Toymaster sat on the raised platform above.
Groshen took a sip of wine.
"You fought for me and lost," he said. "Therefore you deserve to die. But you were not alone." He gestured toward
Legrain. "Now you will fight again, not for me but for yourself. Yourself and your friend," he amended. "On your
prowess depends both your lives." He paused, sipping wine, eyes watchful over the rim of the goblet. It had been a
good touch to make the man not only fight for himself but for his friend also. "Is there anything you wish to say?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Am I to be permitted a weapon?"
"You have a weapon," said the Toymaster. "Yourself. Your skill, your cunning, your ferocity against those of the
weavers."
Dumarest flexed his hands. It had been a hopeless request but he'd had to ask. His eyes raised, drifted over the
watching faces. A woman stared at him, dressed in brilliant green, emeralds in her hair. Beside her a man, older,
clenched his hand on a goblet of wine as if it were the throat of an enemy. Behind them, like a menacing flame, he
recognized the scarlet robe of a cyber.
Groshen slammed down his goblet. "Begin!"
Dumarest shrugged aside the reaching hands of the guards and walked to the vacant door. He mounted the
platform, stood looking at the circle of faces, the avid eyes. A click, a sudden movement and he had spun one
hundred and eighty degrees. At the far end of the cage Legrain sagged in his bonds. Between them scurried twenty
pieces of living nightmare.
Dumarest blurred into action.
Chitin crunched beneath a foot. Mandibles clashed as he seized scrabbling legs, lifted, slammed the arachnid onto
one of its fellows, crushing them both. He jumped a-side as hooked claws raked his back, stamped, felt thin legs
fracture. Something dropped from the wire roof of the cage. He caught it, flung it against a wall, ran to where Legrain
hung, the target for two of the weavers. One fell as Dumarest ripped at its legs. The other scuttled up the wire, falling
as he buried his fist in its body.
Desperately he tore at Legrain's bonds.
"Earl! You haven't got time!"
"Shut up! Watch, warn if they get too close." He grunted as he freed an arm, turned, springing high to land on
fragile limbs. Smash their legs, he thought. Immobilize them. Stay clear of their venom. And move fast. Fast!
He heard a shout, jumped back in time to save Legrain, added another to the pile of twitching bodies. He
stooped, tore at the lashings holding the other man's legs, rose, gripped his tied arm, jerked. The lashing broke as a
weight landed on his shoulders. He whirled, reaching back, feeling the claw of legs, the rasp of a hairy abdomen.
Mandibles tore at his hair as he gripped, lifted, swung over his head and to the floor. Pain stabbed his left ankle. He
punched down at the glitter of eyes, chopped at legs, kicked himself free.
Ooze slimed his body, foul, nauseating in its smell. Legrain shouted, flailed desperately, yelled as a weaver tore at
his flesh. Dumarest raced toward him, fought the numbing agony of his leg, thinking only of the necessity to kill, to
smash, to destroy and keep on destroying.
And, suddenly, there was nothing. Nothing but the litter of bodies, the circle of faces, the frantic, yelling,
screaming roar of cheers.
Quara was on her feet, heart pounding with excitement, cheering with the rest. She turned, gripped Leon by the
arm. "He did it! He beat the Toymaster! He won!"
"Yes," said Leon. He felt ill, nauseated at the sight, nostrils filled with the dry, acrid stench of the weavers. But that
was imagination, he knew. Their scent could not penetrate the perfume scenting the air.
"Fast," said Quara, resuming her seat. "So fast." She stared at the cage, the two men, at Dumarest where he
leaned against the wire. His chest heaved, his face was taut with pain. One leg lifted, barely touching the ground.
"He's been bitten. They both have."
"That isn't surprising," said Leon. "The weavers move quickly when they sense food. They—" He broke off, eyes
narrowed as men entered the enclosure and busied themselves about the cage. "Vogel! What are you doing here?"
The webmaster turned, saw Leon, approached. "The orders of the Toymaster, Stockholder Hurl. He gave me the
task of supplying the weavers. But they weren't good stock," he reassured. "I only picked the intractable ones, the
rogues, those who would not learn. There's been no waste, Stockholder."
"Why was I not informed?"
Vogel turned sullen. "It was the order of the Toymaster, Stockholder. How could I refuse?"
How indeed? thought Leon grimly. He looked to where Groshen sat, scowling, obviously annoyed. Had it come to
this so soon? Had a man no rights? He looked at the webmaster. "What is to happen now?"
"We clean out the cage and restock it, Stockholder. I have still a score of weavers unused."
"You mean those men are to fight again?" Quara leaned forward, eyes blazing. "I will not allow it! Treat the pair of
them to neutralize the venom. At once!"
Vogel hesitated, his eyes drifting from her face to Leon's, from his to the Toymaster's. A man trapped, thought
Leon. Not sure as to where his duty lies. He felt himself tense with anger. The man should have had no question of
doubt. "You heard Stockholder Quara Groshen," he said coldly. "It is my order that she be obeyed. Immediately!"
Again Vogel looked at the Toymaster. Groshen leaned forward, his voice a feral purr. "Is there trouble, Stockholder
Hurl?"
Leon met his eyes. "No," he said shortly. "I am merely giving my webmaster his orders."
"He has his orders."
"Not from me," insisted Leon. "Those men will not fight again."
"Indeed?" Groshen lifted his goblet, sipped a little wine. "And if I should say they will?"
Rebellion, thought Leon. He's driving me to open defiance and, when I do, he will call it rebellion. His eyes left
the Toymaster, drifted around the circle of watching faces. "We are your guests, Toymaster," he said, forcing a smile.
"But I put it to the others. Should these men fight again?"
Their negative came in a shout. Leon relaxed a little. The strain runs true, he thought. Those who had descended
from the original settlers still admired courage and could respect bravery. A shower of money fell to the floor of the
enclosure, reward for a good performance. Abruptly the Toymaster nodded.
"As you will," he said loudly. "Now, a toast to a brave man!"
They drank as attendants dismantled the cage and removed the parts. Vogel was busy with the two men,
cleansing their wounds and neutralizing the spider-venom; others were picking up the money, cleaning the space for
the next event.
Groshen lowered his emptied goblet. A scarlet shadow stooped, whispered in his ear.
"My lord," said Creel. "A suggestion. Would it not be as well if those two men were matched one against the
other?"
The Toymaster pondered.
"They are friends," whispered the cyber. "Need I say more?"
He retreated to his seat, face a pale, ruby-stained blotch in the shadow of his cowl, hands buried in his wide
sleeves. Thoughtfully Groshen hold out his goblet for more wine.
 The cyber was wrong, of course; it would not be a good match and certainly it wouldn't be a popular bout. His
guests wouldn't like it and the men might even refuse to fight. But still the suggestion held merit. He looked at Quara
over the rim of his goblet, at Leon seated beside her. Twice had things almost come to a head. The third time would
be the last.
He leaned forward, looked at his sister. "When men are paid to win or die, and do neither, what then?"
She hesitated, sensing a trap, not knowing what to say.
"You, Stockholder Hurl?" Groshen's eyes moved to Leon. "In such a case what would you suggest?"
Leon shook his head. "I don't know, Stockholder."
"The answer of a coward," said Groshen bitingly. "I am not so afraid. The answer, of course, is to kill them both."
"I disagree," said Leon. "A brave man is worthy of respect."
"Perhaps," admitted the Toymaster. "You know," he said causally, "I often wonder why my mother refused your
hand. Could it have been that she found you lacking in the qualities which command respect?"
Leon took a deep, shuddering breath. "You are saying?"
"I am calling you a coward, Stockholder Hurl. Do I make it plain enough? A coward!"
Quara thrust out a hand, knocked aside the goblet Leon had lifted, sent the wine spilling into the enclosure
instead of into the Toymaster's face. This, she thought, was what Groshen had wanted. To goad Leon to the point
where he would lose his self-control, strike, suffer death as an immediate consequence.
Angrily she faced her brother. "You!" she said. "To talk of cowardice! How many guards defend you, dear brother?
How many men fight your battles? Could you do as that man did?" She gestured toward Dumarest. "Have you the
courage to match your own skin against someone stronger than a ten-year-old girl?"
His eyes blazed, matching her own. "Careful, sister!"
"Why? Because you are afraid of me? Afraid that I'll tell everyone the truth? You're rotten, Groshen. Mentally
sick. Decadent. Why else these blood-sports? This filth?"
He rose, tall, overwhelming. "Enough!"
"Enough," she jeered. "Can't you even stand the impact of words? Do you intend hitting me to stop my mouth?"
She rose to face him, magnificent in her rage. "Hit me, then! I dare you to hit me!"
He smiled. "Very well, my sister. I accept your challenge."
"No!" Leon sprang to his feet. A trap, he thought wildly. All the time it had been a trap. I guessed it but didn't
guess for whom. Not for me, but for her. "You cannot," he said quickly to the Toymaster. "No challenge was issued."
"I think there was," said Groshen smoothly. "I think all present will agree with me. I have been dared to strike. If
that is not a challenge, what is?" He smiled even wider. "And," he pointed out, "she is perfectly eligible to make such a
challenge. She holds the necessary stock as set out in Original Law."
Leon shook his head. "No," he said again, desperately. "She—" He broke off as Quara laid her hand gently across
his lips.
"Do not beg," she said. "The thing is done."
"But it was a trap. Can't you see that? He has deliberately led you into this." He appealed to the Toymaster. "You
can't fight a woman. Certainly not your own sister."
"Do you offer to take her place?" Groshen gave a careless shrug. "I have no objection to her use of a proxy." His
eyes held sadistic mirth as he looked at the stockholder. "Two, if she wishes."
Quara reached out, caught Leon by the arm, pulled him close. "You mean that?"
"Certainly." The Toymaster didn't trouble to hide his contempt. "But you will have a hard time finding another
such as Leon. Not all men are willing to throw away their lives for the memory of a pretty face."
That is true, thought Leon sickly. To face the Toymaster is to invite death. He writhed against the invisible jaws of
the trap which had sprung on them both. He could not let Quara fight, but what real good could he do by taking her
place? None, he told himself bitterly. You can die and that is all.

Chapter Nine
Legrain paced the floor, scowling, obviously ill at ease. "I don't like it," he said. "First the guards grab me, put me
in that cage, then they bring me here. Why?" he demanded. "Why didn't they just let me go? I've done nothing wrong.
Aside from staying alive, that is," he said somberly. "To the Toymaster that's a crime."
Dumarest made no comment. He sat in a form-fitting chair, booted feet resting on the thick carpet. He had been
bathed, fed, given his own clothes, brought to this house and left to wait. He didn't know why. But he was still a slave.
His fingers touched the collar around his throat. He was still that.
"Why?" demanded Legrain again. "Why bring me here? What's it all about?"
 "You'll find out soon enough," said Dumarest. He leaned back and studied the ceiling. It was covered with painted
reliefs depicting old battles, struggles, wars of men against men and men against beasts. He lowered his eyes. To one
side tall windows glowed with morning light. Low pedestals supported odd shapes of fused glass shining with colorful
brilliance. The air carried the scent of flowers.
A door opened. A servant came forward and beckoned to Dumarest. "You may go in now," she said. And to
Legrain, "Not you. You are to wait here."
The door opened into a smaller room, a study, Dumarest guessed from the books lining the walls, the wide desk,
the compact recording equipment. It was deserted. A stellar chart hung against a wall, a projector beside it with a
rack of tapes. The chart was a superimposed three-dimensional representation, hard to make out without the
selective viewer, the color-planes tending to merge and dissolve one into the other.
Dumarest was frowning over it when there was a click, a panel slid aside and Quara entered the room.
She stood, smiling as the door slid closed behind her. "Are you interested in astronomy?"
"Yes, my lady."
"It was a foolish question." She crossed the room toward him, stood close enough for him to smell the perfume of
her hair. "You are a traveler. As such you are bound to have an interest in the stars." She laughed a little. "You must
excuse me; I am not usually stupid."
Dumarest looked down at her from the vantage of his height. "I would not have called you stupid, my lady," he
said slowly. "A little headstrong, perhaps."
"You heard? At the party, after you fought the weavers, you heard?"
"Yes, my lady. I must thank you for what you did. I do not think I could have won another bout," he said honestly.
"The weavers?" She shrugged. "It was Leon who stopped the Toymaster, not I. You should thank him. But you
heard what passed between me and my brother?"
"A challenge was issued," he said. "And accepted. Much to your surprise," he said shrewdly. "I think, my lady, that
you were led into a trap."
"I was," she admitted. "And I was too stupid not to see it." She pointed to a cabinet. "In there you will find wine.
Pour two glasses." She watched as he obeyed, took one of the brimming goblets, gestured to a chair. "Sit. Drink your
wine."
It was tart, refreshingly pleasant, innocently potent. Dumarest looked at the girl. "My lady is most generous."
"Your lady is a mess!" Quara set down her glass. "Do you know anything of the economics of Toy? It is a
corporate world," she continued, not waiting for an answer. "Every original settler was a shareholder. In theory the
system works perfectly. All share in the wealth of the planet. The dividend credit cannot be accumulated, so a
constant stream of money is in circulation, thus providing work and expansion. Exports ensure a check on inflation
and a market for our surplus." She snatched up her glass, drank, set it down half empty.
"For a while the system worked and then the inevitable happened. First outside labor came to the planet, men
who had no real share in the economy, and thus a hereditary aristocracy grew up. Then greed reared its head. More
stockholders wanted larger amounts of stock. There were struggles, challenges, maneuvering for power. In such a
situation those that have the most get more. The Toymaster has always had the most." She shrugged, impatient with
explanation. "Enough of details. At the moment the situation is this—the Toymaster holds forty percent of stock. I
hold ten. If he beats me he will take it. A little more and he will hold the controlling interest." She paused, eyes hard,
lines marring the soft contours of her face. "You have seen my brother," she said flatly. "Suffered at his hands. Would
you like to see any world in the absolute power of such a man?"
Dumarest sipped a little wine. "If you win, my lady," he said carefully; "will you not have the same power?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But I shall not keep it. Half will be disbursed." She read his expression. "Not because I'm an
altruist but for the good of Toy. Too few hold too much power. As majority shareholder I can issue new stock—in
effect halve the value of what each now holds. It will give millions who now own nothing a chance to share in the
communal wealth."
"And they will work all the harder because of it," said Dumarest shrewdly. "But, my lady, with respect, what has
this to do with me?"
"Everything," she said. "I want you to act as my champion."
Come, fight and die for me! And that, thought Dumarest, was exactly what she was saying. He stared thoughtfully
at the surface of his wine. It was rose-pink, tiny bubbles rising to burst in transient beauty, leaving a ring of temporary
rainbows.
"You can fight," she said. "The way you beat the weavers showed that." She frowned. "How did you beat them?
Never before has a man escaped from the pens."
"The weavers are mutated spiders," said Dumarest. "Nothing more. They do not have the skill and intelligence of
a man nor do they have his striking power. Only their appearance is disturbing. In my travels I have met many forms
of life." He shrugged. "Perhaps I was lucky, my lady. I managed to avoid panic."
She was direct. "Do you think you could beat the Toymaster?"
"In equal combat? Perhaps." Dumarest frowned at his wine. "I do not know, my lady. So many things can happen.
It would be best for you to find someone else."
"Who? There isn't anyone. The Toymaster thought I intended to use Leon as my proxy. The man who stood at my
side," she explained. "Before witnesses I made him agree to let me use two men to fight for me—I did not say who
they would be." Her lips thinned spitefully. "It was my turn to lead him into a trap. But it was a small victory," she
admitted. "Useless unless you agree to act on my behalf."
Dumarest remained silent.
Quara stooped, opened a drawer in the desk, removed a sheet of paper and a small key. She placed them both on
the desk and sat down facing Dumarest. "I have bought you from Techon," she said abruptly. "You are now my slave."
His hand rose, touched the collar around his neck.
"You do not like being a slave," she said softly, understanding the gesture. "Well, let us bargain. I need your help.
In return I offer your freedom and wealth enough for you to travel to a dozen stars. The cost of a score of high
passages or, if you prefer, enough stock for you to live comfortably on Toy."
"The alternative, my lady?"
"I return you to the fightmaster."
Their eyes met, locked as each tried to gauge the determination of the other. Abruptly Dumarest said, "You do
not offer enough, my lady."
Inwardly she relaxed. He had agreed in principle; all else was a matter of detail. Now it was time for her to be
generous, but first she had to be sure.
"You will act for me?"
"You give me little choice," he said dryly. "But I need more than you offer."
"A moment." She rose, picked up the key, moved to stand behind him. A soft click and the collar was free. She
dropped the gleaming length of flexible metal on the sheet of paper, added the key, pushed the little pile toward
Dumarest. "This is your certificate of manumission," she explained. "The key and collar you may wish to retain as
souvenirs." She watched as he put the items in a pocket. "Now we can talk as free people. What more do you
demand?"
"Information, my lady."
She frowned, not understanding.
"The use of the Library," he said. "There is something I need to know. The whereabouts of the planet Earth." He
saw her expression. "I know the name sounds ridiculous but there is such a planet. A bleak place scarred with old
wars. I was born on it. I would like your help to find it."
She rose, crossed to the cabinet, refilled their glasses.
"You came from it," she said thoughtfully. "A ship must have carried you. Surely you could retrace your steps?"
"I was very young at the time," he said. "A child of ten, alone, more than a little desperate. I stowed away on a
ship. The captain should have evicted me but he was kinder than I deserved. He was old and had no son." He paused,
thinking, eyes clouded with memories. He drank some wine. "I've been traveling ever since. Deeper and deeper
toward the center, where inhabitable worlds are thickest. Among people to whom the planet Earth isn't even a
legend."
"And you came to Toy for what purpose?"
To consult the Library. "A hope," he said. "Maybe a wild one but still a hope. Earth doesn't lie in the center. The
stars are not as I remember. It must lie somewhere toward the edge of the galaxy. Certainly where the stars are few.
There was a moon," he said. "Big, pocked, looking like a rotting fruit as it swung across the sky."
"Many worlds have moons."
"And many worlds have men," he said. "Have you never thought, my lady, from where they came?"
"From the ground," she said quickly. "Carried by ships as we came to Toy from Grail. One world settles the next
and so on."
"Then isn't it possible that all men originated from one world?"
She laughed, amused at the conception. "My friend, how big a world that must be! Does all grass originate from
the same place? All trees, all animals, the fish in the seas and the birds in the air? And are all men alike, as they surely
would be if all came from one planet?" She laid her hand on his, black against white. "See? And there are men with
brown skins and yellow. Are they the same as me? Are you the same as me?"
"Yes, my lady. Basically the same. Most men and women can interbreed."
"Most," she said quickly, "but not all. How do you explain that?"
"Mutation, perhaps? A divergence from the main stock?" Dumarest picked up his wine, admitting defeat. She
would never be convinced, and how could he blame her? The observable facts were all against what he had claimed
could be the truth. Could be. Even he had no way to be certain. "But is it a bargain, my lady? I will be permitted to
consult the computer?"
"I will personally give the order to Vohmis." She tapped the rim of her glass against his own. "To our victory!"
They drank. Dumarest frowned. "A moment, my lady. You gained permission to use two men as your proxy. Who
is the other?"
"Who else but the man in the cage with you?"
"Legrain?"
"He escaped from the arena. He is your friend." Her eyes searched his face. "You object?"
"No, my lady. But will he agree?"
"He has." She smiled. "Leon spoke to him while you waited in here alone. He is quite willing to act with you as my
proxy." Again she rapped the edge of her glass against his own, the half-empty goblets ringing like distant bells.
"Come, my friend, let us finish the wine. To victory!"
"To victory," echoed Dumarest, and added, "To what it will bring."

***

Outside, in the ornate room, Legrain waited in a fever of impatience. He caught Dumarest by the arm. "Well, Earl,
did you agree?"
Dumarest nodded and led the way toward the door. Outside the air was warm with rising heat, the lower windows
unshuttered, people thronging the sidewalks still enjoying the euphoria of Dividend Day.
"I thought you'd agree," said Legrain as they strode along. "I told that man, Stockholder Hurl, that you would. Did
they offer you a good price?"
"Freedom," said Dumarest shortly. "That was good enough."
"Nothing else?" Legrain frowned. "You should have stuck them," he said. "They were desperate. You could have
got anything you asked."
"After the fight," said Dumarest.
Legrain nodded. "Well, sure," he said. "That was understood. No fight no pay." He chuckled. "You know, Earl, it's
going to be wonderful. Plenty of money, a fine house, slaves maybe. All I've ever wanted."
Dumarest turned a corner. "So you're going for the stock."
"That's right. Stockholder Legrain. Sounds good, doesn't it? Nothing to do but spend my dividend. No worries
about the future. No more fights or hiring myself out to get killed. I may even get married and raise a family. Why
not?"
Dumarest didn't answer.
"We could meet up at times," continued Legrain. "Live close. Share things. At least we'd have something in
common." He paused, looked around. "Where are we going?"
"To the landing field."
"But why?" Legrain looked puzzled. "What's out there? Look," he said. "We should be making plans, working out
techniques. That Toymaster's a tough customer. He'll kill us if he can, you know that?"
"I know it," said Dumarest. He paused at an intersection, continued striding along the sidewalk. The landing field
was close. Soon they could see the wire of the fence, the guards, the graceful ships beyond. Even as they watched
one lifted, rising with the magic of its Erhaft field, heading toward space and the stars.
Legrain stared after it, shook his head. "It gets you," he admitted. "Every time I see a ship leave I've the urge to
follow it. I guess that's what makes a traveler. But no more. My roving days are over. I'm here to stay."
"I'm not," said Dumarest.
Legrain frowned. "I don't get you, Earl."
"You don't? It's simple enough." Dumarest touched his bare throat. "Now that I've got rid of the collar there's
nothing to keep me here. I've credit enough for a Low passage. With what you've got plus the money thrown at us
during the party you should have the same. Let's go and find a handler."
"Are you serious?"
Dumarest frowned. "What's the matter with you? Do you want to stay here and get yourself killed? And for what?
So some spoiled bitch can get even richer?" He shook his head. "That's not for me. I'm getting out of here while I've
got the chance."
Legrain caught his arm. "Earl, you can't!" He swallowed. "The money. Unless we fight we don't get paid."
"And we won't get killed either," pointed out Dumarest.
"But—"
 "What's Toy to you? Just another world." Dumarest gestured toward the landing field." Any one of those ships
will take us to another planet. Let's get moving while we've got the chance."
"No," said Legrain. He stood, mantled in an odd pride. "I can't. I've given my word and I can't back down."
"Don't be a fool, Legrain. Can't you see they're using you?"
Legrain was stubborn. "Maybe they are but that isn't the point. I made a bargain with them and so did you. We
can't let them down, Earl. We just can't do that."
"No," said Dumarest quietly. "I guess we can't."

***

In the drifting cloud of steam a man called out sharply, his voice shrill with pain. Another voice, deeper, answered
with a laugh. Something blurred through the air to land with a heavy crash. Sycophantic voices hurried to offer
congratulations.
"A wonderful throw, Toymaster!"
"I've never seen a more masterful maneuver!"
"The way you weakened him before taking the final grip!"
Commander Gyrn smiled sourly. Dogs, he thought. Yapping at the heels of their master. Weaklings sheltering in
his strength, eager and willing to turn, one against the other, to gain his favor. Yet was he so different? It was
comforting to think that he had the moral courage to face Groshen. Comforting but untrue. We need him, he thought.
The weaklings in there, me, others. We need him in order to survive. And that, after all, was the most important thing.
To survive no matter what the cost.
He straightened as the electrostatic barrier opened and Groshen stepped from the steam into the cooler air. He
was naked but for a loincloth, muscles bunching, rippling beneath the ebony skin which glistened with a patina of
sweat.
He looked at Gyrn. "News?"
"Nothing fresh, my lord. The members of the Spinners Association have left for their estates. All but Stockholder
Hurl."
"He would naturally stay." Groshen passed into a room beyond, threw himself on a rubbing couch. "Well, he won't
bother us for long."
"No, my lord."
Groshen smiled. "I like that," he admitted. "Soon only I shall be so addressed." He frowned. "Or should it be
'master'? No," he decided. "That is a term used by slaves. I do not wish to rule a world of slaves."
"Most men would think that to rule is enough, my lord," ventured Gym.
"Perhaps. But that is the difference between you and me, Commander. You would be happy to rule a pack of
dogs. I need to rule a world of heroes." Groshen stretched as the masseur came to knead his muscles. "Heroes who
acknowledge me their master. Who are willing to place my foot on their necks." He stretched again, an animal
pleased with its grooming. "What did you want?"
"There are rumors in the city, my lord. News of the challenge has leaked out. The people demand to know where
and when the contest is to be."
"They will know when I tell them," said Groshen casually. "Not before."
"It would be wise not to delay the announcement, my lord," said Gyrn evenly. "There is a natural excitement. I
fear for unrest."
Groshen rolled beneath the hands of the masseur. "They want to see me beaten," he said. "Do you think I don't
know their minds? All weak men hate and envy the strong. I am the strongest man on Toy and therefore the most
hated. The computation is simple to appreciate." He looked up as a scarlet shape entered the room. "In good time,
cyber. I need your services."
"My lord?"
"Gyrn wants me to tell him when and where I shall choose to fight my sister."
"Not your sister, my lord," corrected the cyber in his even monotone. "Her proxy."
"It is the same. Where I am going to fight Stockholder Hurl and one of his friends."
Again Creel had to correct the statement. "It is not they you will be fighting, my lord. The Lady Quara has been
clever. She has chosen two others to take her place."
Groshen sat upright, waved away the masseur. "Who?" he demanded.
"The two men who fought the weavers at your party, my lord. The same two who escaped death in the arena."
Groshen smiled without humor. "So my dear sister is proving herself to be cunning as well as beautiful. What did
she offer them, I wonder? Something magnificent to make them walk quietly to their deaths." His eyes moved to
those of the commander. "Why didn't you know of this?"
Gym made a helpless gesture.
"They are keeping it a secret," said Creel evenly. "They hope that you will continue to believe you are to be
matched against Stockholder Hurl and another, and you will be careless. They are two dangerous men, my lord," he
said. "Trained to fight and kill."
"You think I could not beat them?"
"Apart, one at a time, you could beat them," admitted the cyber. "But both together at the same time? With
respect, my lord, I doubt it."
Groshen scowled.
"I do not now advise, my lord," said Creel in his emotionless modulation. "I predict. In this case my prediction is
that, if you face the two of them in normal combat, you will lose. Have I been wrong as yet, my lord?"
Impatiently the Toymaster swung his legs over the edge of the couch. Water blasted over his head and body as
he showered away the sweat and oil. Dripping, he glared at Creel as he stood before a drier. "What do you suggest?"
"The combat cannot be avoided, my lord."
"I know that," snapped Groshen. He stepped from before the drier, snatched a robe from the masseur, wrapped
himself in purple weave.
"You have the power to choose time, style and place."
"I know that also." Groshen blinked, a smile replacing his frown. "You are clever, cyber. I catch the drift of your
thoughts." His smile widened, turned into a laugh. "Of course! What better place to fight?"
"My lord?" Gyrn was curious.
Groshen turned to face the commander. "The Maze, fool! We shall fight in the Maze!"
"And the time, my lord?"
"Three hours from now."

Chapter Ten
There was a domed entrance, a drop-shaft falling to an artificial cavern half filled with waiting men. They turned
as Dumarest stepped from the shaft, faces softened by diffused lighting, eyes gleaming. Like animals, thought
Dumarest. Eager and hungry for the kill, the spectacle of men locked in combat. He frowned as he looked around the
cavern. It had a rough, unfinished look as if completed in haste, and he could see no ring, no arena. Where, in this
place, would they fight?
Legrain stepped out of the shaft to stand at his side,
Quara and Leon following. For a moment they stood at the head of the gentle slope leading to the main area,
then Leon led the little party to where a knot of men stood apart from the rest. Vohmis, his face carrying more lines
than those caused by age, came to meet them.
"Stockholder Hurl." Their hands met, open palm touching open palm, archaic proof that neither intended
violence. "And Stockholder Quara Groshen. It is good to see you, my dear. I could only wish that it was under happier
circumstances." Mournfully he shook his head. "This is a bad day for Toy."
She smiled at his concern. "It could be a good one, Librarian."
"If the Toymaster is bested? Perhaps. But is it ever good for brother to fight sister." Vohmis looked at Dumarest
and Legrain. "Are these two men your proxy?"
Quara nodded. "Help us, Librarian. We received notification only a short while ago. Where and what is this
Maze?"
Vohmis glanced to where an opening, ten feet square and filled with milky light, gaped in the wall of the cavern.
"There you see it. Beyond lies a convolution of surfaces impossible to describe. A whim of the Toymaster's," he
explained. "Built as a plaything. I can tell you no more."
Legrain made a disgusted sound. "Is that it?" he demanded. "Is that where we are to fight?"
"That is correct," said Vohmis.
Dumarest thinned his lips as he looked at the girl. "My lady, I do not like this. It puts us at too great a
disadvantage. Your brother must know the plan while we do not. Is there no way to change the locale? Force the
Toymaster to settle the challenge somewhere else?"
She made a helpless gesture. "No," she said. "He has the right to choose the time and place. We have no choice
but to obey. To do otherwise is to lose by default." She hesitated. "I did not think he would do this. If you wish—!"
She broke off, turning, tilting her head as a sigh echoed through the waiting crowds. Bright against the
background stone, the Toymaster stood on the head of the slope.
 He was splendidly barbaric in his wide-shouldered tunic and flared pants all of spotted weave. Brightness
sparkled from the metal ornaments on his belt, the butt of his whip, the metal tipping the lash. Others joined him, a
cloud of sycophants, the tall scarlet of the cyber. Dumarest stared at the pale shadow of the face beneath the cowl,
caught the gleam of watchful eyes. Like red slime, he thought. Grasping, destroying, fouling everything it touches. He
turned away, studying the enigmatic opening as Groshen swept toward them.
"My dear sister," he purred malevolently. "How wonderful you look! So charmingly innocent and devoid of guile."
His eyes held dancing mockery. "How does it feel, dear sister, to send two men to their deaths?"
She met his eyes, his mockery. "Two, brother? I have never thought of you as twins."
"You laugh," he said. "Well, laugh while you may. In a short while you will have small cause for such humor. You
will no longer be a stockholder of Toy. You will be nothing, sister. Nothing!"
She felt Leon's hand on her arm, heard his soft warning. "Not now, Quara. Do not again lose your temper."
Do not again make a fool of yourself, she thought bleakly. That is what he is really saying. Well, he is right. Once
should be lesson enough. Because of it she stood to lose everything she owned. Her eyes rested on Dumarest, on
Legrain. But they will lose even more, she thought. They will both shortly be dead.
Vohmis came bustling forward, intent on procedure, hating what he was doing but determined that it should be
done right. "Gentles," he called. "Your attention." He looked at the contestants. "You must permit yourselves to be
searched for hidden weapons. I apologize for any offense my words may cause and I cast no doubt on your honor, but
it is a thing which must be done." He glanced at the cyber, standing, tall and watchful to one side. "I ask the cyber to
conduct the examination. Does anyone object?"
"No," snapped the Toymaster.
Vohmis glanced at Dumarest, at Legrain.
"No," said Legrain quickly and then softly, to Dumarest, "This is getting on my nerves. The sooner we get into
action the better."
Dumarest stood rigid as the cyber searched his body.
A gleam of metal shone in one pale hand, the flexible length of the open collar.
Groshen glanced at it and laughed. "The badge of a slave," he said contemptuously. "Let him keep it as a souvenir
of happier days."
"Thank you, my lord," said Dumarest quietly. "Now will you please be so good as to remove your whip."
"This?" The Toymaster lifted his left arm. "It is a part of my dress."
"It is still a weapon," insisted Dumarest. "And a vicious one." He bowed as Groshen slipped the loop from his
wrist, flung the whip to one of his sycophants. "Thank you, my lord."
Groshen scowled, impatiently waited for the examination to be completed. "I shall not be entering the Maze
alone," he announced. "The cyber will accompany me. He will take no active part but, as I am to face two men, I
insist on a witness."
Legrain shrugged. "I've no objection. How about you, Earl?"
"None," said Dumarest.
"Then it is decided," said the Toymaster. "There will be no weapons. We fight bare-handed." His laughter rolled in
echoes from the walls of the cavern. "And this is what we shall do." His arm lifted, pointed at the opening. "You will
enter the Maze. In two minutes I shall follow. The time will be checked by the Librarian and these witnesses." He
gestured toward the watching men. "Somewhere within we shall meet. Whoever survives to emerge will be the victor.
Do you understand?"
Dumarest nodded and led the way toward the milky light.

***

It was like walking under water, in the center of a cloud, through a mist of luminous particles. The light came
from all sides, dazzling, causing the walls to merge with the roof, the floor with the walls, distorting perspective and
destroying orientation. Dumarest stumbled and almost fell as the floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet. He had the odd
impression that he no longer walked vertical to the pull of gravity but at an angle impossibly acute.
"This is crazy," said Legrain at his side. The walls of the tunnel caught the words, threw them back as soft echoes.
"Stupid. Why couldn't we have met in a ring? And no weapons," he added. "I don't like that. The Toymaster's an ugly
customer to meet on even terms."
"There are two of us," reminded Dumarest. "We'll make out."
He turned, looked back the way they had come, saw only a swirling haze of light. Continuing, he allowed his
companion to take the lead. Ahead the light faded, no longer dazzling but reduced to a wall-trapped glow which
destroyed all shadows. Ahead, also, the tunnel split, branching to left and right. Ten yards further each branch split
again.
Dumarest paused, frowning. There was no place to hide for a surprise attack. The Toymaster would be able to see
at least several yards ahead, from one junction to another, and the light made it impossible to hide.
Legrain called from the left-hand branch. "Come on, Earl. Let's get moving."
He headed down the left-hand tunnel. Dumarest followed, dragging his heel hard against the floor. Without
hesitation Legrain took the right-hand passage at the next junction. It led sharply downward before splitting. This
time he took the left-hand branch, then the right, then the left again.
Dumarest caught his arm. "Do you know what you're doing?"
Legrain nodded. "I've been in places like this before," he said. "On Hand. They go in for puzzles and labyrinths,
run competitions, things like that. Usually there's a rule for finding your way about in a place like this. A formula. Take
the first right, second left, second right, first left and back to first right again. It varies, of course, but that's the usual
thing."
"Is that why you're alternating?"
"Not really. But this way we won't get lost. We can always find our way out again."
Dumarest dropped to his knees and rested his ear against the floor, looking back the way they had come.
"Nothing," he said, climbing to his feet. "No vibration at all. They must have chosen the other branch."
"Or they could be sneaking up on us," said Legrain. "I don't know the layout of these passages. The Toymaster
does. For all we know he's waiting ahead by now." He hesitated. "You know what I think, Earl?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "You're thinking that it would be best if we split up."
Legrain was defensive. "It would double our chances of finding him. We could even manage to catch him
between us. That's about the only way we're going to get out of this alive," he said. "Hit him before he knows it.
Attack from front and rear."
"You could be right," said Dumarest. "Can I trust you?"
"All the way," said Legrain. "Every step all the time."
Dumarest smashed his fist against the other's nose. He hit again, feeling cartilage yield, seeing blood spurt over
the startled face. His left fist dug into the stomach, right swinging down in a vicious tearing slash to the ear. Legrain
staggered back, eyes blazing, hands to his face.
"I owed you that," said Dumarest coldly. "For leaving me in that cave."
"But, Earl! I told you—"
"I know what you told me. But I could have been killed climbing up that cliff." Dumarest reached forward,
grabbed Legrain by the shoulder. "This time, maybe, you won't let me down." His fingers closed, digging into the
flesh. "Now go and look for the Toymaster. If you find him yell. Keep out of his way and keep shouting until I join
you. I'll do the same. Understand?"
Legrain nodded.
"Then move!" Dumarest thrust him away. "And don't forget what I told you. Let me down again and I'll tear out
your throat."
He walked away, took two right-hand passages, waited, returned. Legrain had vanished. On the floor a pool of
blood showed where he had been. Dumarest dropped to his knee and squinted along the floor. He smiled. Against the
glow showed dark patches from the blood on the soles of Legrain's boots. Rising, Dumarest began to follow the trail.
It was hard, tedious, the light trapped in the walls causing his eyes to tire, making the little smears of darkness
harder to see. The passages changed, altered in a subtle manner so that they seemed less like the convolutions of a
three-dimensional maze than a peculiarly winding path which seemed to defy all normal laws. After a while, there was
only the one passage, lifting, dipping, twisting and turning apparently in and back on itself.
Dumarest closed his eyes. The passage had somehow merged with others in a visual nightmare of glowing walls
and transparent partitions, a jumble of peculiar angles impossible to follow. He felt as if he were falling and yet, at the
same time, being crushed beneath a solid mountain of rock. There was a horrible sensation of extension coupled
with the certain knowledge that he was being inexorably compressed. The senses of his body were at war with each
other, each denying the validity of what the others knew to be true.
He dropped to hands and knees, crawled along the passage, the floor oddly mobile beneath his weight. It grew
solid, reassuringly firm, and he opened his eyes. The nightmare was over. Ahead lay the familiarly glowing walls, the
passages of the labyrinth, the telltale flecks of blood.
Dumarest rose, stepped cautiously forward, froze at the sound of echoing voices.
And almost died as hands closed around his throat.
His reaction was instinctive. Muscles corded beneath the hands as he fought the pressure, afraid not of
asphyxiation but of the thumbs gouging at his vertebrae. He could live minutes without air but only seconds with a
broken neck. Reaching up, he clawed at the little fingers. They resisted as if made of iron. He lifted his right foot and
kicked savagely backward. The grip around his throat eased a little as the man moved to avoid the boot. Again
Dumarest wrenched at the little fingers, tore them from his neck, pulled savagely backward.
"Clever." The Toymaster smiled with a flash of teeth as Dumarest spun around. "Not many men could have
broken that grip. Where is your friend?"
Dumarest sucked air, not bothering to answer, studying the man he had to kill. Groshen was deceptively casual, a
man fully at his ease, confident of his superiority. He laughed, echoes ringing from the walls, the open mouth a red
cavern in his face.
"Come, little man," he urged. "You are my sister's champion. Must I tell her how easily you died?" He stepped
forward, arms extended in a lover's embrace.
Cautiously Dumarest backed away. Groshen was big, powerful, eager and willing to kill. To level the odds it was
important to make the first blow tell. To cripple him in some way so as to gain an edge. Dumarest breathed deeply,
oxygenating his blood, summoning strength for a major effort. The groin? He doubted it. The target was too small
and certainly protected. To try a kick would be to expose his foot and, if he missed, he would be off-balance and at a
disadvantage.
The knees? Possible, but Groshen wore high boots and the flared pants could contain defensive shielding. The
stomach was flat, ridged with muscle, the chest was a re-enforced barrel of muscle and bone. He had already felt the
strength of hands and arms.
"You are afraid," said Groshen, moving forward. "A coward." He laughed again. "My sister should see this. How
her brave champion retreats at the touch of danger. Do you wish for mercy? Beg hard enough and I may grant it." His
hands lowered, rested on his waist. "Come now, don't you want to live?"
Dumarest lunged at his throat.
He moved in a blur of motion, stiffened right hand chopping savagely at the side of Groshen's neck, left thumb
aimed at the right eye. He felt corded muscle beneath his right hand, softer tissue beneath his left. The Toymaster
snarled like a beast as Dumarest struck again at the throat, this time at the larynx. Groshen's hands rose, clenched
into fists, pounded like hammers. Dumarest grunted, tasting blood, jerking his knee to the groin as he chopped again
at the throat. The knee missed. Groshen stepped back and punched. Dumarest dodged and retreated, fighting for
breath.
"Quick," said the Toymaster. He wiped his face with the back of a hand. Blood ran down his cheek from his
injured eye. "You are fast and cunning, but the end is inevitable. You will die in great pain."
He ran forward, arms open to crush Dumarest in their grip. Dumarest caught them, threw himself backward,
kicked up with both feet as his shoulders hit the ground. Groshen landed beyond his head. Dumarest rose, kicked
again as the Toymaster climbed to all fours, his boot landing beneath the ribs. He might as well have kicked a tree.
Groshen rose, gripped an arm, flung him against the wall. Before Dumarest could recover a fist exploded against
his jaw. He sagged, sensed another blow coming and threw himself to one side. Spotted weave showed against the
pale blow. He hit out, felt something yield, hit again. A blow sent him staggering, a second made him fall. Desperately
he rolled, climbed to his feet, ran down a passage in order to gain time.
He caught a glimpse of a spacious chamber, a tall figure in familiar scarlet, Legrain's swollen face. Then
something smashed against the back of his skull and sent him hard against one wall.
"You!" Groshen, roaring, face smeared with blood from nose and eye, turned to Legrain.
Creel shot the Toymaster dead.
He stood, very calm, looking down at the dead body, the hole charred between the eyes. Slowly he turned and
stared at Dumarest, on the floor. "I told you," he said to Legrain in his even modulation. "There had to be a reason for
his attack. It was the only way he could follow you. The blood from your injuries left a trail."
Legrain shifted his feet. "I don't think so," he said stubbornly. "I wouldn't have come here had I thought that."
"You should have killed him as ordered," said the cyber.
"Killed him? How? He didn't give me a chance. He attacked before I was ready." Legrain stepped forward, looked
down at the limp figure. "He can't do any harm now."
"No," agreed the cyber. "Neither of them can interfere." He stooped over Dumarest, lifted an eyelid. "You are not
dead," he said. "You are not even unconscious. It is useless to pretend that you are."
Dumarest opened his eyes. He felt oddly detached, as if he were living in a dream. The watching figures of
Legrain and the cyber seemed to swell and diminish. Concussion, he thought. That last blow to the head coupled with
the impact against the wall. He sat upright, leaning his back against the glowing surface. He nodded as he saw the
Toymaster.
"You had to kill him," he said. "You couldn't let him live."
"The fool had served his purpose," said Creel. In the shadow of his cowl his face held a glowing satisfaction. He
was feeling the only pleasure he could ever experience. He needed to boast of his mental achievements. "Do you
know where we are?" he demanded. "This chamber is almost touching the machine, the precious Library of Toy. Can
you guess why this labyrinth was constructed? For the sole purpose of establishing this nexus. Topography," he said.
"A unique science. Those passages you traversed covered a great distance in a special relationship with both
themselves and the machine. Not one of the local technicians could dream that they were building a device to wreck
their economy."
Dumarest blinked, shook his head, sagged weakly back against the wall. "The Library," he said. "You intend to
destroy the Library."
"That is correct."
"But how? I mean—" Dumarest broke off. "Sick," he muttered. "Eyes all peculiar. Head hurts and I feel sick."
"Good," said Legrain viciously. "I'd like you to feel more than sick. I'd like to smash your face in, tear out your
eyes, let you crawl around in this place until you starve." He looked at the cyber. "How about that? I've got it coming
for what he did to my nose."
"No."
"Too rough for your precious stomach?" Legrain shrugged. "Well, you're the boss." His booted foot swung,
impacted against Dumarest's side. "How would you like a few broken ribs?"
"Enough." Creel had no time for petty revenge. "It is time for us to prepare."
Sullenly Legrain began to strip. Naked, he clawed at his stomach, chest and thighs. Surrogate flesh peeled away.
The false paunch disguised a cavity which held a coil of heavily coated wire. Gingerly he placed it on the ground.
"A special manufacture of the Cyclan," said Creel as Legrain dressed. "There is more energy in that wire than you
could imagine. Enough to warp the very structure of space itself. We shall use it to gain access to the machine."
"They will kill you," said Dumarest. "If they ever learn what you intend the stockholders of Toy will tear you
apart."
"True, but they will never learn. Do you think that the plans of the Cyclan are so easily shaken? This has been
pondered for years by the finest intelligence in the entire universe. Every step has been planned, every danger
predicted, all obstacles overcome." Creel gestured to the walls of the labyrinth. "Do you think this was built by
chance?"
"The Toymaster built it," said Dumarest. He looked at the dead man. "Built it to die in it, but I'll bet he didn't know
that."
"But who planted the idea in his mind?"
"You," said Dumarest. "The Cyclan."
"True. A traveler, apparently a dealer in amusing constructions, but a person working for an unsuspected end.
Unsuspected by Groshen, that is. It was a simple matter to entrance him with the notion of a mysterious Maze. It was
logical to have it built by Library technicians and so equally logical to have it built not too far from the machine. The
planning of our scientists took care of the rest. Topographically we are very close to the vaults containing the
memory banks of the machine. Destroy those and we destroy the independence of Toy."
Creel took a laser from beneath his robe, a larger model than he had used on Groshen.
Legrain took it. "Now?"
"At once."
Legrain walked to the wall of the chamber. It bore markings, a broad cross. Carefully he began to drill into the
wall at the marked spot.
Dumarest eased himself against the wall. His fingers touched his pocket, slipped inside, felt the smooth surface of
the collar. Legrain turned from where he worked.
"How about letting me use this on Dumarest? I'll feel safer when he's dead."
"We have no power to waste," said Creel. "And what can he do? He has no weapon. I searched him and I know
that." He looked down and addressed the topic of their conversation. "There you see the workings of an emotion-
loaded mind. He yields to petty hates and imagined fears and would risk losing much in order to gain so little. Your
death, what can it mean to him? Revenge, what motivation is that? The past is irrevocable. We of the Cyclan do not
waste effort in illogical pursuits."
"You know," said Dumarest, "if I were you I wouldn't trust him with that laser. He might kill you just to get me."
It was wasted effort and he knew it, but he had to try, to keep the cyber talking. Again he touched the smooth
metal in his pocket. If it hadn't been for Groshen I'd have had them, he told himself. I could have come up and taken
them both by surprise. Now the Toymaster's dead and I'm not much better. Cautiously he tried to move his legs. They
obeyed but the effort caused blood to sing in his ears. My hands, he thought. I can use my hands. But will it be
enough?
He looked up, saw the scarlet robe, the cowled face with the watching eyes.
"Will you never understand?" Creel moved his hands a little within the wide sleeves of his robe. "We of the
Cyclan do not leave anything to chance. Our predictions are accurate. That man,"—he nodded toward Legrain—"is
our instrument. I know exactly what he will do under any circumstance. He will not harm me. He will not even harm
you unless I give permission. That is but a measure of the Cyclan's power."
"To know," said Dumarest. "To always be right." He gently moved his head. "But what fun is life if you know what
is to come?"
"Almost through," called Legrain. "It can't be much further."
"The machine," said Dumarest quickly. "How do you intend to destroy it? By explosives?"
"Nothing so crude. The surrogate flesh which Legrain removed is a mass of electronically treated particles. Once
within the vaults we shall release them. They will spread and penetrate into the memory banks. The effect will be
total and complete erasure."
"Through," said Legrain. "At least the laser's out of power." He swung it, pointed it at Dumarest, pressed the
trigger. "See?"
"The wire," said Creel. "Quickly."
Legrain flung down the exhausted weapon and picked up the coil of wire. Gently he began to feed it into the hole
he had made. Dumarest watched, frowning. Were they going to operate by remote control?
"The wire is a door," said Creel. "Once released the forces it contains will expand the surrounding matter in a line
parallel to itself. An adjustment of the atomic arrangement," he added. "The practical effect is that the atomic space
in the surrounding matter is cleared of obstruction. When the field collapses it will fill the entire area. The substance
of the wire, of course, will be used to establish the field."
He turned, did something to the end of the wire. "Watch."
The wire began to glow and then, with shocking abruptness, a hole showed in the wall. It was seven feet in
diameter, perfectly round and level with the floor. A gust of cold air came through it, causing Legrain to shiver.
"Come on," he said. "Let's not waste time." He stooped and picked up the surrogate flesh he had discarded and
headed toward the opening.
Dumarest slipped his hand out of his pocket. He was holding the collar. His other hand found it, fumbled, joined
the ends together. They locked with a soft click.
Creel turned as he stepped into the opening, one hand slipping from his wide sleeve. "The possibility of your
causing any damage is remote," he said. "Nevertheless it does exist. Therefore it is logical that I should kill you."
Dumarest threw the collar.
It glittered as it spun toward the cyber's face. Instinctively Creel stepped back, lifting his hand and firing all in the
same movement. He was a good shot. The beam sliced the collar open.
It exploded level with his face.

Chapter Eleven
Quanta fumed with impatience. "How much longer?" she demanded harshly. Her eyes were fastened on the
square opening filled with milky light. "Surely they must have met by now?"
Leon studied her profile. She's worried, he thought. Inside she must be sick with it. And no wonder. Everything
depends on who is going to step through that opening. He felt a sudden wave of protective tenderness. "Quara," he
said softly. "Listen to me. No matter what happens you will need for nothing. I promise that."
She turned and looked into his face. "You mean if I lose?"
"Yes," he said. "If you win there will be nothing you will need from me. Nothing I can give you."
"Are you so very sure of that?" Her hand found his own, pressed. "But if I lose, Leon, you will take me beneath
your protection? Look after me? Is that what you mean?"
It was a moment for madness. "I would like to take care of you for the rest of my life."
"Marry me, you mean?"
The concept was so novel that it shook his self-possession.
Never had he thought of her as a wife. As a ward, yes, an adopted child perhaps, but never as a wife. But why
not? If the prediction of the machine was correct his life-span was measured in hours. Marriage would be the best
way to protect her. He had no children, so as his widow she would inherit his stock. "Yes," he said. "I am asking you to
marry me. It will be a legal technicality, nothing more, but—"
She rested the tips of her fingers against his lips. "Leon," she said softly, "Say no more. I'll—" She broke off,
startled. "What was that?"
They had all felt it. A shudder. A dull echo as of a deep-buried explosion. A communicator hummed on the
Librarian's wrist. He tripped the switch, listened, stared at Leon with a face suddenly haggard.
 "There has been an accident," he said. "A detonation in the vaults of the machine." He looked around, wildly. "I
must get there at once! How—"
"There are rafts on the surface." Leon took charge, sensing that Vohmis was suffering from shock. Damage to his
precious machine was a blow to his heart. "Listen," he called to the waiting men. "Remain here. You are witnesses as
to the result of the challenge." He looked at Quara. "Do you wish to stay here or come with me?"
"With you," she said quickly, and led the way toward the shaft.
Technicians met them as they landed. In a tight group they entered the Library, a drop-shaft, a car which
hummed through a tunnel. The memory banks themselves were miles from the communication panels, deep-buried
in solid rock, protected against all possible danger.
Vohmis bit nervously at his nails. "What happened?" he demanded. "What caused the explosion?"
"We have no idea, Librarian," said one of the technicians. "Our instruments recorded a slight seismological
disturbance, some heat and pressure, all at a point in the extreme perimeter of the lower vaults. We have sealed the
area."
"Damage?"
"We are still testing. Fortunately it seems to be confined to the point in question."
Vohmis nodded, jumped from the car as it came to a halt. "Hurry," he ordered. "I must inspect the damage."
It could have been worse, thought Leon as he followed Vohmis and his technicians through the sealing barriers.
Thick baffle-walls had prevented the shock-wave from traveling far beyond the source of the explosion, minimizing
its effect. But that was bad enough. Vohmis shook his head as he stared at the wreckage. "Ruined," he said. "Utterly
ruined."
Each storage bank was ten feet wide, ten high, a hundred long. Most of the space was taken up with coolant
fluids, devices to neutralize fluctuating electronic potential, more to establish a neutral field around the actual data
storage system. Now everything was a jumbled mess. The explosion had ripped the protective paneling from its
structure, smashed it back into the body of the machine, tore free what it hadn't crumpled. The air was frigid, acrid
with chemical taint.
"Ruined," said Vohmis again. "Utterly destroyed."
Leon nodded, passed the shattered mess to the far wall. It was deeply gouged in a conical scoop, the open mouth
of a funnel pointing at the storage bank. He leaned forward and touched it. The liberation of tremendous energy had
blasted the stone. He frowned, leaned closer. His shadow occluded the apex, revealing a tiny point of light.
He turned to the technicians. "Bring heavy-duty lasers. Excavation equipment. Hurry! There is something beyond
this wall!"

***

The room had changed. The carpet was as thick, the windows as tall and glowing with the same morning light,
the odd shapes on the scattered pedestals shining with the same brilliance. Even the ceiling with its depictions of old
wars was exactly the same. And yet, Dumarest knew, the room had changed. Once it had been just a place with four
walls and luxurious furnishings. Now it contained something new.
Quara smiled at him as he stepped toward where she sat on a couch. Leon was beside her and their hands, as if
by accident, were very close. Love, thought Dumarest. They're in love and that's why the room has changed. He
halted before them and inclined his head. "My lord. My lady."
"You have things the wrong way around," said Leon. "Quara is now mistress of Toy. The majority stockholder—
thanks to you."
"But still a woman," she reminded. "And not so long a wife." Her eyes were luminous as she looked at Dumarest.
"I forced him to keep a promise," she said. "One made in a moment of pity. When we broke through that wall and
found what we did I read his face. Groshen was dead and you barely alive. I think that he would almost have preferred
the opposite."
"Then you would have needed me," Leon said.
"I need you now," said Quara. "I think I have always needed you. And," she added, "if Dumarest and not Groshen
had died, how long would we have been man and wife?" Her hand touched his, caressingly. "Did you think I had
forgotten the prediction of the machine? You offered to make me a rich widow, protect me from the anger of the
Toymaster and total ruin if he had won, and I loved you for it. But I love you more for wanting me as myself." She
remembered they were not alone. "My apologies," she said to Dumarest. "Come, sit and join us in a glass of wine."
It was the same that he had had before, ruby shining in the crystal goblet, tart and refreshing to his tongue.
"You are fit?" said Leon. "You feel no discomfort no pain?"
"None, my lord."
 "Too much has passed between us for such formality," laughed Quara. She lifted her glass. "Come, Earl, a toast.
To happiness!"
They drank.
"You were very ill," said Leon to Dumarest. "You almost died. Stockholder Ledra worked hard to save you." He
smiled at Dumarest's expression. "She volunteered," he explained. "And she is the best physician we have on Toy. She
also has the finest equipment available. You had three separate treatments of slow time therapy together with
complete medical and surgical attention. You are certain that you feel well?"
Dumarest nodded.
"Then you will not begrudge her the germ plasm she extracted as her fee," said Leon. "She insisted, and
Stockholder Ledra is a very determined woman."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I gathered as much." So she had his seed to twist into peculiar shapes, his characteristics
to breed into selected strains. Mentally he shrugged. It was immortality of a kind.
"And now," said Quara, "I want to know everything. From the very beginning," she insisted. "The whole story."
She sat listening, hand touching that of her husband, both engrossed as Dumarest told what had happened in the
Maze. "The explosion," she said when he had finished. "What caused it? And why did we find no trace of the cyber
and Legrain?"
"The two are connected," said Dumarest. He fell silent, remembering the noise, the searing gush of energy, the
blasting impact of debris which had brought oblivion. "Creel had established an opening from the labyrinth to the
vaults. Both he and Legrain were in it when I threw the collar. He shot at it, cut it, caused it to explode. The sudden
release of energy upset the delicate balance of the field and it collapsed. The displaced matter resumed its original
position—but the mass of both men were in the way. They were crushed, literally, to an atomic pulp, but those atoms
had to go somewhere. They blasted free in an explosion." He drank what remained of his wine. "I was lucky," he
admitted. "I should have died in the blast. I would have died if you hadn't found me so soon." He looked at Quara. "I
take it there was no argument as to who had won?"
"None. The Toymaster was dead and he had himself stated the conditions. The one who survived to emerge
would be the victor. You were alive and you emerged. The technicians bore witness to where we found you." Quara
lifted the flagon, refilled his glass. "But I still do not understand why Creel did not kill Groshen earlier. Why leave him,
a potential danger, free to wander the labyrinth?"
"Because I also was a potential danger," explained Dumarest. "The plan was to leave us both while Legrain and
the cyber did what they had intended to do all along. If we met and fought a danger would be eliminated. The
survivor, whoever he was, could be eliminated later. But Groshen was lucky. Somehow he stumbled on the route to
the nexus. Luck," he said somberly. "Not even the Cyclan has the power to determine the random laws of chance.
Creel made a mistake. He wanted the Toymaster dead and should have killed him at once. Legrain made another—he
should have killed me."
"Legrain," said Leon. "Why did you suspect him?"
"Because he acted out of character. I could understand him leaving me in the cave; that was the act of a selfish
and ruthless man. But he paid money to hire an advocate, staying when he had a chance to leave. That made me
suspicious. I pretended to believe his story then and later when he said that the guards had grabbed him to put in the
cage. But after you had made your bargain with us I tested him. Logically there was no reason why he shouldn't have
agreed to run off-world while he had the chance. A man who would desert a companion would have no compunction
at breaking a bargain. So there had to be a reason for his staying. I guessed that he was working for someone else and
getting highly paid for his services."
"But he could have died," protested Quara. "The Toymaster could have killed him."
Dumarest shook his head. "No," he said. "He wouldn't have died and he knew it. The man he was working for
would see to that."
Leon was baffled. "But—"
"Who?" demanded Quara.
"The cyber," said Dumarest. "Who else?"
He gulped his wine, paced the floor. "The Cyclan," he said. "The spreading red slime which fouls everything it
touches. Creel was a part of it. Legrain was an agent, nothing more; he would have been paid with death, not riches. I
knew," he insisted. "When I fought the spiders I knew. I saw Creel sitting behind the Toymaster. It was enough."
Quara looked at him, eyes soft with her woman's intuition. "You hate them," she said. "They have hurt you terribly
in some way."
"Yes," he said shortly, not wanting to think about it, to arouse old memories. "I hate them and I know them. They
spread, touching world after world, insinuating their way into a position of power. Oh, they don't rule, not openly, but
where you find a cyber you find the power of the Cyclan. And they have power. Subtle, unnoticed, but very real. A
word, a prediction, a guiding of opinion. They almost won Toy. Take warning, they will try again and yet again. They
do not like the opposition of your machine. It makes you independent, others too." He paused, looking at his hands.
They were clenched, the knuckles white. Slowly he forced them to relax, the fingers to uncurl. "The Cyclan does not
like independence," he said gently. "It encourages random behavior."
He looked at them, saw the doubt in their eyes, the disbelief. "You think what happened was because of chance?"
Slowly Leon helped himself to more wine. "The fight-master," he said. "How did Creel know that he would buy
you, set you against the weavers?"
"He knew of the Toymaster's party. Who else but a fightmaster would buy a man of my reputation? How hard
would it be to suggest combat sports at the party and how easy would it be to hint that I, a man having escaped from
the arena, would provide good sport?"
"And Legrain?" demanded Quara. "Why was he put in the cage? In a position of danger."
"No danger," said Dumarest. "His bonds were loose and, in a real emergency, he could have pulled free. But that
wasn't necessary. Creel knew that I would win. It was a simple prediction, as simple as knowing you would fall into
the Toymaster's trap, as knowing that, once you'd done so, you would choose me as your champion." Again he paced
the floor.
"You underestimate them," he said. "The power of the Cyclan is frightening even though based on such simple
things. The ability to predict a logical sequence of events from a given action. The ability to maneuver people like
puppets and yet never let anyone suspect they are so controlled. Creel knew exactly what you and I and the
Toymaster would do. Legrain was put into the cage so as to be close to me and therefore close to you. The whole
series of events were aimed at just one thing: to enable Creel to get to the nexus and destroy the Library."
"And he knew that the Toymaster would pick him as a companion?" Leon spoke over the rim of his glass. "That
he would be chosen to conduct the examination?"
"The Toymaster needed a guide and Creel knew the intricacies of the Maze. The search?" Dumarest shrugged.
"Had anyone else been chosen there would have been an objection. Who could be more neutral than a cyber?
But you don't believe," he said. "You think I speak from personal hate. Perhaps I do; I have no cause to love the
Cyclan, but think about it. Think how close they came to destroying your economic stability. To destroying the
Library."
"And, knowing all this, you still entered the Maze and fought for me." Quara rose, rested her hands on his
shoulders, looked into his face. "You alone saved Toy. How can we ever repay you?"
"We made a bargain," he said. "Money and information." He touched his waist where under refurbished clothing a
moneybelt sagged, heavy with gems. "I have the money."
"And now you want the information." Her hands fell from his shoulders. "Earl, must you travel? On Toy you could
find a home. I will give you enough stock for you to live on equal terms with the richest. Must you leave?"
He was curt. "Yes, my lady."
"To continue your search for happiness?" She turned, smiled down at her husband, gently touched his hair. "For
some it isn't so hard to find. We have found it, each within the other; it fills the world. But you?" She looked at
Dumarest. "All this has been an interlude for you." she said wonderingly. "An episode of no real importance. A single
step on a long journey."
"We made a bargain, my lady," reminded Dumarest. "I have kept my part."
"And I mine." Her white teeth bit at her lower lip. "Earl, my friend, I am sorry but…"
"You have no information?"
"A little but not enough. Vohmis himself gave the order for the search. That was before you entered the Maze.
There is a tight schedule, others had priority, there seemed to be no urgency." She took a deep breath. "They were
asking about our planet when the explosion occurred."
He felt a tightness at his stomach. "And?"
"The memory bank containing the information was destroyed."
He had known it; somehow he had guessed. The tightness vanished to be replaced by a hard knot of despair. So
close! So very close!
"Something was gained," Quara said gently. "Very little, I'm afraid. Only a name."
"Another name? For Earth?"
"Yes. Terra. You have heard of it?"
Dumarest shook his head.
"Perhaps it derives from 'territory,' " she suggested. "Or is a distortion of the word 'terrible' or 'terror,' " She
hesitated. "You did say that it was a bleak world scarred by ancient wars."
"Very scarred," he said heavily. "By wars very ancient."
"Earl, I'm sorry!" Her sympathy was genuine. "I've let you down so badly while you—" She blinked eyes suddenly
a little too bright. "The technician gained the second name and was running a check in order to determine the spacial
coordinates. He found no correlation in the system in present use. The explosion came before he could extend his
investigation and since then the reply has been negative owing to insufficient data. Cross-checks have determined
that the information, if available at all, would have been stored in the destroyed memory bank."
"Thank you, my lady," said Dumarest, "At least you tried."
"Tried and failed," she said. "If only I'd tried earlier. Insisted on full priority. Such a little thing," she added. "A few
hours. Minutes even."
"Please do not distress yourself, my lady." Dumarest forced a smile. "After all, there is no proof that the
information was available at all. The memory bank might have contained nothing of value."
"You are being kind, Earl. Kinder than I deserve."
No, he thought, not that. She meant well in her fashion and it was true, there had been no apparent urgency. No
one could have foretold the explosion. Certainly no one, not even the cyber, could have known the importance of
that particular storage bank. But not all had been lost. He had a second name to help his search and he had money
with which to travel. What use to regret what might have been?
Leon, watching, had quietly poured wine, emptying the flagon. He handed a glass to the girl, another to
Dumarest. Holding a third, he rested his arm about her shoulders. "Earl, you make me feel oddly guilty," he said. "A
man rarely achieves such happiness as I have gained. I have Quara and, in her, I have everything. But you? What
have you?"
Dumarest looked at his wine.
"He has his quest," said Quara gently, understanding. "His reason for living. Above all he still has that." She raised
her glass. "And, one day perhaps, he too will find his happiness. Let us drink to that."
Dumarest swallowed the bittersweet wine.

KALIN

Chapter One
It was Bloodtime on Logis and the captain was firm. "I am sorry," he said, "but I will take no chances. As
passengers you are free to go or stay as you desire, but I must tell you this: if the perimeter fence should be
penetrated I will seal the ship. And," he added significantly, "it will remain sealed until all danger is safely past."
"You would leave us outside?" The woman wore clothes too young for her raddled features, her cracked and aging
voice. "Leave us to be killed?"
"If necessary, madam, yes."
"Incredible!" Gem-fire flashed from her hands as they moved in the cone of light streaming from above the open lock.
"To treat your passengers so!"
Her companion, a scarred mercenary, growled deep in his throat. "The captain has no choice, my dear. His first
duty must be for his ship." He looked at the officer. "Am I not right?"
"You are a man of understanding, sir," said the captain. "As you say, I would have no choice. Bloodtime on Logis
is not a gentle period. Usually the field suffers no depredation, but beyond the fence anything can happen." His eyes,
flat, dull, indifferent, glanced from one to the other. "Those who venture into town do so at their own risk. I would
advise you all to restrain your curiosity."
A thin-faced vendor of symbiotes stared thoughtfully after the retreating figure. "He's exaggerating," he said.
"Inflating the potential danger in order to keep us all nicely to heel."
"Maybe he is, but he wasn't joking about sealing the vessel." A plump trader fingered the charm hanging about his
neck, a good luck symbol from one of the Magic worlds. He looked shrewdly at Dumarest. "You've traveled, Earl.
You've seen a lot of the galaxy. What do you advise?"
Dumarest looked at the trader. "About what?"
"You heard what the captain said. Do you think he was exaggerating? Would it be safe for us to go and see the
fun?"
Dumarest made no comment. From the vantage point at the head of the ramp on which they stood he had a
good view of the city. It sprawled, an ill-lit shapeless conglomeration of buildings beyond the high wire mesh of the
fence. It was barely night but already the red glow of fire painted the lowering clouds. The soft breeze carried the
echoes of screams, shouts, the savage baying of a mob.
The woman shivered. "Horrible! Like animals. Dogs worrying a bone. Why?" she demanded. "Why in a so-called
civilized community do they do it?"
Her companion shrugged. "It is their custom."
"Custom!" She wasn't satisfied. Her eyes met those of Dumarest, held, with dawning interest. "A word which
explains nothing. Why do they throw aside all law, all restraint?"
"To cleanse themselves, my lady," said Dumarest. "At least, that is what they claim. Once, perhaps, the thing had
purpose but now it has become a vicious habit. For three days the population of Logis will hunt and kill, hide and
die." He looked at the flames. "Burn and be burned."
But not all of them. Only the weak and helpless, those without friends willing to lend their protection. The old
days when harmful mutations, the insane, the crippled, the physically weak and morally vicious were culled from
society were over. Now old scores would be settled, debts and grudges paid, revenge taken. A few politicians would
be hunted down for their lying promises. Some cheating traders, businessmen, company heads would be sacrificed to
appease the mob. But, when it was all over, those in power would still remain.
The woman shivered again at the echo of a scream. Her hand glittered as she touched the arm of her
companion. "Let's go inside," she said.
"We can sit and talk and play cards, maybe. Listen to music, even. Anything but this. I have no love for the sounds
of violence."
And, thought Dumarest watching, neither had the man. Not now. The mercenary was old and afraid of what the
future could bring. A man who had too often seen the amniotic tanks, suffered the pain of wounds. Now he searched
for a haven and the woman could provide it. She too had lived a hard life but, unlike the man, she had something to
show for it. Jewels instead of scars. Together they could find comfort if not happiness.
Dumarest turned, breathing deep of the night air, suddenly conscious of his isolation and a little envious of those
who did not travel alone. Behind him the trader shuffled, restless, his eyes reflecting the glow of mounting fires.
"Let's go down to the gate and take a closer look," he suggested. "That should be safe enough. We could take care
and might see something interesting."
"We might," agreed the thin-faced vendor. He sucked in his cheeks. "It seems a pity to come all this way and see
nothing. It won't happen again for another year and who knows where I'll be then?" He nodded, deciding. "All right.
I'll come with you. How about you, Earl?"
Dumarest hesitated and then, slowly, followed the others down the ramp.

***

Guards stood by the gate, armed, armored and sullen. They were field personnel selected to remain stable during
the three day period. They were carrying weapons which were rare on Logis— automatic rifles. These could fire a
spray of shot as effective if not as lethal as lasers at short range. One of them glared as the three men approached.
"You going out or staying in?"
"Staying in," said the trader promptly. He squinted past the guards into the town. A wide road, apparently
deserted, ran directly from the gate. "How bad is it?"
"Not bad at all," said the man. His face was hard, brutal beneath his helmet. "Those who asked for it are getting
it." His face convulsed in sudden rage. "Damn it! I shouldn't be here at this lousy gate. I should be out there hunting
down the bastard who stole my wife!"
"Take it easy," said one of his companions. He wore the insignia of an officer. "That's no way to talk. You got
divorced, didn't you?"
"What's that got to do with it?"
"She got married again, didn't she?"
"So?"
"Forget it," said the officer. "I'm not looking for a quarrel. But you volunteered for gate-duty. You swore that you
had no grudges to settle and that you could use the extra pay. So you're here and you're going to stay here for the
duration. Get it?"
"Go to hell!"
"This is your last chance, Brad."
"—you!"
The officer reached out and snatched the rifle from the guard's hands. "All right," he said coldly. "That's enough.
Now beat it."
"What?" The man blinked. "Now wait a minute!" he stormed. "I've got a right to—"
 "You're relieved," snapped the officer. "I don't want you on this gate. Now get to hell out of here while you've still
got the chance."
Dumarest looked at the officer as the man walked away mouthing threats. "He'll get you for this."
"No he won't," said the officer. "Brad's a coward and a bully and that's a poor survival combination. He's made too
many enemies and won't last until dawn." He sucked thoughtfully at his teeth. "A little insurance wouldn't hurt
though," he mused. "I know his ex-wife. She's a decent woman married to a trained fighter. I'll tip them off about what
has happened. Just in case," he explained. "Some rats have a lot of luck and Brad might just about make it to their
apartment."
"But that's as far as he'll get," said Dumarest.
"Sure," agreed the officer. "That's the whole idea." He walked to where a booth stood beside the gate, to a phone
and his warning call.
Dumarest joined his companions where they stood looking down the road. There was little to see. Fires sent drifts
of smoke billowing across the street. The sound of breaking glass came from the business section where shops which
had economized on shutters were providing meat for the looters. A band of men appeared, lurched toward the gate
and then disappeared into a tavern. Light shone from the open door but quickly vanished as the panel slammed. The
trader licked his lips.
"A drink," he said. "I could do with something to wet the gullet." He licked his lips again. "How about it, Earl?
Shall we walk down to that tavern and order a bottle? Hell," he added, "why not? No one can possibly have cause to
hate us on this planet, so where's the danger?"
It was there: Dumarest could smell it, sense it riding like smoke on the air. The blood-craze of normally decent
people suddenly relieved of all restraint. More. Proving themselves by being the first to accuse, the loudest to
complain, the quickest to act.
Among such people, how long would a stranger last?
The thin-faced vendor moved restlessly. He was getting cold and bored and thought longingly of the comfort
waiting in the ship. Also he should attend to his samples. That symbiote from Een: it was time he wore it. If he put it
off too long the thing would encyst to sporofulate which, if not tragic, would be an inconvenient nuisance.
A shout came from down the road. A man lurched from between two buildings, a bottle in one hand, a long knife
in the other. He crossed the street, stood swaying, then vanished down an alley. Another followed him, a woman with
long, unkempt hair. She carried a crude club made of a stone lashed to a stick. Crude, but effective enough if swung
against a skull. On Logis revenge wasn't forestalled by poverty.
"She's after him," said the trader. "Did you see that, Earl? She's tracking him down as if he were a beast. Waiting
until she can sneak up on him and smash in his head." He chuckled. "Unless he sees her first." he qualified. "He wasn't
carrying that knife for fun."
"Murderers," said the vendor. He sounded disgusted. "Let's get back to the ship and breathe some clean air."
The trader bristled. "Now wait a minute—"
"Murderers," repeated the vendor. "Not you, them. I enjoy a little excitement as much as the next man but what
are we seeing? An even match? A regulated bout with ten-inch knives, first-blood winner or to the death? An even
melee? Listen," he emphasized. "I've got a couple of symbiotes in the ship which will give you all you could hope for.
You ever seen leucocytes chase malignant bacteria? With one of my pets you can really join in. Mental affinity
achieved on a sensory plane and, what's more, the thing takes care of you while you feed it. Really takes care." He
winked. "Guess what I mean?"
"I can imagine." The trader hesitated. "These symbiotes come expensive, right?"
The vendor nodded. "Tell you what," he suggested. "I'll rent you one. I've got a thing from Een which would suit
you right down to the ground." He read the other's expression. "You're wondering if they're safe. Would I be selling
them if they weren't? They're symbiotes, man, not parasites. They give you something in return for what they take.
Look," he urged. "Ask anyone. The captain, the medic, anyone. They'll tell you the same."
"All right," said the trader. "I'm convinced. Let's get back to the ship." He looked at Dumarest. "Coming, Earl?"
Dumarest didn't answer. He was staring down the wide street. A flicker of gold showed in the distance. It
vanished, reappeared with a sudden burst of resplendency, vanished again as a leaping flame died. It shone again
with reflected brilliance, coming nearer, closer, with the sound of racing feet. Beside him the trader sucked in his
breath.
"By God," he whispered. "It's a girl!"
She came running down the road, long legs flashing beneath the hem of a golden tunic. It was cut away from her
arms, her throat, falling to mid-thigh and cinctured with a crimson belt. Flame red hair was bound with a fillet of gold.
Sandals of gold hugged her feet showing the scarlet of painted nails. Her face was deathly pale, the eyes enormous,
the red lips parted as she fought for breath.
 Behind her seethed a yammering, screaming mob.
"They'll get her," breathed the seller of symbiotes. He looked pale, sick. "They'll run her down for sure."
"Run her down and tear her apart," agreed the trader. He narrowed his eyes. "She's trying to reach the gate," he
murmured. "With luck she might make it. Not that it'll do her any good but—" He broke off as she tripped and fell,
naked flesh white against the gold, white and gold stark against the flame-bright cobbles of the street. "She's down!"
he groaned. "They'll get her now for sure." He sensed movement, the shifting of the guards, the stir of displaced air.
"Earl!" he yelled.
"Earl, you crazy fool! Come back here!"
Dumarest paid no attention. He ran, face hard as he estimated time and distance. He could reach the girl before
the mob. He might just be able to reach her and return to the gate before they covered the distance. It was a thing he
had to try.
She looked up at him, eyes pools of green fire in the translucent pallor of her face. Her hands lifted, white
butterflies of defense. "No!" she said. "No!"
His words were quick, harsh. "I mean you no harm. Can you stand? Run?"
She moved, winced. "My ankle—"
There was no time for more. He stooped, gripped her wrist and hauled upward. The impact of her body was light
on his shoulder. He felt the smoothness of her naked thigh against the palm of his left hand, the warmth of her body
against his cheek. He ran toward the gate, seeing the faces of the assembled guards, their lifted weapons, the watchful
eyes of his two companions.
"Earl!" called the trader. "Behind you!"
Something struck his leg. Something else clawed at his arm. He spun, lashing out with his free hand, saw a
snarling face fall away. A man, quicker than the rest, had reached him and had tried to tear the girl from his shoulder.
Dumarest set her on her feet and thrust her toward the gate.
"Move!" he ordered. "Hop if you have to, but move!"
"But you—"
"Damn it, girl, don't argue!"
He turned just in time to avoid an ax swinging at his skull. He stepped backward, caught the haft, tore it free and
slammed the side of the blade into the wielder's mouth. He fell, spitting teeth and blood, screaming as feet trod him
to the stone. A knife flashed in the firelight. Dumarest lifted an arm and blocked the blade. It slashed his tunic; the
edge sliced through plastic and grated on the metal weave below. He struck out with the ax, felt it stick, released the
haft as a thumb gouged at his eyes. He kicked and felt bone snap beneath his boot. With both hands stiffened he
moved slowly back toward the gate: chopping, stabbing with his fingers, kicking, using elbows and head as a weapon.
Lashing out, always on the move, always on the attack.
Abruptly he was standing alone, ringed by savage faces, the moans and whimpers of the injured rising above the
soft rustle of advancing flames, the ragged sounds of breathing.
A man spat a mouthful of blood. "Listen," he said. "I don't know who you are but we want that girl. Do we have to
kill you to get her?"
"You could try," said Dumarest.
"We can do more than that," said the man. "You're one against the lot of us. You're quick and you're fast but how
long do you think you can hold out?"
"Be sensible," urged someone from the rear of the crowd. "What's the girl to you? Hell, man, why lose your life
trying to protect someone you don't even know?"
"You've done enough," said a third. "Maybe you don't understand, so we'll let it go. But try to stop us again and
you'll get taken apart."
Dumarest edged a little further from the ring of faces. They were talking, normally a good sign: men who talk
rarely act. But these people were degenerate rabble taking advantage of the Bloodtime to slake their lust for violence.
They were talking to summon up their courage, not to arrive at a compromise.
Dumarest glanced over his shoulder. The girl stood before the assembled guards, her eyes wide as she watched
the mob. Why didn't she pass through the gate into the field?
The first speaker wiped blood from his mouth. "She can't escape," he said. "The guards won't let her through the
gate. Only those with booked passage are permitted on the field at Bloodtime. There's no sanctuary in there."
Dumarest raised his voice and called to the trader. "Seegihm."
"Earl?"
"Get a message to the captain. Have him book a passage for the girl at my expense. Use the phone and pass her
through when it's done."
A woman screamed from the rear of the mob. "Mister, you're crazy! You don't know what you're doing. That girl's
a witch!"
"That's right!" roared a man. "A dirty, filthy, stinking witch! She hexed my daughter so that she aborted!"
Others took up the chorus. "She called up a wind to rip the roof off my barn!"
"I had a whole brewing ruined through her!"
"My boy lost an eye!"
"She dug a hole and my wife fell in it and broke a leg!"
"I bought stock and went broke. She did it!"
The shouts became an animal snarl.
"She did it! She did it! Witch! Stinking, lousy witch! Kill her! Burn her! Flay her alive! Kill! Kill! Kill!"
Dumarest retreated as they began to advance, then heard the frenzied shout of the trader.
"Back, Earl! Back! It's all fixed!"
He turned and dived for the gate, seeing the girl pass through with a flash of red and gold and gleaming white.
The guards closed in behind him, presenting a solid front to the screaming mob, their hands tight on their weapons,
their eyes oddly red.
"Witch!" shrieked a voice. "Don't let her get away!"
The mob howled, indifferent to personal danger, hurling themselves against the guards, their guns, the fence,
smashing it beneath the pressure of their bodies, racing across the field to where Dumarest and the others ran up the
ramp and into the open lock seconds before the captain sealed the ship.

Chapter Two
Her name was Kalin and she really was a witch.
She sat facing Dumarest at the table in the lounge of the ship, watching as he shuffled a deck of cards. They were
alone. Seegihm, the trader, lay in his bunk, a purple symbiote wreathing his neck, his eyes closed in a sleepless dream.
The vendor was busy with his stock. The woman and her companion stayed in her cabin. The crew, as always, took
care not to mingle with the passengers.
"Now," said Dumarest. He cut the deck into three stacks. "You know this game?"
She nodded. "Highest, lowest, man-in-between. You want me to pick the winning card?"
"If you can."
"This one," she said after a moment's thought. The tip of one slender finger rested on the left-hand stack.
Dumarest turned over the cards. The others showed a ten and a three; hers a seven. As man-in-between she
would have won the pot. Again he shuffled, taking special care not to see the cards, taking even more care that the
pips were shielded from her view. Again she chose the winning stack. And again, again—ten times in all before he
called a halt.
Thoughtfully he leaned back and looked at the girl. She had bathed and the terror and strain had left her face and
eyes. They were still green pools of fire, still enormous in the translucent whiteness of her face, but now she looked
what she was, an amazingly attractive woman instead of a hunted animal.
"Kalin," he said. "Kalin what?"
She shrugged. "Just Kalin."
"No Family? No House? No Guild?"
"There are people who live without such things," she said. "You, for example."
"You know?"
"I guessed," she admitted. "But it's pretty obvious. You have the look of a man who has learned to rely on no one
but himself. A man who has lived hard and alone. The way you saved me shows that. Other men would have waited
for someone to tell them what to do. You simply acted. If you had hesitated I would have been killed."
"Hunted down for being a witch," he said. "Are you?"
"Am I what? A witch?"
He waited, watching.
"I don't know," she confessed. "Just what is a witch supposed to be? I told people things," she explained. "I
wanted to be friendly and tried to warn them: a woman who ate bread made of diseased grain, a boy who was
chopping wood and lost an eye, about a substance in which a woman fell. I warned them," she said bleakly. "But they
took no notice and then, when they had hurt themselves, they blamed me."
"Naturally," he said. "They would hardly blame themselves for ignoring your advice." He paused, and then
abruptly asked: "What were you doing on Logis?"
"I was born—"
 "No," he interrupted. "You were never born on that planet. Not with your color skin and hair. And why try to lie to
me? What's the point?"
"None," she admitted, "but sometimes a lie can save a lot of explanation." She lifted her head, met his eyes. "I was
born a long way from here on a planet close to the Rim. Since then I've traveled a lot. I joined up with a necromancer
who took me to Logis. We worked there: telling fortunes, reading palms, astrology, all that stuff. I think he had a
sideline in chemical analogues. I know for sure that he dealt in abortifacients and hallucinogens. He tried to sell me a
few times but I wouldn't be sold." Her eyes were clear, direct. "You understand?"
Dumarest nodded. "And?"
"I slipped a knife into him at Bloodtime. That made it legal. They couldn't touch me for doing that. The rest you
know."
"Tell me."
She bit her lower lip, teeth white against the bloom of redness. "They came for me. The ones I'd tried to help.
They were like animals. If I hadn't moved fast they would have torn me to pieces." She reached out and touched the
sleeve of his tunic. "You saved my life," she said. "I'm not going to forget that."
He felt the warmth of her nearness, caught the scent of her hair, the biological magic of her body. Her eyes were
green wells into which a man could immerse his being. The translucent skin reflected the light as if made of living
pearl.
Deliberately he picked up the cards, shuffled and began to deal, the pasteboards vanishing from his hands to
instantly reappear on the surface of the table. The magic of quick-time did that. Not accelerate the cards but slow his
metabolism down so that he lived at one-fortieth the normal rate. He, the girl, the others who traveled on High
passage. The drug was a convenient method to shorten the apparent time of the journey, to shrink the tedious hours.
He leaned back, looking at the lounge, seeing the duplicate of a hundred others he had known on as many similar
ships. Soft padding, a table, chairs, an overhead light. The inevitable furnishings of a small ship catering to few
passengers.
"That one." Her finger touched a stack of cards. Unconsciously he had dealt for highest, lowest, man-in-between.
He turned it over. Again she had picked the winner.
He rose, crossed to the spigots, drew two cups of Basic, handed one to the girl as he returned. Sitting, he sipped
the thick, warm liquid. It was sickly with glucose, heavy with protein, laced with vitamins; a cupful contained enough
nourishment to supply a spaceman's basic needs for a day. A heating element in the base of the container kept the
liquid warm during its long journey from wall to table, from table to mouth.
Dumarest put down his empty cup and looked at the girl. "The people of Logis were right," he said. "You are a
witch."
Her eyes clouded. "You too?"
He shrugged. "What else can you call someone who can see the future?"
"A freak," she said bitterly, and then, "How did you know?"
Dumarest reached out and touched the cards. "You won too often. It couldn't have been telepathy because I took
care not to see the pips. You couldn't have cheated because you didn't touch the cards. Teleportation would serve no
purpose unless you knew which stack to move where. And it couldn't have been simple luck, not with such a high
score. So," he ended quietly, "there can only be one explanation."
Kalin was a clairvoyant.

***

The mirror was made of a lustrous plastic, optically perfect, yet cunningly designed to flatter the user when seen
in a special light. Sara Maretta had no time for such deceit. Irritably she snapped on the truglow tube and examined
her face. Old, she thought, and getting older. Too old and stamped with time and experience for ordinary cosmetics to
be of much use, no matter how thickly applied. A complete face transplant was what she needed.
The fair skin and smooth contours of a young girl to replace the sagging flesh and withered skin. A complete
face-transplant and more. The breasts and buttocks, the thighs and calves, the arms and hands. Especially the hands.
I need a new body, she thought looking at them. A complete new body and, if rumor were true, she might get
one. The surgeons of Pane, so it was whispered, had finally solved the secret of a brain transplant. For money, a lot of
money, they would take out her brain and seal it within the skull of a young and nubile girl. It was a rumor, nothing
more, yet a rumor she desperately wanted to believe.
To be young again! To watch the fire kindle in a man's eyes as he looked at her. To thrill to the touch of his hands.
To live!
Looking at her, Elmo Rasch read her thoughts as if her mind had been an open book. The mercenary leaned
against the wall of the cabin, eyes hooded beneath his brows, mouth a thin, cruel line. Deliberately he reached out
and snapped off the truglow tube. With the dying of the harsh light she lost ten years of apparent age.
"Elmo?"
"Why hurt yourself ?" he said quietly. "Why twist the knife for no purpose. Is it so necessary to be young again?"
"For me, yes."
"Was youth such a happy time?" His voice held bitterness. "If so you were luckier than I. But perhaps you enjoyed
the Houses where you were paraded for sale. The mansions of depravity."
She looked at him and smiled without humor. "Where men like you," she said softly, "lined up to pay for pleasure
you would not otherwise obtain."
"True." He dropped to sit beside her on the bunk, his thigh hard against her own. Reflected in the mirror his face
was a mass of crags and hollows, the thin line of scar tissue a web-like tracery. "Soon," he said. "Very soon now."
He saw the faint tremble of her hands. On her fingers the gems flashed in living rainbows. Elmo reached out,
touched them with a blunt finger.
"Pretty, aren't they?" he said mockingly. "Good enough to delude, but you and I and any jeweler know what they
are really worth. Stained crystal with plated settings. The cost of a short High passage, perhaps, certainly no more."
"Are your scars worth as much?"
"Less," he admitted. "Which is why we are together. Why we must work as a team. My experience and
knowledge; your money. What you had of it. And," he said meaningfully, "you have very little left."
And that was as true as the rest of it. A lifetime of work to end in what? Degradation and poverty. Of what use
was a woman when she was ugly and old? Sara looked at her companion. Elmo left much to be desired but he, at
least, understood. And yet, woman-like, she wished that he had been other than what he was.
A man like Dumarest, for example. She could trust a man like that. Trust him to drive a hard bargain, perhaps, but
to keep it to the bitter end.
Had she been younger he would not be traveling alone. Even now she could dream, but long ago she had learned
to live within her limitations. She could love Dumarest but he would never love her. And now, with that girl from
Logis—
Irritably she shook her head. Dreams, stupid dreams at a time like this!
Elmo reached into his pocket and produced a flat case. He opened it and the light winked from polished metal
and unbreakable glass. The hypo-gun was a work of art, a multi-chambered model calibrated to a hair. It would air-
blast any one of a half-dozen drugs in a measured dose through clothing, skin and directly into the bloodstream.
"I could only afford one," he said. "But it's loaded and ready to go."
"Are you sure?" She was practical. "Are the drugs as specified? You could have been cheated," she pointed out.
"Transients are easy prey."
Elmo growled deep in his throat. A mannerism to add emphasis. "The last man who tried to cheat me lost an eye.
The drugs are good. I checked them before handing over the money. Your money," he said flatly. "But, Sara, never
was cash more wisely spent."
Gem-fire betrayed her agitation.
"A few minutes," he said. "That's all it will take. A brief flurry of action and our troubles are over. The ship and all
it contains will be ours. Ours, Sara! Ours!"
His eyes glowed and she wished that she could share his supreme confidence. And yet the plan made sense. To
attack the crew, drug them into insensibility, take over the vessel was, basically, simple enough. Piracy, as a crime,
was not unknown, but to take over a vessel was not enough. The thing was to dispose of it. Spacemen were clannish
and united against all who threatened their security. Even the cargo of a stolen ship would be almost impossible to
sell.
And yet Elmo claimed to have solved the problem.
It was possible he had, but his vagueness at times irritated her to the point of rebellion. Then he would remind
her of what wealth could bring, but never could she forget the penalty of failure.
"You know what will happen if they catch us," she said. "Eviction into space with a suit and ten hours' air. Doped
so that a scratch will feel like the slash of a knife. Our senses sharpened so that we'll scream our throats raw." Her
hands clenched as she thought about it, the brown spots on their backs standing ugly against the skin. "Elmo! If they
should catch us!"
"We'll die," he said. "A little before our time, perhaps, but we'll die and that is all. A few years lost against what?
But we won't fail," he insisted. "I've been over this a thousand times. First the steward and his hypogun. It'll be loaded
with quick-time. You take it and use it on the lower deck crew. I'll tackle the officers, a shot of serpenhydrate and they
will be marionettes, helpless to do other than obey. They will alter course, take the ship where we want it to go, land it
as it needs to be landed."
 "And then?" She liked this part, liked to hear him say it again and again as though, by repetition, hope could be
turned into fact.
"Money," he said thickly. "Enough to buy the new body you desire. Enough for me to hire an army and win a
principality, a planet, an empire! The galaxy, Sara! Ours for the taking!"
Simple, she thought. So very simple. Too simple. Surely, somewhere, there must be a catch?
Then she caught sight of her face in the mirror and longing overwhelmed her doubts.

***

It was like the spread fingers of a hand. Five pictures, sometimes more, but only five were of any real use. The
others were too vague, too hopelessly indistinct.
"The strongest one is the future," Kalin explained. "I concentrate and there it is. Like cards," she said. "I wanted to
win so I looked to see which pack would win and chose that one."
And because she chose it, it won; because it won, she chose it. A closed cycle to ensure that the visualized future
would be correct.
"The other pictures?" asked Dumarest. "Are they alternates?"
She frowned. "I think so. Like the cards again. Two showed different packs which lost. Two, very vague, showed
no cards at all."
Alternate universes, thought Dumarest. Or rather alternate futures in which they had not played cards or had
stopped playing them. Unless?
"The time element," he said. "Can you determine it? Can you select how far you will see into the future? An hour,
a day, a year?"
She shook her head, frowning. "No, not with any great accuracy. Some things are big and stand out even though
the details are vague. Others, smaller and closer, are very clear. I could see the cards without trouble. I can see other
things," she said. "One of them is very strong. You are kissing me," she told him. "That and something else." Her hand
reached out for his own. "We are going to become lovers," she said quietly. "I know it."
"Know it?"
"It is there," she insisted. "When I concentrate about us and look into the future it is there and it is very sharp and
very strong." Her eyes searched his face. "Earl! Is something wrong?"
He shook his head.
"Is the prospect so distasteful?"
He looked at her and felt her attraction. The biochemical magic of her flesh transmitted through sight and sound
and smell. She was beautiful! Beautiful!
Beautiful and the possessor of a wild and wanton talent which caused men to call her witch!
She moved and a trick of the light turned her hair into a cascade of shimmering silver, painted elfin contours on
her face. Derai!
Dumarest felt his nails dig into his palms, the sweat bead his forehead.
"Earl!" She moved and the illusion was broken. Once again the hair was billowing flame, the face a rounded pearl.
"Earl, what is it?"
"Nothing. You reminded me of someone, that is all."
Jealousy darkened her eyes. "A woman?"
"Yes." He opened his hands and stared at the idents on his palms. "Someone I once knew very well. Someone
who—" He took a deep breath. "Never mind. She's been gone a long time now."
"Dead?"
"You would call it that."
He leaned back, again calm, able to stare at her with detachment. A clairvoyant. Someone who could see into the
future. There were others with similar talents and some with even more bizarre; among the scattered races of
mankind mutation and inbreeding had done their work, but all had one thing in common. All seemed to have paid a
physical price for their mental abilities.
What was wrong with Kalin?
Mentally he shrugged; time alone would tell. In the meanwhile he could speculate on her talent. It must be like a
man at sea sailing through objects misted with uncertainty. In the distance, looming gigantic though unclear, the
mountain of death could be seen across a lifetime. Closer, the hills of age, misfortune, birth, illness, disaster—visible
for years. Then the things which could be determined for perhaps months. Smaller events unclear beyond a day.
Trifles which had a visible range of minutes or even seconds.
To Kalin her talent was merely an extension of her vision.
 He felt the warmth of her hand resting on his own, the strength of her fingers as she squeezed. "Earl," she said.
"Come back to me."
"I'm here."
"You were thinking," she said. "Of what? Places you have seen? People and planets you have known?" The fingers
tightened even more. "Where is your home, Earl? Which planet do you call your own?"
"Earth."
He waited for the inevitable derision but, to his surprise, it didn't come. He felt a momentary hope. The girl
claimed to have traveled. It was barely possible that she might—
"Earth," she repeated, and shook her head. "An odd name. Dirt, soil, loam, but you don't mean that, of course. Is
there really a planet with such a name?"
"There is."
"Odd," she said again, frowning. "I seem to have heard of it somewhere, a long time ago. When I was a child."
A child?
Age was relative. For those traveling Low time it had no meaning. For those traveling High, using the magic of
quicktime, an apparent year was two generations. But no matter how time was judged, the girl could not be older than
twenty or twenty-five biological years.
Less when the real standard was used. The only measure that had true meaning. Experience.
"Try to remember," he urged. "What you know about Earth."
She smiled. "I'll try. Is it important?"
Was a reason for living important? Dumarest thought of all the journeys he had made, the ships he had ridden,
sometimes traveling High, more often traveling Low. Doped, frozen and ninety percent dead, riding in the caskets
meant for the transport of animals, risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of economy. Traveling, always
traveling, always looking for Earth. For the planet which seemed to have become forgotten. The world no one knew.
Home!
He waited, watching her as she closed her eyes, frowning in concentration, doing what came hard to her—looking
back instead of forward, fighting her natural inclination.
Was the price she paid for her talent the inability to recall the past?
She opened her eyes and saw the impatience registered on his face, the hope. "I'm sorry, Earl."
"You can't remember?"
"No. It was a long time ago. But I'm sure that I've heard the name somewhere. On a tape or in a book, perhaps.
Earth." She repeated it softly to herself. "Earth."
"Or Terra."
She raised her eyebrows.
"Another name for Earth," he explained. So much, at least, had he learned. "Does it strike a chord?"
"I'm sorry, Earl, I wish that it did but—" She shrugged. "If I were back home I could have the library searched, the
records. If it was there I would find it."
"Home," he said. "Where is that?"
"Where my love is," she said and then, "Forgive me, Earl, I didn't mean to joke. But you look so solemn." She
narrowed her eyes as if just thinking of something. "Earl, if you come from this planet Earth, then surely you must
know the way back. Can't you simply go back the way you came?"
Dumarest shook his head. "It isn't as simple as that. I left when I was a boy: young, scared, alone. Earth is a bleak
place scarred by ancient wars, but ships arrive and leave. I stowed away on one. The captain was old and kinder than
I deserved. He should have evicted me but he allowed me to live." He paused. "I was ten years old. I have been
traveling ever since: moving deeper and deeper into the inhabited worlds, into the very heart of the galaxy,
becoming, somehow, completely lost." He smiled into her eyes. "You find it strange?"
"No," she said. "Not strange at all. Home," she mused. "The word holds a magic that is unique."
"And your home?" His voice was soft, gentle—picking up the trail of her thought so that she responded
automatically, without thinking, without restraint.
"Solis."
"Solis," he repeated, "where the library is, the clue to Earth you mentioned." He reached out and pinched a tress
of hair between finger and thumb. "I think," he said gently, "that I had better take you home."

Chapter Three
Brother Jerome, High Monk of the Church of Universal Brotherhood, tucked thin hands within the capacious
sleeves of his robe and prepared to enjoy his single hour of daily recreation. As usual he chose to walk alone, sandals
noiseless on the smooth plastic of floors, ramps and stairs. Again, as usual, he varied his route: taking in a little more
of the vast building which, like the Church, was under his direct control and authority. A monk skilled in topography
had worked out that, if Brother Jerome maintained the area covered by his daily perambulations, it would take well
over a year for him to fully inspect the entire building. Today he chose to walk beside some of the chambers of
indoctrination, conscious in his sedate pacing of the quiet hum of ceaseless activity. It was a comforting sound and
one he liked to hear. It reassured him that the Church was thriving and strong and growing as it must: expanding so as
to carry the message to people everywhere that the Universal teaching of complete Brotherhood held the answer to
all pain, all hurt, all despair. No man is an island. All belong to the corpus humanite. The pain of one is the pain of all.
And if all men could be taught to recognize the truth of the credo—there, but for the grace of God, go I—the
millennium would have arrived.
He would never see it. Men bred too fast, traveled too far for any monk now alive to see the fruition of his work.
But it was something for which to live, a purpose for their dedication. If a single person had been given ease of mind
and comfort of spirit, then no monk had lived and worked in vain. The strength of the Church rested on the
importance of the individual.
He paused beside the door, shamelessly listening to the voice from within the chamber. Brother Armitage was
giving a group of novitiates the initial address. They had passed the twin barriers of intelligence and physical ability;
now he assailed their minds.
"…this. Why do you wish to become monks? That question must be answered with frankness, honesty and
humility. Is it in order to help your fellow man? No other answer can be accepted. If you hope for personal reward, for
gratitude, power or influence, you should not be here. A monk can expect none of these things. If you seek hardship,
privation, the spectacle of pain and anguish, then the Church does not want you. These things you will find, but they
are not things to be sought. Man is not born to suffer. There is no intrinsic virtue in pain."
True, thought Brother Jerome, grimly, Armitage was a good teacher: hard; tough; ruthless when it came to
weeding out the unsuitables, the masochists, romantics, would-be martyrs and saints. Later he would show the class
his scars and deformities, tell them in detail how the injuries had been inflicted and how, incredibly, he had managed
to survive. Some would leave then. Others would follow, most after the hypnotic session in which they suffered a
subjective month of degrading hardship. Simulated, naturally, but terrifyingly effective. Those remaining would
progress to be taught useful skills, medicine, the arts of hypnosis and psychology, the danger of pride and, above all,
the virtue of humility.
One class among many, all working continuously, all doing their best to meet the constant demand for Hope-
trained monks. There were other schools on a host of planets, but always those trained in the heart and center of the
Church were in greatest demand. They carried the pure teaching, they had been taught the most modern methods
and techniques; what they knew they could pass on.
Like a continuous stream of healing antibiotics, thought Brother Jerome. The metaphor pleased him. An endless
series of ripples, he thought, spreading, cleansing, widening to impinge on every planet known to mankind. A great
flood of love and tolerance and understanding which would finally wash away the contamination of the beast.
There was tension in the office. Brother Jerome sensed it as soon as he returned and he halted in the outer room,
letting his eyes take in the scene. The wide desk with its normal office machinery. The waiting space with the seats
for those who had appointments. The monks who acted as office staff and others—young, hard-bodied men born on
high-gravity worlds, trained in physical skills and always found where there was need of care and protection. Brother
Fran, of course, his personal secretary, and a man who stood with his back to a wall.
Curiously the High Monk looked at him, guessing that he must be the cause and center of the tension. He was
tall, wearing a transparent helmet and a full, high-collared cloak which covered him from shoulder to heel. The fabric
was of a peculiar golden bronze color and glinted as if made of metal. Above the high collar the face was scarred,
aquiline; the nose a thrusting beak between smoldering, deeply set eyes. He glanced at Brother Jerome as he entered
the room, then looked away as if he'd seen nothing of interest.
Fran came forward, his face calm above the cowl of his robe. "Brother," he said without preamble. "This man
insists on seeing you. He has no appointment."
"I insist on seeing the High Monk," grated the stranger. "I will stand here until I do."
Brother Jerome smiled, appreciating the jest though it was obvious his secretary did not. He took two steps and
faced the stranger. "Your name?"
"Centon Frenchi. I live on Sard."
"Is not that one of the vendetta worlds?"
"It is."
Jerome nodded, understanding. "If you wish you may discard your cloak," he said gently. "Such defensive
clothing is unnecessary on Hope. Here men do not seek to kill each other for the sake of imagined insult."
"Be careful, monk," warned Centon harshly. "You go too far."
"I think not," said Brother Jerome evenly. He glanced to where two of the watchful attendants had stepped
forward, and shook his head. He would not, he knew, have need of a bodyguard. "What is the nature of your business
on Hope?"
"I will tell that to the High Monk."
"And if he does not wish to listen?" Jerome met the smoldering eyes. "You are stubborn," he said.
"And you are also unrealistic. Why should you be permitted to jump the line of those who have shown the
courtesy to make an appointment? Who are you to dictate what shall and shall not be?"
"I am Centon Frenchi of Sard!"
"Others too have names and titles," said Jerome smoothly. "Can you not give me one good reason why you
should be given preference?"
Centon glowered at the waiting monk. He glanced around the office, empty but for the watchful staff. "No one is
waiting," he said. "How can I give preference over people who are not here?"
"This is not a day for interviews and audiences," explained Brother Fran from where he stood to one side. "The
High Monk has many other duties and you are keeping him from them."
"Him?"
"You are speaking to Brother Jerome, the High Monk of the Universal Brotherhood."
Jerome saw the shock in the Sardian's eyes, the flicker of disbelief. It was a familiar reaction and went with love
of pomp and insistence on privilege. His age and frailty they could accept, for it took time to mount the ladder of
promotion. His sandals and rough, homespun robe, exactly the same as that worn by any other monk begging in the
streets, were harder to swallow. The concept behind his lack of ornamentation was sometimes beyond their capacity
to understand.
And yet, he thought wearily, it was so very simple. He was a man no better, and he hoped no worse, than any
other monk of the Brotherhood. Why then should he set himself apart? And to wear costly garments and gems would
be to make a mockery of that in which he believed. But how could a man like Centon Frenchi understand that?
Realize that to any monk the cost of a jewel to wear on his finger was to rob others of food…? Such baubles came
expensive when measured in the price of suffering and pain which would otherwise have been negated.
"I am waiting," he said patiently. "If you are unable to convince me, then I must ask you to leave. You can," he
added, "make an appointment for a later time."
The watchful monks moved a little closer, tense and ready for action. Centon looked at them, stared at Jerome.
Breath hissed through his nostrils as he inflated his lungs. "I have supported the Church," he said tightly. "At times I
have been most generous."
"And now you want something in return," said Jerome. "It is a natural reaction. But what you want and what
others are willing to give need not be the same. I suggest you make an appointment in the normal manner."
He turned, feeling deflated, empty. Pride, he thought bitterly. A man makes a prison in which to live and calls it
his pride. Sometimes the prison is so strong that he can never break out. Again he heard the hiss of inhalation.
Something caught at his garment.
"Brother!" Centon's voice was almost unrecognizable. "Help me, Brother! For the love of God, help me!"
Jerome turned, smiling, waving off the guarding monks. His hand fell to the one gripping his robe. Centon's hand:
big, scarred, the knuckles white as he gripped the fabric. "Of course, brother!" said the High Monk. "Why else am I
here?"

***

The inner office was a sanctuary in which Brother Jerome spent most of his waking hours. It was a comfortable
place, a curious blend of the ultra-modern and near-primitive. Books lined the walls, old, moldering volumes together
with spools of visual tape, recording crystals, impressed plastic and molecularly-strained liquids which, when
stimulated, resolved themselves into mobile representations in full, three-dimensional color.
There were other things. Little things for the most part, for a monk has to carry what he possesses and weight
and size are limiting factors. A fragment of stone, a shell, a plaited length of plastic wire. A piece of curiously carved
wood, a weathered scrap of marble and, oddly, a knife made of pressure-flaked glass. Centon looked at it, then at the
placid face of the monk seated behind his wide desk. "An unusual object," he said. "Did you make it?"
"On Gelde," admitted Jerome. "A primitive, backward planet only recently rediscovered. The natives had
forgotten much of what they knew and had developed a metal-worshiping religion. They confiscated my surgical
instruments. I made that knife as a general purpose scalpel and used it during my stay." He dismissed the knife with a
gesture. "And now, brother," he said gently, "you asked for my help. Tell me your problem."
Centon approached the desk and stood before it, the reflected light gleaming from his protective cloak. "I need to
find my daughter."
Jerome remained silent.
"She left home many years ago," said Centon. "Now I need to find her."
"And you think that we can help you?"
"If you cannot, then no one can!" Centon strode the floor in his agitation, his stride oddly heavy. "I belong to a
noted family on Sard," he said abruptly, then immediately corrected himself.
"Belonged." His voice was bitter. "Can one man claim to constitute a family? We held wide estates, owned
factories, farms, a fifth of the wealth of the planet was ours. And then my younger brother quarreled with the third
son of the family of Borge. The quarrel was stupid, something over a girl, but there was a fight and the boy died." He
paused. "The fight was unofficial," he said. "Need I tell you what that means?"
On the vendetta worlds it meant blood, murder, a wave of savage killing as family tore at family. "You could have
admitted guilt," said the monk quietly. "Your younger brother would have paid the blood-price and ended the affair."
"With his death? With each Borge coming and striking their blow, abusing his body, killing him a dozen times
over? You think I could have stood for that!" Again the floor quivered as Centon strode in agitation. "I tried," he said.
"I offered reparation to the extent of one-third of our possessions. I offered myself as a surrogate in a death-duel.
They wanted none of it. One of their number had died and they wanted revenge. Three weeks later they caught my
younger brother. They tied his feet to a branch and lit a fire beneath his head. His wife found him that same evening.
She must have gone a little mad because she took a flier and dropped fire on the Borge estates, destroying their crops
and farms. They retaliated, of course, but by then we were ready." He paused, brooding. "That was five years ago," he
said. "That is why I need my daughter."
"To fight and kill and perhaps to die in such a cause?" Brother Jerome shook his head. "No."
"You refuse to help me find her?"
"If she were in the next room I would refuse to tell you," said the monk sternly. "We of the Church do not
interfere in the social system of any world, but we do not have to approve of what we see. The vendetta may be good
from the viewpoint that it cuts down great families before they can establish a totalitarian dictatorship but, for those
concerned, the primitive savagery is both degrading and cruel." He paused, shaking his head, annoyed with himself.
Anger, he thought, and condemnation. Who am I to judge and hate? Quietly he said, "If my words offend you I
apologize."
"I take no offense, Brother."
"You are gracious. But is it essential that you find your daughter? Do you need her to end the vendetta?"
Centon was curt. "It is ended."
"Then—?"
"The family must be rebuilt. I am the last of my name on Sard. The name of Borge is but a memory."
Brother Jerome frowned. "But is your daughter necessary for that? You could remarry, take extra wives. You
could even adopt others to bear your name."
"No!" Centon's feet slammed the floor as he paced the room. "It must be my seed," he said. "My line that is
perpetuated. The immortality of my ancestors must be assured. It would be useless for me to take extra wives. I
cannot father a child under any circumstances. Aside from my daughter I am the last of my clan and I am useless!"
Standing, facing the desk, he swept open his long cloak. Metal shone in the light: smooth, rounded, seeming to fill
the protective material. Brother Jerome stared at half a man.
The head was there, the shoulders, the arms and upper torso but, from just below the ribs, the flesh of the body
merged into and was cupped by a metal sheath. Like an egg, thought the monk wildly. The human part of the man
cradled in a metal cup fitted with metal legs. He took a grip on himself. Too often had he seen the effects of violence
to be squeamish now. The cup, of course, contained the surrogate stomach and other essential organs. The legs
would contain their own power source. In many ways the prosthetic fitments would be better than the fleshy parts
they replaced but nothing could replace the vital glands. It was obvious that Centon could never father a child.
"We miscounted," he explained dully. "I was to blame. I thought all the Borge were dead but I overlooked a girl. A
child, barely fourteen, who had been off-planet when the vendetta had begun. She was clever and looked far older
than her age. She gained employment as a maid to my nephew's wife. Mari was expecting a child, a son, and was two
months from her time. We held a small dinner party to celebrate the coming birth—and the bitch took her chance!"
Brother Jerome pressed a button. A flap opened in his desk revealing a flask and glasses. He poured and handed
a glass to his visitor. Centon swallowed the brandy at a gulp.
"Thank you, Brother." He touched his face and looked at the moisture on his finger. "I'm sorry, but each time I
think about it—" His hands knotted into fists. "Why was I so stupid? How could I have been such a fool?"
 "To regret the past is to destroy the present," said the High Monk evenly. "More brandy?"
Centon scooped up the replenished glass, drank, set it down empty. "The dinner party," he continued. "All of us
around a table. All that were left of the Frenchi clan on Sard. Myself, Mari, her husband Kell, Leran who was eight
and Jarl who was eleven. Five people left from almost a hundred. It had been a bitter five years."
Brother Jerome made no comment.
"The Borge bitch was waiting at table, in attendance in case Mari should need her aid. She dropped something, a
napkin I think, and stooped beneath the table. The bomb had a short fuse. The fire spread and caught her as she was
trying to escape. She stood there, burning, laughing despite her pain. I shall always remember that. Her laughing as
my family died." Centon took a deep breath, shuddering. "They burned like candles. I too. The flame charred my legs,
my loins, but I had risen and was leaning over the table pouring wine. The board saved me. Somehow I managed to
reach the escape hatch. By the time help arrived the room was a furnace and I was more dead than alive."
He wiped a hand over his face, dried it on his sleeve. "Often, when in the amniotic tank and later when relearning
to walk I wished that they had let me go with the others. Then some of the pain died a little and I began to live again.
Live to hope and plan and dream of the future."
He stepped close to the edge of the desk and leaned forward, arms supporting his weight, hands resting flat on
the wood. "Now you know why I need my daughter," he said. "Need her. I do not lie to you, monk. I pretend no great
or sudden love. But, without the girl the family is ended."
"Not so," corrected Jerome quickly. "She could be married with children of her own. The line will continue."
"But not on Sard! Not on the world we have won with our blood and pain!" Centon straightened, controlled
himself. "And she may not have children yet," he pointed out. "She may never have them. She may die or be killed or
rendered sterile. I want to find her. I must find her," he insisted. "I will pay anything to the man who can tell me where
she is. The man," he added slowly, "or the organization."
Jerome was sharp. "Are you trying to hire the services of the Church?"
"I am a rich man," said Centon obliquely. "But I come to you as a beggar. Help me, Brother. Ask your monks to
look for my daughter. Please."
The monks who were on every habitable world. Eyes and ears and sources of information. In the slums and the
palaces of those who ruled, the homes of the wealthy and the streets of the poor. Everywhere the message of
tolerance needed to be sown, which was everywhere in the galaxy.
Thoughtfully the monk pursed his lips. "You have a likeness of the girl? Some means by which to identify her?"
Centon plunged his hand into an inner pocket and laid a wafer of plastic on the desk. Brother Jerome looked at
the flame red hair, the pale, translucent skin, the green eyes and generous mouth. A panel gave details as to height,
weight, measurements, vocal and chemical idiosyncrasies.
"Her name is Mallini, Brother. You will help me to find her?"
"I promise nothing," said the High Monk. "But we shall do our best."

Chapter Four
Elmo Rasch checked the time and spoke to the woman. "Now."
She hesitated, trembling on the brink of irreversible action, then stiffened as she summoned her resolve. The
reward was too great to be dismissed. Against renewed youth, death was a thing without terror. She rose and stepped
toward the door of the cabin. Without glancing at the man she stepped outside into the passage. The steward sat in
an open cubicle facing the lounge, a book open on his lap. It was of a type designed to educate and entertain those
who were illiterate. The steward was not uneducated but, among spacemen, certain volumes held a special attraction.
He looked up as Sara approached, and touched a corner of the page. The moving illustration of naked women faded,
the whispering voice died. Casually he closed the book.
"Could I help you, my lady?"
"I feel ill," she said. "Sick. Have you something to reestablish my metabolism?"
She watched the movement of his eyes as, unconsciously, he glanced to where he kept his hypogun. It would be a
common model loaded with quick-time for the benefit of those traveling High but it would serve her purpose.
"It would not be wise to travel Middle, my lady," protested the steward. "The journey is long and there will be
complications."
Too many complications. More food and not the easily prepared Basic. The need for entertainment, books, tapes,
films perhaps. The need for constant attendance and she had the look of a real harridan. And, more important, the
captain would be far from pleased. It was the steward's job to keep things simple. Complications would cost him an
easy berth.
 "Look, my lady," he suggested. "Why don't you—"
His voice died as her fingers closed around his throat in a grip learned from her third lover. Deliberately, she
squeezed the carotids, cutting off the blood supply to the brain. A little would result in unconsciousness, too much in
death. Unconscious men could wake, cause trouble. It was better to make certain he died.
The hypogun in her hand, she looked back at her victim. He sat slumped in his chair. Time was precious but little
things were important. She opened his book and rested it on his lap.
Naked woman twined in sinuous embrace to the accompaniment of a whispering drone of carnal titivation.

***

Elmo looked at her face and nodded his satisfaction. "You did it. Good. You have the hypogun?"
She lifted it, put it into his hand. He lifted his own and shot her in the throat.
She felt nothing, not even the blast of air forcing the drug it carried into her bloodstream, but abruptly things
changed. The lights dulled a little, small sounds became deeper pitched, surroundings took on a less rigid
permanency. The latter was psychological.
Elmo stood facing her, the hypogun in his hand, motionless.
Motionless and utterly at her mercy.
He had made a mistake in neutralizing the quick-time in her blood before speeding his own metabolism. She
could kill him now. She could do anything she wanted. She could do—nothing.
He had insisted that she kill the steward to prove herself, to blood her hands. He had treated her first in order to
show his trust or to point out her weakness. To kill him was now to double her fault.
Reaching out she took the hypogun from rigid fingers, maneuvering it with care to avoid broken bones and torn
flesh. She aimed, triggered, watched as he jerked back to normal-time existence.
"Tough," he said, and shook his head as if to clear his senses. "I don't—" He broke off and concentrated on what
had to be done. He ejected a vial from, the steward's instrument and replaced it with one from his pocket. "Just to
make sure." He handed Sara the hypogun. "Now get moving and inject everyone you meet with quick-time. As long as
we stay normal we'll have the edge." He stood looking at her. "Well?"
"We'll be apart," she said. "Out of touch. What if something goes wrong?"
"Nothing can go wrong." He stole time to be patient despite the screaming need for haste. "We've been over this a
dozen times. Now move!"
He watched as she vanished from the cabin and down the passage toward the lower region of the ship. The scars
writhed on his face as he watched her go. He who had once commanded the lives and destinies of a hundred
thousand men to now be dependent on one old woman. And yet her desperation made her the equal of any. He could
have done far worse.
Turning, he ran from the cabin toward the upper regions of the ship where the officers guided the vessel through
the tortuous rifts of space.

***

Dumarest opened his cabin door and looked at the girl standing outside. Her eyes were wide, anxious.
"Earl, something is wrong."
He stood back to let her enter. "Wrong with you? The ship?"
"The ship, I think; it isn't very clear. I was lying down thinking of us. I was looking ahead, trying to—" She shook
her head. "Never mind what I was looking for, but things were all hazy and dim almost as if there were no future at
all. And that's ridiculous, isn't it, Earl? We're going to be together for always, aren't we?"
"For a while at least," he said. "All the way to Solis if nothing else."
"You promise that?" She gripped his hand and pressed, the knuckles gleaming white beneath the pearl of her skin.
"You promise?"
He was startled by her intensity. "Look ahead," he suggested gently. "You don't have to take my word for anything.
You are able to see the future. Scan it and satisfy yourself."
She swallowed, teeth hard against her lower lip. "Earl, I don't want to. Suppose I saw something bad. If I'm going
to lose you I don't want to know about it. Not for certain. That way I'll always be able to hope. It isn't nice knowing
just what is going to happen, Earl. That's why I'd rather not know."
"But you looked," he pointed out. "You tried."
"I know, but I couldn't help myself. I wanted to be sure but, at the same time, was frightened of knowing the
worst. Does that make sense, Earl?"
 Too much sense, he thought bleakly. That was the price she had to pay for her talent. The fear it could bring. The
temptation to use it, to be sure, against the temptation not to use, to retain hope. And how long could the desire
simply to hope last against the desire to know for certain?
"You said something about the ship," he said thoughtfully. "That you thought something might be wrong. Would
be wrong," he corrected. "What did you see?"
"Nothing too clear," she said. "Faint images, a lot of them, stars and—"
"Stars? Are you sure?"
"Yes, Earl, but we're in space and surely that's natural."
Wrong, he thought bleakly. From a ship in space stars were the last thing anyone would expect to see. Not with
the Erhaft field wrapping the cocoon of metal in its own private universe and allowing it to traverse the spaces
between worlds at multi-light speeds. Stars could not be seen beyond that field. If she saw them it could only mean
that, somehow, the field had collapsed. But when? When?
"Look," he said, suddenly worried. "Look now. Concentrate. Tell me what you see an hour from now."
"I can't, Earl. I told you. I don't know just how far I can visualize. Not with any degree of accuracy. A few seconds,
even a few minutes, but after that I can't tell with any certainty. That's what frightened me. We aren't together and we
should be. We should be!"
"Steady!" He gripped her shoulders, holding her close, trying to dampen her incipient hysteria. "The images were
faint, weren't they?" He waited for her nod. "That means they showed an alternate future of a low degree of
probability. Now be calm. We'll try an experiment. Think of this cabin. Concentrate. What do you see?"
She closed her eyes, frowned. "The cabin," she said. "Empty."
"Clear?"
"Yes, Earl."
"Try again. Aim further. Still the cabin?"
She nodded. "Still empty and very clear."
He looked around, frowning. This wasn't getting them very far. If only there had been a calendar clock hanging
on the bulkhead instead of a mirror it might have helped. The mirror?
"Try again," he said. "Concentrate on the mirror. Can you see a reflection in it?"
"No."
"Not even the door? Is it open or closed?"
"Open."
So they had left the cabin and gone somewhere, leaving the door open. But when? She could be scanning a few
minutes from now or even across the space of months to when the compartment waited for a new occupant.
"Earl," said Kalin suddenly. "Something's happening. There's a light in the corridor outside."
He turned, saw the closed door, realized that she was still looking ahead, telling of what was yet to come.
"A light," she continued. "It's getting brighter and—" She screamed, horribly, mouth gaping so that he could see
her tongue, the warm redness of her throat. Her hands lifted, clamped to her eyes. "Earl! Earl, I'm blind! Blind!"
"No," he said. "You can't be."
She moaned from behind the shield of her hands.
"Kalin, look at me. Damn you, look at me!" Dumarest tore the hands from her face, stared into her eyes. "It hasn't
happened yet," he said slowly, giving emphasis to each word. "Whatever it was is still to come. So it can't have
affected your sight. You're not blind. Do you understand? You're not blind, Kalin. You can't be."
"Earl!"
"Look at me," he insisted. "What did you see? What happened. Tell, me. Damn you, girl, tell me!"
His harshness was a slap across the face. She looked at him, wonderingly, then shuddered.
"There was a burst of light," she said. "Hard, cold, greenish blue. It was terrible. It burned through my eyes and
seared my brain. It wiped out the whole universe." She began to cry. "I mean that, Earl. It wiped out everything. Me,
you, everything. There was nothing left after that. Nothing at all!"

***

A spark of fire, minute, almost imaginary against the dull metal of the lock and then slowly, almost imperceptibly,
the panel began to slide open. Sara halted it with the pressure of a hand.
Time, she thought. I must have time. Time to ease the pounding of her heart, to allow over-tensed nerves to relax
—to allow the sick horror born when the lock had failed to immediately respond to the key to fade a little. She
thinned her lips as she thought of the key. Elmo had provided it at the cost of a clerk for a year. If she had known
nothing of electronics the door would have remained sealed. As it was the thing had barely worked after her third
adjustment.
Had Elmo intended for her to be caught at the door?
Suspicion clawed at her mind. If the mercenary intended to sell her out, take a reward for warning the crew of
intended piracy— She tasted the bile rising in her throat, the released adrenaline stimulating anger and fear. Then the
philosophy of a lifetime worked its calm. If he had sold her out they would die together. And, with the decision, came
logical thought.
Elmo would not betray her. Like herself he had too much to lose. They must trust each other now or go down in
ruin.
She tensed, removed her hand, allowed the panel to slide open. Below lay the interior section of the vessel. The
place where the cargo was stored, the rations—the cold region with its glaring ultraviolet tubes and barren sterility.
Down here, also, were the power-stacks, the atomic generator and accumulators—the protected muscles of the ship.
Protected, but not by men. There were telltales, warning devices, automatic governors, sensory scanning devices
giving three-ply preventative coverage. There would also be an on-duty engineer, his assistant and the handler for
those traveling Low. He came to the door, blinking, eyes widening as he saw the woman.
"My lady!" He lifted a hand in protest as she stepped through the opening. "You cannot—"
He froze as the spray hit his palm, dropping into quick-time, turning almost into legendary stone. Quickly Sara
closed the panel behind her. It could not be locked but closed, it could delude; open, it could not. She walked through
the cold place, not looking at the ranked caskets, the dim figures of their occupants beneath the frosted
transparencies. A door led to a passage, a cubicle, a man asleep beneath a dream-helmet, smiling as he enjoyed
vicarious pleasure provided by the taped analogue. She left him, still asleep, still smiling, but no longer able to enjoy a
dream speeded beyond appreciation.
She too was smiling as she went in search of the third man. It had been so easy. So very easy. Elmo had been
proved correct right down the line. Spacemen were overconfident, too certain that no one would dare to take what
they commanded, so sure that a few locked doors would keep their passengers safely confined.
The doors were mainly psychological, she realized. A strong man, a strong woman could burst them down and
gain the freedom of the vessel. The rest was simplicity itself to any accustomed to violence—if they knew what to do
with their gain.
A hand gripped her wrist. Fingers dug into the flesh at the back of her neck. A voice grated harshly in her ear.
"That's just about far enough. Now drop the hypogun before I break your wrist."
She gulped and opened her hand. The instrument made a soft thudding as it landed on the plastic coated floor.
She rolled her eyes and caught a glimpse of a thin, intent face, a tattooed insignia. The engineer had been waiting to
one side of an opening. Desperation dictated her reaction.
"Let me go!" she croaked. "You're hurting me. If you don't let me go this instant I'll report you to the captain."
Amazement slackened his grip on her neck.
Sara turned to face him. "Are you the engineer? Do you realize that something is wrong? The door is open and a
man is lying on the floor. There's blood all over him. I—" She swayed, a frail, painted old woman suddenly devoid of
strength.
Contemptuously he released her neck, stooped to pick up the dropped hypogun. One shot and the old bag would
be in storage ready for the captain to decide her fate.
He screamed as her elbow rammed into his kidney, a wash of pain filling his eyes with red hazes, his mouth with
the taste of blood. He straightened as she kicked the hypogun out of his reach and screamed again as her thumb
found his eye. Blinded, almost insane with pain and rage, he reached out, found her body, struck and felt bone snap
beneath the edge of his palm. He struck again as her fingers closed on his carotids, again as oblivion rose about his
reeling brain, a third time as it closed over his awareness.
Coughing, spraying blood from punctured lungs, Sara staggered from the slumped body of the engineer and sank
to her knees.
Three, she thought. Three times the bastard hit me. Where did he learn to hit like that? I should have stayed away
from him, let him roar, found the spray and let him have it. Instead I lost my head and closed in. Got within reach and
let him smash my ribs, drive them into my lungs, a bunch of splintered knives to rip out my life.
I was careless, she told herself. Stupidly overconfident. He must have been warned about the door opening. A
register would have told him— those in the upper regions too—and all he did was to wait for me to walk into his trap.
Elmo too? Had he also walked into a trap? Was he, like her, tasting his own blood, waiting for approaching death?
They'll fix me up, she thought. They'll find me and freeze me and make me almost as good as new. And then,
when I'm all healthy again, they'll hold ship's court and I'll be evicted with ten hours' air. A suit and enough dope to
make every damn second a nightmare of agony. Me and Elmo. The both of us. What a hell of a way to end.
But there was a better way. Cleaner. The power source was down here and she knew a little about electronics.
Enough to do what had to be done. Enough to blow the guts out of the ship and find a clean ending.
Painfully, coughing, leaving a trail of blood on the sterile floor, she crawled down toward the muscles of the ship.

***

"Now!" Dumarest pressed hard on the ampule, driving it against his skin, triggering the mechanism so that the
drug it contained entered his blood. Beside him Kalin followed his example. She gasped as it took effect, her
metabolism suddenly jerked into normal speed.
"Earl!"
"Are you all right?" He was anxious; the shock could sometimes prove fatal.
"Yes."
"Good. Now try again." He waited as she closed her eyes and tried to isolate a moment of future time. In his chair
the steward looked at his whispering book with dead, unseeing eyes. Irritably Dumarest switched off the page.
"Anything?"
"No. Just the glare as before."
"Any fainter images?"
"No."
So the explosion was going to happen and nothing either of them had yet done had altered that probable future.
Perhaps it couldn't be altered, not with the facilities at their disposal. Dumarest glanced around the cubicle. The open
medical kit he had raided for the emergency antidote to quick-time stood on a shelf. He rummaged through it,
stuffing the contents into his pocket, thinking as he worked.
Was the explosion, if that was what the glare would be, caused by internal or external causes? If the latter there
was nothing he could do to prevent it. If the former he had a choice. To head for the upper regions and warn the
captain or to head for the lower and warn the engineer. If he could only calculate the time it was going to happen.
"I'm going to warn the captain," he told the girl. "Keep checking the future."
He left the cubicle, walked down the passage, halted at her cry.
"Earl!"
"What is it?"
She came running toward him, eyes huge with shock, trembling so that her voice quivered on the edge of total
loss of control. "Earl! It's so bright, so close! Just the glare and nothing else. Earl!"
"The cards!" He gripped her shoulders, dug in his fingers, used pain to combat hysteria. "You remember when we
played with the cards. The image was clear then. Is it the same now?"
She nodded and he felt the constriction of his stomach. So close? The cards had been scant seconds away in
time. Just how long did they have?
The lounge was thirty feet across. Dumarest crossed it in five strides, jerked open a panel flushing the wall,
caught the girl's wrist and dragged her into the revealed opening. More doors and they stood in a chill place, dimly lit,
a plastic sac open before them. He thrust her inside, sealed the container, paused with his hand on the material.
Beyond it a control protruded from the wall of the vestibule.
"Once more," he urged. "Kalin, try once more—and be certain."
He saw the terror on her face, the squeezing of her eyes, the lifting of her hands to protect them from the searing
glare. The control moved beneath his hand. A metal shield gasped as air blasted them from the vestibule. Grayness,
thick, opaque, tormented with eye-twisting writhings closed around them.
"Earl!" A form in the grayness: soft, warm, scented with femininity. Hair brushed his cheek as arms closed around
His neck. "Earl!"
"It's all right," he soothed. "We've left the ship. We're outside, still caught in the Erhaft field, still moving along with
the vessel. This is an emergency sac," he explained. "It—"
"Earl!"
He gripped her close, closing his eyes, burying his face in the masking softness of her hair as the universe
exploded in a glare of greenish blue light. The writhing grayness vanished, burned away, dissolving to be replaced by
a ball of dwindling flame. Around them the membrane of the sac puffed, stiffened from internal pressure, the thin
skin all that stood between them and the cold hostility of space.
"Earl?" She moved against his chest. "It's gone, Earl. The glare. Shall I look to see what will happen next?"
"Not yet." Ampules glittered as he fumbled them from his pocket. The normal drugs carried by any ship.
Compounds to defeat pain, to ensure sleep, to kill time. He used the latter two and looked at her as the lids closed
over the green eyes.
Quick-time to slow down her metabolism and drugged sleep so that she could avoid the torment, of speculation,
the temptation to stare into a future, which, logically, could not exist.
Not for people stranded in an emergency sac between the stars.
He shifted a little, cradling the flame tinted head on his shoulder, conscious of the silken glow of naked flesh, the
smooth skin of arms and chest and long, long thighs. Beyond the transparent membrane the stars blazed with
scintillating colors. The light shone and sparkled so that it dazzled and touched everything with silver. The sac, his
clothes, her tunic, her hair—
Silver and red and an elfin face. The scent of femininity and the warmth of someone close.
The prick of needles brought slowing and sleep.

Chapter Five
In the dim light beyond the mesh the man's face was drawn, strained. "Grant me forgiveness, Brother, for I have
done much wrong."
Sitting behind the mesh, Brother Jerome listened to the litany of wrongdoing and mentally stepped back half a
century in time, and forgotten light-years in distance, to when he had helped to establish a church on an inhospitable
world. They had been hard days, hard enough to test the resolution of a man who had, until then, never known real
hardship. Well, he had survived and in ways he no longer cared to think about. He had seen the human animal at its
worst; the human angel at its best. Two sides of the same coin. If he could enhance one at the expense of the other,
it would be enough.
"…and, Brother, I was jealous of my friend. He had a new house and I lied about my circumstances and…"
Sins like stones rolling from a basically decent soul. Basically decent because otherwise the man would not be
here, not be suffering the anguish of overwhelming guilt. It was good to know that that anguish, at least, could be
resolved.
Brother Jerome switched on the benediction light as the voice ceased. The face was tense, the eyes hungry with
anticipation as the swirling kaleidoscope of color caught and held his attention.
"Look into the light of forgiveness," said the monk softly. "Bathe in the flame of righteousness and be eased of all
pain, cleansed of all sin. Yield to the benediction of the Universal Brotherhood."
The light was hypnotic, the subject susceptible, the monk an old master of his craft. The face relaxed and peace
smoothed the features. Subjectively the man was undergoing self-determined penance. Later he would receive the
bread of forgiveness.
The High Monk stretched as he left the booth. Today he had chosen to spend his hour of relaxation at the
confessionals and wondered if he had done so simply in order to recapture his youth. It was probable, he admitted on
his way back to his office. There was no harm in looking back as long as it was kept in mind that events moved
forward. And it was good to know that he still served a purpose, that he could still give a man ease of heart.
Brother Fran looked up as Jerome entered the inner chamber. The secretary held a folder of papers in his hand.
He rested it on the desk. "There is news from Sard, Brother."
"With reference to Centon Frenchi?"
"Yes."
Jerome seated himself and looked at the folder without touching it. "His story, of course, has been verified in
every detail."
"As you said it would be."
"It was a minor prediction," said Jerome quietly. "I didn't doubt for a moment that the facts as he gave them
would tally with the facts we might discover in an independent investigation. Even so, the man was lying."
Brother Fran made no comment.
Jerome raised his eyebrows. "You do not agree?"
"The facts as he gave them have proved to be true," said the secretary cautiously. "But," he admitted, "facts can
be both manufactured and manipulated. Yet, in this case—"
"Look at the facts," interrupted the High Monk. "The details. That there was an actual vendetta I do not for one
moment question. The daughter, he claims, left the planet years ago. With all the family dead who is there to verify
that statement? But it could be true. Stranger things have happened and he certainly has an excellent reason for
trying to find the girl. And yet I am not satisfied. Something does not ring true."
"The likeness," said Brother Fran. "It is an inconsistency."
"It is more than that," said Jerome evenly. "Would he have kept it for five years? Perhaps. But, in that length of
time a girl can change. Is her hair still red? Her eyes still green? Her measurements, certainly, need not be the same.
And yet he mentioned nothing of this." His fingers made little rapping sounds as he drummed them on the folder.
"Her coloring," he mused. "Is it not unusual for Sard?"
"Unusual but not unknown," said the secretary. "Red-haired women married into several of the higher families
several generations ago. The pure strain has become diluted but there are instances of atavists. The girl could be such
a one. A throwback to her early ancestry."
"Or," said Jerome slowly, "that could be yet another manipulated fact. Several worlds have bred for these peculiar
characteristics. The girl could have originated on one of those and not on Sard at all." He looked sharply at the other
monk. "You think that I am being too suspicious?"
"I think that caution can be carried to the point where it loses its value."
"Yet you agree there are inconsistencies?"
"Everything is open to doubt," said the secretary flatly. "But we must be logical. What point would there be in
Centon Frenchi lying to us? Either he wants to find the girl or he does not. His positive action in coming to us to beg
our aid proves that he does want to find her."
"I have never doubted that for one second," said the High Monk quietly.
Brother Fran restrained his impatience. "Then, surely, the only question now remaining is whether we look for her
or not."
"You think so?" Jerome shook his head. "That is not the question at all. Whether we look for her or not is
something already decided—we do. Already we are looking. But the real question remains. Assuming that Centon
Frenchi is lying, and instinct tells me that he is, just what reason has he for wanting to find her? Or," he added after a
moment's pause, "is he working for someone else?"
"And, if so, for whom?"
"Exactly," said Brother Jerome. "An intriguing situation, is it not?"

***

A shadow drifted from the clouds, circled, wide-winged and silent. It straightened and became a hundred pound
projectile of flesh and feather tipped with eighteen inches of tapering bone. Kramm watched it come, lifted his rifle
and stared through the telescopic sight. Gently he closed his finger on the trigger. The explosion made a sharp crack
echoed by another, more distant and muffled. The thren twitched as the explosive bullet ripped its interior to shreds.
The long beak opened in a soundless gesture of pain; then another shot filled the air with once-living debris.
Beneath him the horse moved once, then quietened to the pressure of his knees.
"A good shot, master." Elgin, the verderer, spat in the direction of the thren. "That's one monster who will never
raid our herds again. More's the pity that you could not destroy them all with a single bullet from your rifle. There is
none on Solis more likely to do that than yourself. Never have I seen a better marksman."
The praise was extravagant, overly so, but Elgin was currying favor and Kramm knew why. The man had his eye
on a girl of the household. Kramm knew that she was not adverse to changing the duties of the kitchen for those of a
wife. Provided their genes matched, so that the color bred true, there was no barrier to their union. But it pleased him
to keep the man on edge. It would even pay the girl later dividends. No man valued what came too easily.
"He never misses," said Elgin to the third member of the party. "Fives times now he has won the challenge head
at the open competition."
"That's enough," said Kramm.
"I but speak what all men know, master."
"Our guest is not concerned with local gossip," said Kramm. "Let us be on our way."
Scarlet fabric rippled as the horses began to move. The cyber, Kramm guessed, was having trouble keeping in the
saddle, but the thin expressionless face beneath the cowl gave no sign of any difficulty. Kramm almost yielded to the
temptation to break into a gallop; then sternly resisted it. Cyber Mede was not a person with whom to jest. Neither
was the Cyclan an organization at which to sneer. Too many had gained too much for that.
"My apologies that you must travel in so primitive a manner," he said after scanning the sky for sight pf a
wheeling shadow. It had become almost instinctive, this searching of the clouds. "To ride a beast of burden must be a
novel experience for you."
"It is, but do not blame yourself, my lord." Mede's voice was a trained modulation devoid of all irritant factors. "I
could have chosen to wait for a flier. Instead I decided to accompany you. You breed horses, my lord?"
"The finest on the planet," said Kramm without boasting. "A pure strain which has yet to be equaled in this sector
of space. Unfortunately the thren find them succulent prey." His eyes lifted to the sky. "One day I'll band some men
and burn out their nests."
"Is that possible, my lord?"
"No," admitted Kramm. "It's been tried before. Too many breeding spots and not enough men, but one day we'll
do it."
"Radioactive dusts could help, my lord. In the meantime why do you not protect your beasts with lasers?"
"Lasers cost money, cyber." Kramm guided his mount between two boulders. "On Solis money is scarce. We raise
horses, dairy herds, some fruit and grain. We manufacture small items of little cost and limited appeal. I make my
own powder and load my own shells."
He shrugged, dismissing the subject, conscious of all that he had left unsaid. But how to communicate with a
man who was a total stranger to all emotion? How to describe the thrill attending the use of a rifle? The kick of the
butt, the clean, sharp sound of the shot, the satisfaction of hitting the target and seeing feathers fly?
They wended on between boulders and rising slopes. The horses merged into the background as the sky began to
dull. Sleek shapes, maned, tailed, anachronisms in an age where ships spanned the stars and power came in portable
units. Only the three splotches of flaming color gave the scene brightness and life. The robe of the cyber and the hair
of the two other men. Red hair of a peculiar flame-like brilliance. The hallmark of the people of Solis.
Kramm turned in his saddle, eyes raking the sky before he lowered them to the cyber. In the gathering twilight his
skin shone nacreous. Behind him, green eyes watchful, Elgin scanned the surrounding slopes, the empty clouds.
"How are you doing, cyber?" Kramm's voice rose in echoes from the dunes. "Have you discovered yet how to turn
this scrub into wealth?"
"The problems of a planet are not so easily solved, my lord," said Mede smoothly. "Will the journey last much
longer?"
"Getting sore?" Kramm's laugh came from his belly, rolling, deep. "Take no offense, cyber, you've done better than
most could have managed in your place." He laughed again. "You'll have reason to remember Klieg. Our house," he
explained. "The founder called it that. A long time ago now."
Long enough to breed a race of green-eyed, pale-skinned men and women with heads of flame. Pride, thought
Mede detachedly. A poor planet, yet a proud one. A world made almost unique by the founders. Almost. Solis was not
the only planet on which red hair was dominant.
An hour later they rounded a curve and came within sight of the house. Mede stared at it from beneath the
shadow of his cowl. Stone walls enclosing a courtyard. Thick walls of stone rising within to support a sloping roof.
There would be snow here in the winter, he knew. Snow and heavy ice. Only in one thing was the house different from
a dozen others he had seen during his stay on the planet. Its proximity to the sea. It clung to the cliff, one side facing
the water, a limpet defying nature.
Kramm grunted as his horse, scenting its stable, broke into a canter.
"Steady, girl," he said. "Steady." And then, to Mede. "Home, cyber. Welcome to Klieg."

***

Komis heard the music as he opened the door of his study. It shrilled high, clear and far too loudly. The skirl of
pipes echoed above the rattle of drums. Keelan's favorite, the tune which she had hummed and sang and played all
the time when Brasque was away. The tune which they had composed together and played at their wedding and
played even after that dreadful time when the universe had turned against their happiness. The tune which had turned
into a dirge and which he hadn't heard for a long time now.
The stairs fell away beneath his feet. The music swelled even louder as he reached the door, opened it, stepped
into the room with the open side, with the sea-scent and sea-wind coming through the pillars. Another door and a
white-faced girl dancing with her red hair a swirling flame.
"Mandris!"
"Master!" She turned, shock widening her green eyes, hands lifting to cover her mouth. Against one wall the
record player spilled its music, the speakers sonorous with over-amplification. "Master, I—"
He reached her, passed her, killed the music with a twist of his strong white fingers. He stood in the abrupt
silence, ears strained, listening—looking toward the shadowed room past an open door, the darkened room where
Keelan lay.
Silence. Nothing but what had been for too long now. He turned and stared at the shame-faced girl. She cringed
before his eyes.
"Master! I am sorry! I did not think. But it grows so silent here, so lonely. I thought that—"
"You did not think," he interrupted coldly. "There could have been a cry, an appeal for aid. Could you have heard
it over that noise?" The thought of it generated rage, a mounting, consuming anger. "Your duty is to serve," he said.
"To wait, to watch, to listen. To attend the Lady Keelan at all times. For this we give you money for your dowry."
She lowered her eyes, pink flushing the pearl of her cheeks.
"But you grew bored. You decided to play a little music. To play and dance and, perhaps, to dream of a strong
young lover riding to carry you away." He caught himself. He was being petty, unfair. Of what else should a young girl
dream? And yet she must,learn her lesson. "If I gave you the choice, which would you choose?" he snapped.
"Discharge from our service or twenty lashes on the naked back?" Again he was being unfair. Discharge would mean
degradation, the loss of status, the opportunity to better her position. And yet who would willingly be lashed?
"Never mind," he said quickly before she could answer.
"Master?"
He was not a consciously cruel man. Punishment, if it was to be given, should be announced immediately. To
delay was to be sadistic and her fault had been no more than human frailty. He looked around the chamber. It was too
silent, too somber for someone so young. Beyond the outer door the sea-sound echoed. Inside the inner door only
darkness and the knowledge of what lay within. And, who knew that the music might not have been a stimulus?
Perhaps they were wrong to maintain such a stringent watch.
"Your ears need attention, my girl," he said. "Such a noise would earn you a beating if it woke your man." He
caught her frown, the pucker of her lips. Irony was wasted here. "It was too loud," he said pointedly. "Far too loud. It
could be heard all over the house."
"I am sorry, master."
"Sorrow mends no dishes," he said. "See that it does not happen again."
"Yes, master."
He hesitated, a little ashamed of his reluctance, then stepped to the open inner door and peered within. Nothing
but the gloom and the solitary lamp glowing like an emerald in the shadows. At least she was still alive, and if he did
not see her, he could cling to the illusion aroused by the music. The memory of love and beauty and wonderful grace.
An illusion that a light now would totally destroy.
Sighing, he turned away and heard the signal bell announcing the arrival of his brother and their guest.

***

Kramm lifted his goblet, drank deep, slammed it down and wiped the froth from his upper lip. A litter of gnawed
bones lay on the plate before him. In Kramm the barbarian lurked very close to the surface. He snapped his fingers at
a serving girl and helped himself to pastry. His laughter rolled as he held out his goblet for more beer.
"Good food, good drink," he said. "What did I promise you, cyber? That and more, yes?" He drank, not waiting for
an answer. "A warm room and a soft bed. Something to fill it and life is complete."
"For some, perhaps, my lord," agreed Mede. He sat upright at his place, the remains of a frugal meal on his plate,
his beer untouched. His cowl rested on his shoulders, its protection unnecessary in the heat of the room. In the light
his shaven head had the appearance of a skull.
"For all," insisted Kramm. The beer had edged his tongue. "Fill the man's belly, keep his body cool, his mind calm
and you have a contented soul. You now—picking at your food, sipping water instead of good, wholesome beer—
think of what you miss." He waved his goblet at the cyber. "But it's your loss, not mine. A toast," he roared. "To our
guest. To the Cyclan!"
A dozen goblets rattled empty to the board. Komis rose from his seat at the head of the table. "Many of our ways
are without polish," he said to Mede. "But our welcome is from the heart."
Mede bowed. "You are gracious, my lord."
"We are grateful," corrected Komis. He resumed his chair. "For the help which you so freely offer and which we
could never afford." He paused and the cyber picked up the bait.
"Solis is a world with high potential, my lord. It may be possible to realize that potential. If so, it may be that the
rulers of this place would be eager to retain the services of the Cyclan."
It seemed logical enough and it was foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth, but Komis wished that the cyber had
betrayed more of the human weakness inherent in men. He was too cold, too remote, too like a machine. But that, of
course, the head of Klieg reminded himself, was exactly what the cyber was.
When young he had been chosen. At early adolescence, after a forced puberty, he had undergone an operation on
the emotional center of the brain. He could feel no joy, no pain, no hate, no desire. He was a coldly logical machine
of flesh and blood, a living robot—detached, passionless. The only pleasure he could ever know was the mental
satisfaction of having made a correct deduction, of seeing his predictions fulfill themselves.
"Tell me, Mede," he said, more to put the guest at ease than from real interest. "You chose to ride to Klieg. Did
you see anything which could be improved?"
"I lack true data to make an accurate prediction, my lord Komis," said Mede smoothly. "But I would venture to
say that the depredations of the threns grow at a worrying rate of increase. It would be a safe prediction to state that,
unless circumstances alter, your herds have reached their maximum possible numbers. In fact, they are already on the
decrease."
"How did you know that?" Kramm roared from where he sat at the table. "How could you know?"
"Your range is wide, your men few, the predators many. Any life-form given a continual and easily obtainable
source of food will increase to the maximum numbers that food will support. Using the primitive weapons you do, it
is impossible to kill them in sufficient quantities to control their numbers. They breed faster than they can be killed.
You admitted that you could not destroy their breeding places," the cyber reminded the purpling Kramm. "The
prediction then is simply a matter of extrapolation. Overbreeding will increase the attacks of the thren on your herds.
Larger numbers will make them at first vulnerable, but those same numbers will cause greater depredations among
your cattle. The numbers will thin and a balance be struck. But, always, the advantage lies with the predators. You
simply cannot afford enough men to watch the skies. Only when the herd is small enough for your men to protect will
the curve level out."
"And how large will the herd be then?" asked Komis.
Mede hesitated. "I lack data," he admitted. "The final size, however, depends on the number of men available for
guard duty which, in turn, depends on the profit-ratio between horse and keep. If it takes the profit from ten beasts to
keep one man then only one man at most can be available for guard. In fact the ratio is less than that because a man
must sleep, be fed, housed, supplied with equipment. The ratio is usually two to one—two men working to keep one
in the field."
Komis nodded as Mede fell silent. The figures in the books lying on the desk in his study told the same grim story.
Rising costs against lowered income and the more one rose, the lower the other fell.
Kramm managed to find his voice. "Primitive weapons!" he shouted. "I can pick the eye from a thren at a hundred
yards. More. You object to my using a rifle?"
Mede's voice remained the same even modulation. "I do not object, my lord. I do not oppose. I do not aid. I take
no sides. I am of value only while I remain detached. I advise; nothing more."
Komis waved his brother to silence. "What do you suggest we do?"
"The life cycle of the thren should be thoroughly checked to see that it is not essential to the ecology of the
planet. If it is not, then radioactive dusts should be scattered on the nesting sites."
Kramm snorted. "Radioactive dusts cost money, cyber."
"The outlay would be recovered by stock not lost, my lord. By men not wasted in searching the clouds."
Komis rose, ending the discussion. "It is late," he announced. "You have ridden far and must be tired. Kramm,
show our guest to his room."
He was alone when Kramm returned, sitting at the head of the table, staring thoughtfully into space. He rose and
together they mounted the stairs to where the sea-sound and sea-scent swept through the pillars of the open-sided
room. Kramm glanced at the closed door behind which a girl sat in attendance.
"The same?"
Komis nodded.
"I would go in but—" Kramm shook his head. "On the way here," he said, "riding through the valley, I thought of
her. It used to be her favorite place." His hands closed, knotted. "Keelan," he said. "Our sister."
Leaning on the parapet, he stared down into darkness, down to where the surge and suck of waves washed the
granite teeth of the rocks far below.

Chapter Six
A veined disc shattered, became eyes, nose, a mouth and graduated chins. A voice like the shrill squeak of slate
dragged over a nail. "…teach you to obey! You ain't no kid of mine, so don't go thinking you are! Young varmint! Take
that… and that… and…"
The woman vanished. Light splintered into a new visage: rheumy eyes, slack mouthed, spittle drooling from a
slimy beard. "…never been right since his folks died. Shouldn't have taken him in but figured give him chance to earn
his keep. Only thing now is to thrash sense into him or sell him to farm. Sell… sell… sell."
The impact of blows, the pain, the rising red tide of murderous anger. Scenes jumped like a tape skittering in its
guide: red desert, white moonlight, the yellow flicker of dancing flame. Taste sensations: the sting of spines, the
sweetness of water, the rich soup of blood, the stringy chewsomeness of freshly killed meat. Mental emotion images:
loneliness and fear and constant alertness. Physical discomfort. Fear. Hunger. Pain. Fear. Loneliness. Hunger. Fear.
Hunger. Hunger.
A spaceship like a glittering balloon dropping from the skies.
Furred beasts. Rabbits. Rats. Snarling dogs. Scaled things: lizards, snakes, creatures which spat. Spiders and
beetles and things that scuttled and lurked beneath stones.
Hunger. Thirst. Hunger. Thirst. Hunger. Hunger. Hunger.
Another ship falling like a spangled leaf.
"No!" said Dumarest. "No!"
Hands gripped his shoulders, hard, firm; stroboscopic light flashed into his eyes. The tang of something acrid
strutted his reeling senses.
Dumarest gasped. "What—?"
"You were dreaming," said a voice. "You are all right now."
The hands fell away, the flashing died, a cabin swam into view. Metal and crystal and sterile plastic. Cabinets and
familiar machines. A man with a smooth round head and a tunic of medical green neatly closed high around his
throat. He smiled as Dumarest struggled to sit upright.
"You can relax now," he said. "You've got nothing to worry about. A little disorientation but that will pass. Will
you answer a question?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Your dreams. They were of the past, when you were very young. Right?"
Dumarest blinked his surprise at the question. "Yes."
"It's always the same," said the man. "You had prepared for death," he explained. "Logically you could expect
nothing else, but you have a strong survival factor and your ego, in trying to avoid extinction, sought escape in the
past." He shrugged. "It happens all the time. The ones I worry about are those who don't dream at all."
"Then don't worry about me," said Dumarest. He looked around the room. "Where is she?"
"The girl?" The medic pointed to a screen. "She's taking her time about rejoining the human race, but she'll make
it." He caught Dumarest by the arm as he stepped toward the screen. "I said that she'd make it."
Dumarest jerked free his arm and swept aside the screen. Kalin lay supine, the light gleaming from her golden
tunic, glowing warm in the mane of her hair. For a moment he thought she was dead, then he saw the slow rise of her
chest, saw the pulse of blood in the great arteries of her throat.
"I told you that she was all right," said the medic. "She's just a little slow in snapping out of it." He reached
forward and gently slapped her cheek. "How much sleepy-dope did you give her?"
"How do you know I gave her any ?"
"I saw you brought in. There were empty ampules by your hand and, anyway, who else would have given her
medication?" The medic's voice held impatience. "Well, how much did you give her?"
"A couple of shots."
"And quick-time?"
"A regular dose."
"That's what I figured. Well, a little stimulation won't do any harm." The medic triggered his hypogun. Eyelashes
lifted from pearl-like cheeks as the green eyes opened. They were blank windows without expression or recognition.
"Kalin!" Dumarest stooped over her, his shadow darkening her face. "It's all right," he said. "We've been picked up
and we're both alive and well."
She blinked and opened her mouth as if to scream. Then, suddenly, the eyes snapped to full life. She lifted her
arms and closed them around his neck.
"Earl, darling! Earl!"
"Steady," he said gently. "Steady."
She blazed with the joy of resurrection, the realization that she was alive and safe and had nothing to fear. He
knew how she felt. How everyone traveling Low felt when the needles bit and the eddy currents warmed and the
caskets opened like a reluctant grave.
A buzzer sounded from a speaker set high against a wall. A warm, lilting voice followed the discordant note.
"Medical?"
The medic looked at the instrument. "Sir!"
"How are your patients? Are they recovered yet?"
"Almost, sir."
"Send them to me immediately they are able to walk."
The medic shrugged as he met Dumarest's eyes. "You heard the man."
"I heard him." Dumarest helped the girl from the couch, gripped her hand as she stood at his side. "Are you going
to tell us what happened or do you want to leave it to the boss?"
"As you say," said the medic dryly. "He's the boss."

***
 He wore blue and green with touches of yellow and points of scarlet. A slim, long-faced man with jet black hair
and fingers richly crusted with gems. He lounged in a chair behind a wide desk made of shimmering crystal: on the
surface of it mechanical chessmen went through the maneuvers of a recorded game.
He looked a little like a clown, a dandy, a spoiled darling of a favored world. He smiled as they entered and
gestured to chairs. "Be seated," he said. "My name is Argostan. Yours?"
Dumarest gave them.
"You are curt," said Argostan. "You give me your names and nothing more. Have you no home? No family? No
business?"
"We are travelers," said Dumarest. "Of no settled world."
"You perhaps," said the gaudily dressed man. His eyes glowed as he looked at the girl. "You bear the mark of a
hundred suns, but Kalin? She is no traveler. A gypsy, perhaps. A star gypsy. Have you known each other long?"
"Long enough," she said, and gripped Dumarest by the arm.
Argostan smiled. "So you have formed an attachment? That is good. I like to see people who have a meaning for
each other. Life is barren unless there is someone to share its pain and pleasure. You will join me in wine?" He passed
them glasses without waiting for an answer and lifted his own. "A toast," he said. "Let us drink to the combination of
favorable circumstances known as luck. Good luck," he emphasized. "Let us drink to that."
The wine was sweet, slightly astringent, delicately flavored.
"If you took all the luck that is due to a normal man," mused Argostan, "multiplied it by a factor of ten to the
tenth power and then doubled it to embrace you both, you would have used it all in one go. Can either of you imagine
the odds against having been rescued?"
"Yes," said Dumarest flatly. "I can."
Argostan looked at him sharply. "Tell me what happened," he said. "Omit no detail." He blinked when Dumarest
had finished and slowly poured them all more wine.
"There was an accident," he said. "The engineer managed to give warning that the engines were about to explode.
You were fortunate in that you were being shown the emergency sac by the steward. Before you knew it, he had
thrust you inside and tripped the release."
"We were lucky," said Dumarest.
"More than you can possibly realize." Argostan sipped a little wine. "Had I been in your position, I would have
chosen to remain with the vessel. At least it would have been a quick death. To drift, sealed in that plastic bag, aware
of the incredibly hopeless chance of rescue—" He shook his head. "You made a brave decision."
"We had no chance to make any decision at all," corrected Dumarest sharply. "As I told you, the steward acted on
his own volition." He lifted his own glass, sipped, set it down. "It is needless for me to express our thanks to you for
having saved our lives. You must know how we feel. Nothing could ever express our appreciation."
"Nothing?" Argostan lifted his eyebrows. "Well, perhaps not." He finished his wine and stared somberly at the
maneuvering chessmen. "My captain caught the signal of an explosion on his instruments. He reported it and I was
curious. I ordered a search. The beacon of your' sac registered and we found you." He smiled. "Put like that, how
simple it seems. But how many million cubic miles of space did we comb? The time wasted we can calculate, the
expense, but never those reaching miles of emptiness. A less patient man would have abandoned the search long
before you were found."
A silence fell, broken only by the small sounds made by the mechanical chessmen. A bishop swept toward a rook
and took its place. A pawn left the board. A knight sprang into a new position. The black queen moved relentlessly
toward the white king.
"You are trying to say something," said Dumarest. "I fail to discern what it is."
"Really? I would not have taken you to be an obtuse man." The dandy delicately touched his lips with a scrap of
lace. "I am in business," he said. "I buy and I sell, and if I cannot buy, I take. We are heading for Chron. Need I say
more?"
Kalin sensed the tension. The grip of her fingers matched the urgency of her voice. "Earl. What does he mean?"
"Chron is a mining world," said Dumarest shortly. "Only some factors and supervisors go there willingly. There
are some stranded travelers. The rest are slaves."
He heard the sudden intake of her breath, the hiss of comprehension.
"That's right," he said. "Our rescuer is a slaver."
"It is a business," said Argostan. For him the word held no insult. For those needing labor on Chron, the same. It
was, as he said, a simple matter of supply and demand. "And I am sure you can appreciate my position. You are
worth money." His eyes rested on the girl. "Much money. I cannot neglect the opportunity. And do not be so unfair as
to begrudge me a share of your good fortune. If it were not for me, you would be dead. Dust among the stars.
Logically, then, surely your lives are mine?"
Dumarest restrained the impulse to throw himself at the dandy's throat. He would be lucky to reach the desk.
Automatic weapons would be trained on where he sat. Instead he forced himself to smile. "As a man of business I
assume that you are open to an offer?"
Argostan smiled. "A philosopher! This is an unexpected pleasure!"
"I am a realist. How much would you charge me for two High passages to Chron?"
The slaver pursed his lips. "You are strong," he said. "The girl is desirable. Pay me what you would fetch and you
arrive free. I keep my word," he added. "You need have no fear of that."
Dumarest rose, stripped off his tunic, bared his left arm. "You have a banking machine?"
It was a foolish question. Any man in Argostan's trade would need instant banking facilities. The desk opened,
revealing a machine with a panel and a gaping hole. Without hesitation, Dumarest thrust his arm into the orifice.
Clamps seized the limb; electronic devices scanned the metallic inks of the tattoo set invisibly below the skin. A
forgery would have resulted in a gush of incinerating flame. That tattoo was genuine. A signal lamp flashed green on
the panel as figures showed the amount of credit signified by the brand.
The slaver frowned.
"It is enough," said Dumarest. And then, as the man hesitated. "It is all I have."
Kalin spoke from where she stood watching. "I am ignorant in these matters, but how much is a dead woman
worth on Chron?"
Argostan was amused. "You would not be dead," he said. "I am scarcely a novice to this trade. But I admire your
spirit." He set the controls of the banker. "I shall not leave you penniless," he said to Dumarest. "I shall leave you—"
he paused, thoughtful—"the cost of one half a Low passage."
He pressed the activating switch. Magnetic beams removed the old tattoo, credited the selected amount to
Argostan's balance, replaced the old brand with a new one showing the revised amount. The slaver turned, smiling.
"Welcome aboard," he said. "Enjoy yourselves. In three days we land on Chron."

***

It was a bleak place with thin winds and acrid dust which, in time's of storm, blew in vast clouds beneath a
copper sky. An amber sun clung sullenly to the horizon and threw exaggerated shadows over the gritty soil.
Kalin lifted her hands to bare shoulders and hugged herself. "Earl, it's cold! Miserable!"
"It's a dead-end world," he said flatly.
"What—?"
"Never mind."
He took her arm and guided her away from a line of men marching from a bulking warehouse to the ship. They
wore drab gray striped with scarlet, the glint of metal showing from the collars about their necks, and each man
carried an ingot of refined metal: Argostan's payment for the cargo he had delivered. An overseer had already hurried
them away. His twin, brilliant in orange cloak and helmet, looked curiously at the pair as Dumarest led the way
toward the edge of the field. His eyes lingered on the girl; the whip he carried in his right hand made sharp snapping
noises as he lashed the side of his boot.
"You are staying on Chron for reasons of business, sir and madam?" The tout had oily hair, an oily face, a voice to
match. "The Hotel Extempore is unequaled on the planet. The administrators themselves reside there when visiting
Chron. I will myself carry your baggage."
Dumarest walked past him.
"If the Hotel Extempore is a little too grand, sir and madam, I represent a more modest establishment." The tout
ran beside them, looking up into Dumarest's face. "The Albion Rooms are clean, the food is good, the charges
reasonable. Your baggage, sir and madam?"
"Get lost," snapped Dumarest.
"There is nowhere to go," said the tout reasonably. "Your ship is the only new arrival and you are the only free
passengers. I beg of you to let me be of service. If the Albion Rooms are a little too grand, then may I escort you to
Pete's Bar?" He looked at the girl, eyes drifting over her hair, her body. "There is always a welcome at Pete's for those
who are willing to help him entertain his friends."
"No!" said Kalin sharply. "Earl, don't!"
Dumarest looked at her.
"You were choking him," she said. "I mean that you are going to choke him. That is—"
"If he doesn't shut his mouth I'll break his neck," said Dumarest flatly. "That's what you mean. This time he's
making his proposition to the wrong people."
The tout backed away. "My apologies, sir and madam," he said quickly. "No offense was intended. But, on Chron, as
everywhere else, a man must eat."
Dumarest looked at the girl as the tout moved away. "You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly. "If nothing
else, you could have warned the man of what I intended. But you should keep silent for another reason. Sensitives are
rarely popular on worlds like this."
"Is it such a bad world, Earl?"
It was bad enough. A dead-end world at the end of the line. A rolling cinder without a local population, local
industry, or native assets. Without opportunity for a man to get a job, build up a stake, get the price of a passage so as
to make his escape.
A federation of companies mined the planet. Their gigantic machines gouging deep into the mountains—rivers
of power streaming from their atomic plants so as to fuse the buried ore by eddy currents, run it through taps and
channels into molds. Second stage was refining the crude pigs, pouring into standard shapes, stacking in warehouses
—there to wait for the freighters to come and ship it to the manufacturing worlds. Over the secondary smelters hung
a billowing cloud of heat-borne ash. What use a cleaner when there was no one to consider?
Only the technicians, supervisors and over-seers were highly paid contract men willing to stand dirt and fumes
and rugged conditions for the sake of big rewards. The workers didn't count. Slave-labor. Men who had been sold to
pay their debts, who had sold themselves for their families' sakes, who had been kidnapped and stolen and who could
do nothing about it.
The rest of the population consisted of stranded travelers, entrepreneurs, entertainers. The inevitable
appendages to any community where there is a chance of money to be made or needs to satisfy.
Dumarest halted as they left the field. A rabble stood watching: men shabbily dressed, gaunt, eyes smoldering
with desperation or dull with hopeless resignation. The collared slaves were better dressed and in better condition
than the stranded. Well to one side, the plastic bubbles which housed the executive quarters shone with lambent light
and warmth. Closer, nearer to the landing field, a collection of bubbles, houses made of local stone, sheds with dirt
walls and weighed roofs comprised the local village. To the other side, sheltered and almost hidden in a valley was the
rubbish dump that was Lowtown.
A muscle tightened in Dumarest's jaw as he looked at it.
"Earl." Kalin tugged at his arm. "Can't we go somewhere warm? I'm getting cold."
He loosened the fastenings of his tunic, doffed it, slipped it around her shoulders. Denied the insulation of the
protective material his skin reacted, tightening against the chill. Behind, the sun made no impression; ahead, their
shadows sprawled like distorted reflections of monstrous entities.
"We'll find a banker," he decided. "We must get you something warm to wear. A cloak, protective coverings for
your feet, a knife."
"A laser would be better." She did not pretend to misunderstand.
"You know how to use a knife," he said gently. "And lasers cost money."
So did boots, a cloak, a knife.
Dumarest looked at the few coins left from their purchase and dropped them into her palm. Kalin looked
different. The golden tunic had gone to pay for more appropriate clothing. Her mane of flaming hair coiled beneath
the rim of an insulated helmet. Pants, covering her tapering legs, tucked into high boots, belted against a shirt which,
in turn, was covered by a rough tunic. The high-collared cloak was marked in zig-zags of green and yellow. The knife
was a thin edged, pointed strip of steel carried in a sheath strapped to her left forearm.
She chuckled as they stood in the dust of the main and single street of the village. "You know, Earl, this is fun. I've
never worn clothing like this before."
She had never been stranded on a world like Chron before either. Dumarest had. It was an experience he had
never wanted to repeat.

Chapter Seven
A knot of men came down a winding path leading from the far end of the village. Dumarest stepped back as they
approached. Two of the men carried something shapeless slung on a thick pole, the weight stooping their shoulders.
Two others carried packs and supported a third man between them. He clung to their necks, legs trailing in the dust.
His face was white beneath the dirt, strained, a thick rope of dried blood ran from the corner of his mouth. The chest
of his shabby tunic was stiff with more of the same. The sixth man was big, stocky. The side of his face puckered as
if it had been seared with fire.
A man called from the far side of the street. "Any luck, Am?"
 The scarred man spat. "Sure," he said bitterly. "A lot of it. All bad."
Dumarest stepped forward as the knot of men halted before a building. He nodded toward the burden slung on
the pole. "You've been hunting," he said. "Is there much game here?"
Arn looked at him, then at the girl. "You want to hire some men to go on a hunt?" He frowned as Dumarest shook
his head. "Just curious then, uh? Tourists, maybe?"
"Travelers," corrected Dumarest. "Just arrived and stranded."
"The pair of you?" Arn looked at Kalin. "She your woman?"
"That's right," said the girl.
"Tough," said the scarred man. "For you, that is. Alone you'd have no trouble getting the price of a passage." He
scowled as Dumarest tensed. "Relax, mister," he said. "I've had a hard time lately but I can still handle what I have to."
His voice was flat, dull, a man trying to reassure himself.
He lifted grim hands, thrust thumbs beneath the straps of the pack he carried, flung it to the ground before the
door of the building. It gave a metallic sound and Dumarest caught a gleam of mesh through a rip in the clumsily
joined material. The two men carrying the pole stepped forward and lowered their burden. A fanged snout showed
from among folds of scaled hide, the coils of a barbed tail.
Arn went to the door, hammered on it, returned to where the rest of the group waited. The wounded man lifted
his head, stared about with wild eyes.
"Haran," he said. "I can't feel my legs! I can't feel a damn thing—"
The man supporting him on the left eased his weight a little. "Take it easy," he said. "We'll soon have you
comfortable."
"But my legs! Haran! I can't—"
"Shut up," said the man on his right. "Don't keep on about it. Just shut up and let's get you home." He looked at
the scarred man. "That all right, Am?"
"Sure," said the leader. He nodded to the two men with the pole. "You go with them," he said. "Give them a hand.
You might as well get the pot started while you're at it." He spat in the dust as they moved away. "Zardle meat! As
tough as granite and as tasty as sand but if you can get it down and keep it down the stuff will keep you alive."
Dumarest was thoughtful. "Is that what you were hunting? Something for food?"
Arn nodded.
"Then why leave the tail? That's probably the best part."
"It is, but Pete claims the head, skin and tail in return for lending out his nets." Arn turned from the door as
something clicked from within. "You're smart," he said. "To know about the tail. Done much hunting?"
"A little," said Dumarest. "When I've had to. But only for food."
"Sometimes you win a bonus hunting a zardle," said the scarred man. "If you're lucky you might find a zerd. It's a
thing like a round ball of stone right smack in their heads almost touching the brain. Some say that it's a sort of tumor
made up of tissue and calcium deposits, minerals too. The things shine like stars when you hold them in your hand.
That's why the women like them," he explained. "They wear them for jewelry. As long as they rest on the naked skin
they glow with an ever-changing shine. Beautiful."
"And expensive," said Kalin.
"You know?"
"I've seen them," she said. "They change color according to the emotion of the wearer. Some men give them as
gifts to their mistresses so as to test their sincerity. But," she ended, "I didn't know they came from inside the skulls of
beasts."
"You know now," said Arn. He nodded to them both. "Guess I'll be seeing you around."
"Wait a minute," said Dumarest quickly. "You've got a pot going. Can we share in it?"
Arn was curt. "No. We worked to get what's in that pot and we can't afford charity."
"I'm not talking about charity," said Dumarest. "You said the meat was tough. We've got a little money. How about
if we supply something to make it tender?" He waited for the man's reluctant nod. "Go down to the store," he said to
Kalin. "Next to where we bought the clothes. Get some tenderizer."
Arn stared after her as she walked down the street. "A fine woman."
Dumarest nodded.
"Qwen had a woman like that," Arn mused.
"Used to talk about her a lot. Carried a talking likeness of her all the time. God knows why he ever left her." He
paused. "We buried it with him."
"Was he with you on the hunt?"
"Him and two more. Nine of us—a lucky number. We could have done without that kind of luck. One of the nets
gave way. Three dead and Crins got a broken spine. Four men lost for the sake of a plateful of stew."
 "How about Crin?" asked Dumarest. "Is there a chance of medical treatment?"
"Without money? Not a chance."
"Then why didn't you leave him? Pass him out easy?" Dumarest spoke without emotion. "He wouldn't have
known what was going on. Now he's going to lie there and suffer and starve. Is that what you call mercy?"
"He had his brothers with him," said Arn. "The ones who were carrying him." He looked at Dumarest. "What
would you have done?"
"Left him there."
"Yes," said Arn slowly. "I guess you would."

***

It grew colder as the sun dipped lower beneath the horizon. One of the men stirring the contents of the strutted
bag that was their cauldron looked up and sniffed the air.
"It's getting close to winter," he said. "Too close. If we hope to live through it we'd better get in some fuel."
"Why bother?" A thin piebald stretched his broken boots closer to the fire. "We can go up near the smelter like we
did last time."
"Sure," agreed the cook. "Then the wind changes and another seven of us die from the fumes. Or the guards
make a raid and ten more of us wear the collar for 'stealing' their waste heat. No thanks. I'll stay free even if I have to
freeze doing it."
"Free!" The piebald spat into the fire. In the glow of the flames his mottled face writhed in contempt. "How the
hell are we free? Free to starve? To die?"
"We've got a choice," said a man from the shadows. "We don't have to jump when some overseer thumbs a
switch."
"We don't have to eat their food either," snapped the piebald. "You see that food? Good and rich and filling. They
dress decent, too. And live in shelters instead of out here on a junk heap. They even get time for recreation," he
added. "And a bit of money to spend."
The man in the shadows laughed. "That's right. Facsimile women to spend it on. Surrogate women and surrogate
wine. Living it up by spending pretend money on pretended dissipation. Robots to cuddle and chemicals to disorient
the senses. But they can't get really drunk. Not that. They've got to keep a clear head for work." He laughed again.
"Do you know why they do it? Give the slaves tokens to use as local cash?"
The mutant sneered. "Tell me."
"You can't take away a privilege a man hasn't got. So you give him something he doesn't want to lose. The more
he hangs onto it, the greater hold you've got over him. Simple."
"That's right," said the piebald. "Now tell me one society that doesn't operate in exactly the same way. Listen," he
said. "I was born on Zell. My folks worked a farm. Half of what they grew was theirs—less taxes. I guess they never
saw more than a third of any crop they raised. And you know what? The tax assessors came around and told them
they'd have to pay another ten percent. The king was getting married or something. He let them sweat for two days
and then came back and told them how lucky they were. They were one of the chosen few to have their taxes cut by
five percent. You know what? They were grateful. Grateful!"
"Didn't they know they were still going to pay an extra five percent?"
"Sure they knew. They weren't dumb. Not when it came to figures. But they were so relieved that it was only a
five instead of a ten percent increase that they almost kissed the tax assessor's rear."
A man cleared his throat. "I don't get it. What's the point?"
The piebald squinted toward him. "We were talking of the slaves, right?"
"I remember."
"They've got nothing, so they get given a little and want to hang onto it. But my folks weren't slaves. They didn't
wear a collar. They had a right to take all they worked for. Instead they were grateful for someone giving them back a
little of what was theirs in the first place. I tell you—they worked a damn sight harder than any collar-man I've ever
seen. And they paid their own way. They didn't have any quarter-master handing out fresh clothing, a commissary to
issue food, a doctor when they were sick, warm quarters to sleep in and someone to worry about keeping them
happy so they would work hard. They had to work hard simply in order to eat. My old man never had a drink in his
life aside from some slop he brewed himself. My old woman never even heard of perfume. They lived like animals
and died the same way." He glared into the fire. "Don't talk to me about being free," he said tightly. "Don't sell me that
bill of goods. I know better."
A silence fell around the circle, the bulging sac which held the stew bubbled a little and shed vapor. A wind rose,
caught the fire, fanned it to leaping flame. Faces swam from the shadows, eyes glittering, teeth dim behind bearded
lips.
"Slavery's not economical," said a voice slowly. "It's cheaper to let people fend for themselves."
"Then why the collar-men on Chron?" demanded another. "I'll tell you why. Slaves don't strike, don't join unions,
can't cause trouble. Those running the mines want to be sure of a reliable source of labor. They want to protect their
investment. There's big money tied up here."
"So why don't you get some?" yelled the piebald. "If you're so smart why are you stranded?"
"Go to hell!"
"Hell? Man, I'm already there. Didn't you know?"
The tension broke with a laugh. Dumarest stirred, felt someone squat at his side. Arn's face glistened in the
firelight, the seared skin taut and glowing. Unconsciously he rubbed it. "Philo been stirring it again?"
"The mutant?"
"That's the one. Sometimes I figure him for a company man trying to talk us into donning the collar. He sure
makes out a good case." He sucked at his teeth. "Well, maybe I've got a cure for that."
Dumarest was curious. "What is it?"
"Tell you later," said Arn. "After we've eaten." He lowered his voice. "You'd better leave the girl behind."
"No," said Dumarest. He saw the other's expression. "I couldn't if I wanted to and I don't want to. Not here," he
explained. "Not yet. Not until I've learned more about the setup here."
Arn shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said and then called to the man standing beside the pot. "Hey, how about that
stew? Let's eat!"
Lowtowns were all the same: places where the unfortunate huddled. Holes scooped from the dirt, shacks made of
flimsy scraps giving a little visual privacy and nothing else, unpaved lanes winding between noisome dwellings.
Temporary camps where stranded travelers stayed until they could haul themselves upward by their bootstraps.
There was no drainage, no sanitation, no running water or available power. There was dust and dirt and smell.
Unwashed flesh and ragged clothing. The shared communion of a common misfortune.
Arn lifted his bowl and sucked down the last of his portion. "That was good," he said, smacking his lips. "That
tenderizer you contributed, Earl, made all the difference." He yelled to the cook. "Hand me some more."
He had led the hunting team which had provided the meat. Silently the cook refilled his bowl. He hesitated,
looking at Dumarest.
"Thanks." He took the replenished bowl, ate, chewing determinedly at the gritty meat. Beside him Kalin
shuddered as she looked into her bowl.
"Earl, I can't. This isn't fit for a dog."
"It's food," he said shortly. "Eat."
"But—"
"Eat," he said again. A stranded traveler had no right to be particular, not when he never knew when he would
next eat. The stew wasn't good but Dumarest had eaten worse. There were vegetables of a kind—probably those
thrown out at the commissary. A slimy thing which could have been some form of root, maybe inedible, but providing
bulk and minerals. The flesh of the zardle, water, and something else.
"Dead yeast," said Arn. "They run a small brewery in the village and Philo managed to get the dumped slime from
the bottom of the vats." He gulped and belched. "It sure gives it body." He hesitated, then put aside the battered
container. "No," he decided. "I don't want to get soft. Get my stomach used to food and it'll want feeding all the time."
Across the fire the piebald threw the remains of his food into the flames. "Swill," he shouted. "Stinking swill!"
Arn caught Dumarest by the arm. "Leave him."
"He threw away food. There are people out there hungry, watching." Dumarest gestured to the ringing dark.
Shapes moved indistinctly in the dusk. "Watching," he said again. "You know what a thing like that does to a hungry
man?"
"Sure," admitted the hunter. "It can blow their fuse. Send them in here with rocks and knives. But why should you
worry? You look as if you can take care of yourself." He looked past Dumarest to where firelight gleamed on a strand
of vagrant hair. "The girl," he said. "You're afraid for her. A rock in the face, a knife, the kick of a boot. I know how it
is. But I figure that she can look after things if she has to."
"Perhaps," said Dumarest. "But I'd rather she didn't have to."
Philo yelled again as he flung down his bowl. "Do you know what they're eating up in the barracks now? This
very minute? Steak! Eggs! Fried chicken! Braised warbill and roast yalmas! Good food. Real food. Stuff you can get
your teeth into and taste."
"Shut up," said a man across the fire.
The piebald sprang to his feet, snarling. His eyes were bloodshot, wild. "You! You want to make me?" He glared,
body crouched, hands slightly extended. "You wanna shut my mouth, you come and do it."
 "You don't have to keep talking about what we're missing," protested the man.
"That's right," said another. "You want it, you go and get it." He cried out as the piebald sprang across the circle
toward him. A boot lashed out and he fell moaning, blood running from his broken mouth.
The piebald strutted around the clearing, eyes like those of an animal. "Anyone else want to argue? Speak up if
you do. Fools!" he sneered. "Living in stinking filth like the dogs that you are!"
"That's enough," said Dumarest.
Philo halted, looked at him, body tense, wary. "You object?"
Arn grabbed Dumarest by the arm. "Don't bother, Earl. There's something coming up that'll stop his nonsense.
When they see what—"
Dumarest jerked free his arm as the piebald ran forward. There was a smack as he caught the boot swinging
toward his face. He gripped, twisted, threw it away as the piebald screamed and spun in order to save his hip. Rising,
he stepped forward in the firelight.
"Earl!" Kalin said. "No, Earl, please—"
He ignored her as the piebald rose to his feet. The man crouched in a fighter's stance, hands slightly extended,
the fingers of one touching the wrist of the other. He moved, feet stamping the dust, eyes fastened on Dumarest.
"You shouldn't have done that," he crooned. "Man, you just shouldn't have done that. I'm going to teach you a
lesson now. And after, well, that little girl of yours is going to need a man to look after her. A real man." Teeth shone
white between parted lips. "And you're not going to be much good for anyone soon."
His fingers twitched and firelight splintered on polished steel. He surged toward Dumarest, his left arm extended,
the elbow crooked, the edge of the stiffened palm swinging toward the throat. His right hand swept back, forward, the
six-inch blade swinging in a vicious arc toward the pit of the stomach.
He was fast, but he had signaled his intentions and Dumarest was waiting. He stepped sideways, moving his left
so as to clear the swing of the chopping palm, his right hand dropping, gripping the wrist of the hand which held the
knife, lifting it up, using its own momentum to swing the blade in a semicircle which ended at the piebald's throat.
The man choked and staggered, blood gushing from his severed jugular, eyes almost starting from their sockets
as he realized what had happened. "You—" he said. "You—"
Dumarest stepped away to avoid the fountain of blood. His face was cold, hard, registering neither pity nor
satisfaction. He had killed in order to prevent dying.
Arn rose, stood beside Dumarest, stared somberly down at the body. "Fast," he said. "I've never seen anyone
move as fast as you did then. One second you were standing there, the blade swinging toward your gut, the next Philo
is dead."
"Check his pockets," suggested Dumarest. He leaned forward as Arn whistled. "Something?"
"A pass for the commissary," said the other man thoughtfully. He tapped a slip of plastic against his other hand.
"No wonder Philo always looked well-fed. He was working for the company as I suspected. They gave him free food
and maybe a bonus for every recruit he talked into wearing the collar. Not that he would have had much luck after
tonight."
"That cure you talked about?"
"Yes." Arn tensed as a whistle shrilled in the darkness. From beyond the village, lights bloomed in a brilliant
swathe to beat the night. "This is it," he said. "Let's get over there."

Chapter Eight
A man was being punished when they arrived. He stood in the center of the lighted area, raised on a platform so
that everyone could see the ghastly pallor of his face. His eyes looked like holes punched in snow. The gleam of
metal shone from around his throat—the collar all slaves wore and which, at the touch of a control, would flood
nerve and brain with searing agony. But that pain was a private thing, coming close at times to providing amusement
in the jerkings and twistings of protesting flesh: ridiculous contortions without apparent cause. None of those
watching would smile at what would happen to this man.
The area was thronged with spectators. Slaves for the most part—the object lesson was for their benefit—ranked
in neat files, their overseers watchful as they stood at the rear. A section had been reserved for the civilians: those
from the village, the idle and curious and sadistic, the bored and those who were about to be educated. Incredibly the
place had a festive air.
Kalin stared at the focus of the lights. "That man, Earl. What are they going to do to him?"
"They're punishing him," he said shortly. "He's up there suffering at this very moment. Not physically," he
admitted, "but mentally because he knows what is going to happen to him." He squeezed her arm. "Don't try to look
ahead," he warned.
"I won't." She stood on tiptoe, craning, eager to see what was going on. "Why are we here, Earl?"
"Arn wants to show everyone what can happen to those who wear the collar," said Earl. "Counter-propaganda to
beat Philo's suggestions."
"I see." She nodded, understanding. "That man," she said. "The one standing there waiting to be punished. What
did he do?"
A stooped scavenger from the village who was standing nearby turned and stared at her. "He was smart," he said
bitterly. "He tried to help a friend. Someone who wanted to run out on his contract. He figured out a way to remove
the collar without blowing the charge. His friend reported him for the sake of immediate freedom and a Low passage
on the first ship." He spat. "Some friend!"
Kalin frowned. "Charge?"
"The collars can only be unlocked with a key," said Dumarest. He resisted the impulse to finger his throat. "The
band contains an explosive. Break the collar or open it in any way other than with the key and the charge detonates.
It will blow the head off the wearer and the hands off anyone touching it."
"How do you know?" she said.
"I know."
"For certain? Have you worn a collar?"
"Once," he said tightly. "On Toy. Why do you ask?"
"No real reason," she said. "It's just that on Solis we have serfs who wear collars. But they aren't loaded with
explosives. They are just for identification purposes so that people will know to whom they are bonded."
"Solis sounds a nice place," he said. "Primitive, but nice. I hope it stays that way. No one who has never tried it
should think of forcing a man to wear a bomb around his neck."
He lifted his head to watch the poor devil on the platform. Speakers echoed with a studied account of what he
had done to deserve this punishment. A psychological semanticist had written the statement and, somehow, he made
the lonely figure seem dirty and vile and unfit for the company of decent men.
Kalin sucked in her breath. "No," she whispered. "Dear God, not that! No!"
Dumarest dug his fingers into her arm. "Don't scan," he warned. "Don't do it!"
Her scream rose above the calculated pitch of the speakers.
"What's the matter with her?" The scavenger made as if to come forward. "They haven't even started yet."
"She's ill." Dumarest looked at the contorted face, the twisted mouth. Damn the girl for being curious! "Something
she ate," he said. "Poison. I've got to get her to a doctor."
Faces turned, ringing them like watchful discs pricked with curious eyes. Her screams tore at nerve and stomach.
Dumarest clamped his hand over her mouth, scooped her from the dirt and, cradling her in his arms, thrust his way
toward the edge of the watchers. Overseers stared coldly as they passed. The echo of pounding feet brought Arn
panting alongside.
"They don't like you leaving the show," he said, jerking his head at the cloaked figures. "You don't have to come if
you're free, but once you do, they reckon you should see it out." He sucked in his cheeks. "Me too," he added. "I want
everyone to realize just what being a slave means."
"I'm convinced," said Dumarest curtly. He lowered his hand from Kalin's face and looked into her eyes. "Are you
all right now?"
She flushed. "I'm sorry, Earl. It's just that—"
"Forget it," he said quickly. "Don't think about it. Find something else to do." He frowned, thinking. What? What?
"Crin," he said. "The man with the broken back. Where is he?"
Arn jerked his head. "Back at Lowtown. His brothers are looking after him. Haran and Wisar. Why?"
Dumarest paused. The girl needed something to take her mind off what was going to happen beneath the lights.
Was happening as far as she was concerned. Despite her promises she would continue to scan the event, like a finger
unable to resist touching a sore. To nurse the sick man would be to raise a defense—unless she replaced one horror
with another.
"We'll go and see him," decided Dumarest. "We might be of some use."
Nothing could be worse than what was about to happen to the unfortunate slave.

***

Crin lived with his two brothers in a sagging shack set against a mound of time-settled rubbish. The walls and
roof were of fragments: fiberboard, plastic, sheets of protective wrapping. One side was open, a dirty length of
material serving to close the entrance against storm or intruders. It was a slum set in reeking dirt with rags for beds
and a guttering flame for illumination. The candle was made of grease poured into a tin around a wick of twisted rag.
Beneath it Crin lay supine, reflected light dancing in his open eyes, his lips parted as if he were smiling. Wisar
squatted beside him, his voice a soft drone.
"…and there's a field reaching down to the river, all green with soft grass and dotted with little yellow flowers.
You're running over the grass and heading toward the river. Jennie is waiting down there. She's got on her best green
slip and her legs and feet are bare. You're going to go swimming together, but not yet. First you have to make
betrothal chains for each other from the yellow flowers. You run along, side by side, and each time one of you picks a
flower you call out the other's name. Can you hear them? Jennie… Crin… Jennie… Crin… Jennie… Crin…"
Dumarest looked at Haran. "What goes on?"
"We had a monk come in," said Haran. He looked tired, his eyes red and face strained with anxiety. "Crin was a
regular attendant at the church, thank God. That meant he was quickly susceptible to hypnotic suggestion. Brother
Vesta managed to ease his pain and throw him into a light trance. Now Wisar's feeding him stimulus suggestions.
Building up a synthetic life so as to fill his dream world." He knotted his big hands, looked down at his fists. "It makes
you feel so damned helpless," he said. "Your own brother, lying there with a ruined spine and there's nothing you can
do. Not a damn thing!"
"What's the verdict?" Arn came pushing his way into the shack. "What did the monk say?" From the outside he'd
heard every word.
"The spine's gone," said Haran tiredly. "He needs a section transplant before he can walk again. But it's worse
than that. Unless he gets some sort of treatment soon he'll die."
"Treatment?" Arn frowned. "What treatment?"
"One of the barbs managed to break the skin and introduce infection." Haran lifted his hands in helpless anger. "I
told him to wrap up well! To make sure his padding was secure! The damn fool just wouldn't listen!" He sagged,
deflated. "It doesn't matter now. Unless he gets curative therapy he'll be dead within a week."
Kalin made a choked sound deep in her throat. She stood just within the opening, the dancing flame casting
shadows on her face. Her eyes were wide as she looked at the sick man.
"Pain," she said. "Pain."
Haran nodded. "The infection is attacking the nerves. Not even hypnosis can help much once it gets a real hold.
Nothing can, aside from the specific antidote. Unless he gets it he'll suffer just as much if he'd been slowly lowered
into boiling oil." He took a deep breath. "But he won't suffer. I'll see to that."
"You're going to pass him out?" Arn nodded. "It's the best thing you can do. You should—"
"Shut up!" Haran glared, eyes bulging. "You think I'm going to kill him? My own brother! What kind of animal are
you?"
"Steady," said Dumarest. "He meant well."
"Like he did out on the hunt? When Crin was smashed down?" Specks of froth showed at the corners of Haran's
mouth. "He wanted to kill him then. Kill him as if he'd been an injured dog. Thank God, Wisar and I were there to
stop him!"
"All right," soothed Dumarest. The man was almost hysterical with rage and fear. "No one is going to hurt him.
What do you intend to do?"
"Have we any choice?" Wisar rose from where he squatted beside the sick man. "We've got to get him medical
help. To pay for it one or both of us will have to sell ourselves to the company. Wear the collar," he added. "Become
slaves."
"You're crazy!" Arn was incredulous. "You can't mean it. Do you know what happened out near the village
tonight? What is still happening? A man is slowly being tortured to death because he broke the rules. Because he
wears a collar. Do you really want to throw away your freedom?"
Haran was bitter. "What freedom? The freedom to watch my brother die in agony? If he wasn't infected I'd be
willing to wait. To hope to find a zerd or raise the money in some other way. But we can't wait. If we're to save him
we've got to act now. There's nothing else to do."
"Earl," whispered Kalin. "Is he right?"
Dumarest shook his head. The logical thing was to let the sick man die. Give him an easy passing and make a
quick end. But the brothers weren't logical. They were fanatical in regard to their family ties, more than fanatical.
Dumarest wondered what held them so close, why they had ever left home.
"We've got to help them, Earl," said Kalin softly. "We can't let them sell themselves."
He was blunt. "Why not? What are they to us?"
"Earl!" Her voice faltered. "Earl!"
He gripped her arm and led her outside, away from the shack, the air of sickness and defeat. Behind them the
candle guttered, throwing odd configurations on the translucent material of the roof and walls. Overhead the stars
glittered, coldly hostile in the now solidly black curve of the sky. From the assembly area beyond the village a faint
wind blew: chill, numbing, seeming to carry the echoes of ghastly screams.
"You've worn a collar, Earl," she said before he could speak. "You know what it's like."
He waited.
"I can see him, Earl," she whispered. "Faint but getting stronger. You cannot imagine how he is going to suffer if
left without help."
"But he isn't going to be left, is he?" Dumarest was bitter. "You know that because you can see just what is going
to happen. Well, tell me. What does the clear picture say? The one that really shows the future?"
She gripped his arm, looked up into his face, her eyes filled with dancing lights from the guttering candle.
"I love you, Earl. I want you to do this. Not because I tell you that it is inevitable but because you want to do it for
me. For me, Earl. Please!"
"All right," he said heavily. "For you."
And felt the wonderful softness of her lips pressed against his own.

***

The monk stood beside the door leading into the main entertainment center on Chron. Pete's Bar was enjoying
the reaction of men who have watched pain and suffering, agony and death, and were celebrating the fact that they
were still alive, still able to enjoy themselves.
"Alms, brother."
Dumarest halted, the girl at his side. He peered into the cowl which shadowed Brother Vesta's thin features. Light
from the buildings opposite lit the hollow cheeks, the gentle eyes. From Pete's came a burst of song, the rattle of
glasses and the stamping of many feet. A woman laughed, high, shrill. A second joined her, a third.
"Be charitable, brother," said the monk quietly. "Tonight there are those who will die unless they are given warmth
and food."
"I know," said Dumarest. "I could be one of them."
"You jest, brother?" The monk looked at the pair. "You both seem to lack nothing."
"Appearances are deceptive, Brother," said Dumarest dryly. "We have clothes but nothing else." He looked past
the monks toward the building. "I need a stake," he said. "Money with which to make a wager. Will you trust me,
Brother?"
"We promise to repay," said Kalin. She was warm beneath her cloak, her helmet. Impatiently she removed it and
let the chill night wind blow through the flaming mane of her hair. Reflections made green shimmering pools of her
eyes, the light glowed from her translucent skin. "You can keep my helmet if you like," she suggested. "My cloak. I
don't need them."
"You will," said the monk quietly. "On Chron the nights grow bitter as winter nears."
"And in the winter?"
"Without such protection you could easily freeze." His eyes burned from the shadow of his cowl. "Your
companion could explain more easily than I."
"Stranded travelers have little fat," said Dumarest evenly. "Traveling Low keeps them thin. Without body-fat to act
as insulation the cold bites deep. But we are lucky. We have both been traveling High." He looked at the monk. "I was
not jesting when I asked for a stake," he said quietly. "I will return it ten times over. A good investment, Brother."
The monk hesitated, his eyes on the girl's hair. The wind pressed the cowl tight against his cheek as he turned to
look at Dumarest. "Your name, brother?"
Dumarest told him. The girl added. "And I am Kalin of Solis. Will you keep my helmet and cloak?"
"No," said the monk. His hand slipped within his sleeve, returned bearing coins. "Here, brother." He handed them
to Dumarest. "Good fortune."
A man checked them as they entered the warmth of the bar, eyes hard as he looked for signs of poverty or
desperation. They displayed neither. Retaining her outer garments so as to hide the rough tunic beneath, Kalin
followed Dumarest to the gaming tables where men clustered around a wheel and dancing ball. The minimum stake
was too large for their resources.
"Drinks, sir and madam?" A waiter sidled to stand before them. Dumarest shook his head.
"Not yet. I am looking for a game I find amusing. Highest, lowest, man-in-between. Always before drinking, I
consult the Goddess of Luck."
The waiter understood; gamblers were superstitious. "Over to the left, sir. In the far corner." He followed them
with his eyes, wondering why the woman should wear cloak and helmet in the warmth of the bar. He shrugged.
Women, who could predict them? But, even so, it was odd.
 "The waiter is suspicious," said Dumarest as they crossed the floor. "He is watching us. We must act quickly." He
reached the table and stood looking at the cards. The dealer shuffled, cut, stacked and cut the deck into three.
Kalin touched her forehead as if easing an irritation.
"Center stack," said Dumarest. He put down all his money. "Match or set stake?"
"I'll match it," said a man. He set money on the left-hand stack. Another took the right. Dumarest won.
Again the dealer shuffled and cut. Employed by the house, he took little interest in the game which was run
mostly as a sop to those with little money and limited imagination. Kalin touched the helmet above her left ear.
Dumarest backed the winning deck.
And again.
The fourth time he picked up his winnings he shook his head. "This isn't going to last," he said. "I've got a feeling."
Kalin yawned, moved casually away, stared at a pair of bouncing dice.
Dumarest lost. And won. Then lost again.
He left the table, looked for the waiter and found him staring with interest at the girl. Ordering drinks, Dumarest
joined her where she watched a man trying to match a previous throw.
"Give me some money, darling," she said. "All of it that he makes his point the hard way," she said. The dice
rolled, settled, showed a pair of threes.
"The lady wins!" The stickman checked her bet and pushed over coins.
Dumarest shook his head as she gave it to him. "You keep it. You seem lucky tonight."
He followed her to the spinning wheel. A rainbow splotched a numbered cloth and colored balls spun in eye-
twitching confusion. A bell chimed.
"Bets!" called the spinner.
Coins thudded to the table.
"Red, green, blue, four, six, nine," panted a man. He was the kind of gambler the bar loved, backing an impossible
combination in the hope of winning astronomical odds.
Kalin shook her head. "No," she decided. "I can't make up my mind fast enough. I guess I don't know the
combinations as well as I should." They moved on to another wheel, a ball, nine compartments. "This is better."
The odds were lower but the chances of winning greater, and accumulating at five to one she quickly hit the limit.
Hit, stayed for a few spins, then deliberately lost a time or two.
Dumarest ordered more drinks.
"The lady seems lucky tonight, sir," said the waiter. "I have been watching. Good fortune attends her."
"And myself." Dumarest turned to look at where a touch of red glowed above a cloak striped in green and yellow.
As he watched she impatiently removed the helmet.
The waiter made a sound of appreciation. "Such hair!"
"As soft as silk to the touch," said Dumarest. His voice held a leer. "A strange prize to find on such a world. That is
why I claim myself fortunate."
He moved away and watched as Kalin won more money. Casually he turned, eyes moving over the rim of his
glass as he sipped his drink. Lowering it, his elbow collided with the girl, the contents of the glass dashing over his
clothes.
"Out," he said as she stooped to help him wipe away the sticky fluid. "Lose a couple of times, try another table
and lose again. Small amounts but steady. Win once and then quit."
"But, Earl we can't go wrong!"
"You've attracted attention. The housemen are watching. Get out before they guess you are a sensitive."
Outside with a wind blowing cold down the street she said, "We could have won a lot more, Earl."
"You're greedy," he said. "We did well. Be satisfied that they assumed you had a lucky streak. If nothing else,
we've retained the opportunity to try again." Halting before the impassive figure of the monk, Dumarest poured coins
into the bowl he carried for the collection of alms. It was a score the amount that he had borrowed. "My thanks to
you, Brother. We were fortunate."
Brother Vesta looked at the money, at the man and at the girl. "You are generous, brother. Many will have reason
to be thankful."
His eyes were brooding as he stared after the couple as they walked down the street.

Chapter Nine
Bertram Arsini, the mad artist from Xoltan, had built the statue and, finding it unsatisfactory, had put out his eyes
and ears so that he might no longer be tormented by the sight and sound of unattainable beauty. The High Monk of
the time had not been so critical. He had ordered the statue to be placed in an appropriate setting and now, a
millennium later, the work had yet to be equaled. Brother Jerome paused, looking up at the magnificent
representative of the human spirit. A woman, the external mother, stood on a ball of writhing flame. Her face was
upraised, her hands lifted, her body a composite of the ten most beautiful women of the artist's era. She was youth
and beauty and mature understanding. The girl with whom to play at love, the mother to whom to turn, the goddess
to worship.
A thousand shades of pigment stained the crystal of the hundred-foot construction. Ten thousand components
filled the solid-state interior. Radiation powered the electronic devices which kept the surface clean, bright and
shining. At night it glowed with a warm, inner light. At certain periods the crystalline fabrication distorted, producing
pizeo-electric signals causing the entire fabrication to vibrate in abstract, entrancing melody of pure tonal sequences.
A time-bell chimed from over the gardens and the High Monk continued on his way. Past ponds filled with
luminescent fish, flowers of a dozen planets, bushes bearing succulent fruits. The gardens of Hope were as famous as
the statue.
Brother Fran met him as he made his way toward the building. The secretary fell into step beside his superior,
hands clasped within the wide sleeves of his robe, head bent as he apparently studied the intricate mosaics of the
path.
Jerome sighed. Brother Fran had a way of communicating without words. "You have something to tell me," he
said. "What is it?"
"I do not wish to interrupt your meditation, Brother."
"I wasn't meditating," said Jerome. "I was simply walking and dreaming of the past and of things to come. That
statue, for example. Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps it holds a deeper significance than we realize? The
woman could be representing not the eternal mother but the human race itself. The human race bursting free from
the planet of its origin to reach out and touch the stars. To touch them and settle on them and to spread and grow."
"An old legend," said Brother Fran quietly. "In Arsini's time it was, perhaps, a little stronger than it is now. But I do
not think that he intended any such thing. He was an artist but he was also a mathematician and a man of logic. I find
it hard to believe that he could have ever taken such a legend seriously."
"Because of logic?"
"Yes. After all, how could it ever have been possible for all the members of the human race ever to have
originated on one small world? They breed, true, but the diversity of types, the skin-coloring and racial characteristics
—" He shook his head. "If the legend is true, it must have been a very strange world, Brother."
"Perhaps." Jerome didn't care to press the point. "My hour of relaxation over," he reminded. "What do you wish to
tell me?"
"We have news of the girl."
"The one Centon Frenchi claims is his daughter?"
"That is the one. She is on Chron."
Jerome frowned, looking at the mosaics but not seeing them, his mind busy with speculation.
"There can be no doubt as to the identification," continued the secretary. "She gave her name as Kalin of Solis. I
checked her physical characteristics with the biometer and her coloring substantiates her claim. Only on Solis do they
have such a peculiar shade of hair. They breed for it. It is unique to the planet."
"You go too fast, Brother," said Jerome mildly. "A girl who apparently originated on Solis is on Chron. She, also
apparently, matched the identification given us by Centon Frenchi of Sard. There appears to be an inconsistency. If
she was born on Solis how can she be the girl Frenchi is seeking?"
"Her maternal grandmother came from Solis," said Fran evenly. "We have already discussed the possibility of her
being an atavist. As for the rest, her name and planet, she could easily have lied."
Jerome frowned. He must be getting old to overlook the obvious, but there were so many details, so many things
to bear in mind, so many decisions to make.
"I have prepared a message for Centon Frenchi," said the secretary. "Informing him of what we have discovered.
With your permission I shall send it."
"Not yet." The High Monk looked up at the sky, at the statue, as a ripple of music sighed in crystalline perfection.
"There seems to be no need for undue haste. Is the girl alone?"
"There is a man with her. Earl Dumarest. Our information on him is favorable, though he does not belong to the
Church. He appears to have reason to hate the Cyclan."
"The Cyclan," murmured Jerome. "I wonder if—?"
Brother Fran was impatient. "You still do not trust Centon Frenchi, Brother? I fail to see your reason."
"Perhaps I have none," admitted the High Monk. "I could even be mistaken—what human is infallible? But there
is no need for haste. And I think," he added, "that we should know a little more than we do."
 "About the girl?"
"No, Brother," said Jerome quietly. "About Solis."

***

Kramm slammed his hand down on the table with force enough to make the goblets jump from the boards. "How
long?" he demanded. "How long must we wait before the cyber tells us just what to do in order to reverse the
downward swing of our fortunes?"
Komis poured a little wine, sipped, stared thoughtfully into the glass. His brother was impatient, but not wholly
without cause. Mede seemed to be working on some devious plan of his own. He had taken long journeys up and
down the coast, visiting other farms and establishments, sectioning the area and gathering an apparently unrelated
mass of data. Yet who could tell how the cyber went about his work?
Beer gurgled as Kramm manipulated the jug. Only he and the Master of Klieg remained at the table; the others
had long since gone to their rooms. Outside a wind gusted from the sea, cold, a harbinger of coming winter. Within
the great hall a fire leaped from an open grate. Kramm's goblet made a rapping noise as he set it on the polished
wood.
"He was right about one thing," he said gloomily. "The thren are getting out of hand. Fifteen mares within a week.
I've had the men clear the more distant pastures and concentrate the herd. I thought we should double the beak
bounty," he added. "It might make the men a little more eager to make a kill."
"I agree—but only if they are willing to pay for their cartridges," said Komis. "The fire rate per kill is already too
high. Double the bounty and it will get higher." He smiled a little. "Not everyone is as good a shot as you, my brother."
"And they will take wild chances," admitted Kramm. "Fill the air with lead and hope a thren runs into a bullet."
His hands tightened into fists. "What we need is a flier loaded with dust. The cyber was right in that if in nothing
else."
"A cyber is never wrong." Komis rose, walked down the hall to stand before the dancing colors of the fire. Kramm
joined him, thicker-set, younger, a pea from a similar pod. Their faces glowed with colored shadows. "Tomorrow I
want to ride out and select the best of our beasts. Reduce down to one third of our present holding. Save the
breeding stock, naturally, but the rest must go for sale."
The inhalation of Kramm's breath merged with the hiss of unburned gases from a crack in one of the logs. "Are
you serious?"
"I am."
"Is this the cyber's plan?" Kramm turned from the fire, eyes greenly surveying the empty hall. "Where is he
anyway? Back or off on one of his journeys?"
"In his room or somewhere about the house." Komis fell into step with his brother as Kramm paced the length of
the hall. "The plan is my own. If we cannot contain the depredations of the thren, and the cyber says we cannot, then
there is little point in working to provide food for the birds. Winter is approaching. That means we must supply shelter
and fodder for the beasts. The thren will increase their attacks."
"Destroy them," said Kramm bitterly. "Quickly, before they destroy us."
"How? With radioactives?" Komis shook his head. "There could be a better way. Professor Helman at the
university is working on a bacteriophage which could provide the answer. A selective strain of mutated disease which
will safely destroy the thren and no other kind of life. I have promised him the use of a dozen horses for developing
his serums."
"And the cyber?"
Komis looked at his brother. "I do not understand."
"Will he be willing to let you make your own plans, go your own way?"
"Cyber Mede is a guest," said the Master of Klieg. "I shall be grateful for any help he is pleased to offer, any
suggestions he may care to make. But there is only one master of this place and it is not the cyber."
Kramm blew out his cheeks. "I wanted to hear you say that. But the sale. Is it wise? Prices now are not at their
best."
"A living animal will fetch more than a dead one," said Komis evenly. "And we need the money. We need all the
money we can get."
"For Keelan?"
"Who else?"
Komis turned from his brother and left the hall. A passage led to his study, the book-lined room where he
conducted the affairs of the estate. Here were the records and rolls, the genealogical charts, the breeding details
traversing past generations of both animals and men. A radio vision communicator stood against a wall, incongruous
against the rough stone, the woven drapes, but normal enough on this world where everything which could be made
by hand was so constructed. Economy dictated the houses, the furnishings, the very clothing the people wore;
necessity the radiovision communicator, the electric lighting, the availability of a flier.
Files lay open on the desk, their neat figures telling a too familiar story. And yet how could they economize?
How?
Retrenchment wasn't enough, Komis knew. Economies would only stave off the inevitable. Making the resources
of a week last ten days would not solve the problem. They needed to earn more, not make do with less.
But, again, how?
Surely the cyber would know.

***

Komis found him in the place with the open side, the patio with pillars facing onto the sea, the open area filled
with the hum and drone of the wind, the scent and sound of the ocean as it tore at the rocks below.
Lights shone from the rooms behind, the one where the attendant sat, the one from which Komis emerged. He
stood, looking at the night, then saw a shifting gleam of scarlet, the glitter of the Cyclan seal emblazoned on the
cyber's robe. Mede's cowl shadowed his face so that only the scarlet was visible, a red shadow against the dark of the
sky. Then he moved and the light turned him into a living flame.
"My lord?"
"I was looking for you," said Komis. He stepped forward and the door closed behind him cutting off most of the
light. "I did not expect to find you here."
"Is it forbidden? I did not know, my lord. I followed a stair to the sound of the sea. But if this part of your house is
reserved for the family, then I shall leave immediately." Mede hesitated. "With your permission, my lord."
"Stay." There was no point in the cyber leaving now. "You have made many investigations," said Komis directly.
The time for delicacy was past. "I must ask if you have arrived at a decision."
Mede was precise. "I make no decisions, my lord. I advise, nothing more."
"And?"
"My lord?"
Komis was impatient. "Must we play with words? What do you advise me to do? How can I increase the fortune
of Klieg?"
"I think you misunderstand my purpose here, my lord." Mede's voice was a modulated accompaniment to the
gusting wind. "I cannot tell you what to do. I can only advise you as to the course of any action you may choose to
take. However I appreciate your concern, my lord. It cannot be easy for you to accept the fact that your people face
inevitable ruin."
Komis turned, saw a bench, sat on the cold stone. "Are you trying to frighten me, cyber?"
"For what purpose, my lord?" In the shadow of his cowl, Mede's shaven skull was a glimmering blur. Thin hands
tucked themselves into wide sleeves as the wind tugged at the scarlet fabric of his robe. "In all matters the Cyclan
remains neutral. I am a servant of the Cyclan."
"And so you also remain neutral." Komis drew a deep breath. "Tell me," he commanded. "I must know the worst."
"The income of your estate is limited," said Mede smoothly. "I have already warned of the result to be expected
from the depredations of the thren. But it is more than that. I have studied the figures, the land, the markets for the
past twenty years. Your people and dependents increase but your resources do not. Even so, you would have
managed on a gradually sliding curve until the position had been breached where you would solve the problem by the
use of other technologies. However, a short while ago something happened which accelerated the curve. Your
outgoings increased to the limit of income and beyond. You spent from capital, my lord. You entered into debt."
Komis moved restlessly on the bench.
"Your situation was delicate to begin with," continued the cyber. "It was as if your economy were balanced on the
edge of a knife. A little push to one side and it would fall. You gave it that push, my lord."
"I spent money," admitted Komis. "I borrowed money. But we have stock and land and men to work the land.
How can you talk of ruin?"
"A word with relative meanings," admitted the cyber. "Ruin to one could be fortune to another. But for you, my
lord, it means retrenchment, the loss of those who now give you loyalty, the sale of land and the loss of certain
expensive services you now enjoy."
Komis saw the movement of his eyes, the glitter as light from the room reflected from the pupils. "My sister."
"My lord?"
Komis rose, tall, hard. "You are talking of my sister when you talk of 'expensive services.' The physicians to
attend her, the life-support apparatus, the research to find a path to guide her back to health." And before that there
had been the endless stream of doctors, the time bought at the big medical computers, the tests and treatments, the
hope and disappointments, and, always, the expense, the expense. But what was the value of a sister's life?
Mede bowed. "I understand, my lord."
"Do you, cyber? I wonder if you can? If you are able?" Komis shook his head. The man was a guest! "I am sorry.
Some things disturb me and I speak without thinking. My sister has been ill for many years. She was, is, greatly
loved."
"With your permission, my lord, I would like to see her. We of the Cyclan are versed in medical matters."
"Are you a doctor?"
"No, my lord, but if I knew the full nature of her ailment it is barely possible that I could suggest some helpful
therapy."
Komis hesitated. Keelan was not to be exposed to the eyes of the curious and yet Mede could possibly be of use.
His mind did not work in the same way as other men's and he belonged to an organization which spanned the galaxy.
Cybers were to be found at every center of rule and learning. Perhaps—?
He shook his head. Tomorrow, he would think about it, but not now. Now the cyber would have to wait. As
Keelan had waited. As she was still waiting. Tomorrow was soon enough.

***

From his window Mede could see the roofs of the out-buildings, the top of the surrounding wall, the rolling scrub
of the downs beyond. To one side the path curved as it fell into the valley, invisible now as were the downs and the
wall, shielded in the clouded night. Only the roofs of the outhouses reflected the gleam from his window, the shifting
glow of the signal torch burning high above the gate.
Carefully he drew the curtains, the thick weave proof against a prying eye. The door was fastened with a wooden
bar which slid in wooden sockets. Thick, crude, but both simple to make and effective for its purpose. He engaged it
and touched the bracelet locked about his left wrist. Invisible forces flowed from the instrument and built a barrier
against any electronic device being able to focus in his vicinity. His privacy assured, Mede turned to the bed and lay
supine on the warm coverings. Above his eyes the roof bore paintings of animals and the details of a hunt.
Barbarism, he thought. When men lived close to the soil they seemed to share the attributes of the animals they
tended or slaughtered for food—forgetting the fined instruments of their brains in the urges of the flesh. It was a
mistake no cyber could ever make.
Relaxing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formula. Gradually he lost the senses of taste,
smell, touch and hearing. Had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Divorced of external stimuli his brain
ceased to be irritated, gained tranquility and calm, became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness the only
thread with normal existence. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements become active. Rapport was almost
immediate.
Mede expanded with vibrant life.
No two cybers had the same experience. For Mede it was as if he walked over a field resplendent with flowers
and each flower was the shining light of truth. His feet sank into the field so that he was a part of it, sharing the same
massed and intertwining roots of the flowers, intermeshed inextricably with the filaments which stretched across the
universe to infinity. He saw it and was a part of it, as it was a part of him. The flowers were part of a living organism
which filled the galaxy and he also was a similar flower.
And, at the heart of the system, a swelling node in the complex of interengaged minds, was the headquarters of
the Cyclan. Buried deep beneath miles of rock on a lonely planet, the central intelligence absorbed his knowledge as
a sponge would absorb water from a pool of dew. There was no verbal communication—only mental communion,
quick, almost instantaneous organic transmission against which even ultra-radio was the merest crawl.
"Your area the one with the highest index of probability. Concentrate on determination of true data to the
exclusion of all else. Speed is of the utmost urgency."
Mede framed a suggestion. "Isolating of time factor could have high relevancy. Cross-checking with medical
facilities in area could confirm prediction."
"Confirmation will follow. Immediate action is to determine probability and to take full action to safeguard as
previously instructed. Emphasize the necessity for speed. On no account will failure be tolerated. Matter most
important."
That was all.
The rest was pure, mental intoxication.
Always, after rapport had been broken, was this period when the Homochon elements sank into quiescence and
the machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental control. Mede hovered in a dark nothingness, a pure
intelligence untrammeled by the limitations of the body, sensing strange memories and unexperienced situations.
Shards and scraps of mental overflow from other intelligences. The idle discard from other minds. It was the overflow
power of central intelligence, the radiated thoughts of the tremendous cybernetic complex which was the heart of
the Cyclan.
One day, if he proved himself, he would become a living part of that gigantic intelligence. His body would age
and his senses dull but his brain would remain as active as ever. Then the technicians would take him, remove his
brain, fit it into a vat of nutrient fluids and attach the tubes and instruments of a life-support apparatus. He would join
the others, his brain hooked in series with the rest.
He would be a part of, and yet the whole of, a complex of a vast number of brains. An organic computer working
continuously to solve the secrets of the universe.
An intelligence against which there could be no resistance.

Chapter Ten
On Chron, winter was a tiger, lurking, dangerous. The winds came blustering down from the icy mountains, harsh
and loaded with the chemical fumes released from the fused magma of the mines. The sleet held acid which burned
unprotected skin and caused painful rashes and sores. Food grew even more scarce, as did fuel. Men huddled around
the smelters, risking asphyxiation for the sake of warmth, almost hoping to be caught by the rare patrols of company
guards— for, enslaved, they would be fed.
Dumarest grew leaner, harder as he scoured the countryside; then one morning Kalin woke screaming.
"Steady!" Dumarest moved quickly to her side. He wore a thick cloak and his body was huge by reason of the
rags bound about his body over his normal clothing. "It's all right," he soothed. "There's nothing to worry about."
"Earl!" She clung to him. "Earl, don't go!"
Gently he disengaged her arms from around his neck. A metered fire stood against the wall. He fed coins into the
slot and threw the switch. Beam heat warmed the bed, the area around it. A hotplate provided heat to boil coffee.
Through the window shone the false light of early dawn.
He waited until the coffee had boiled, added sugar, handed the girl a cup and took one himself. "We went through
all this last night," he said. "I've got to go out again with Arn and the others. You know why."
"No," she protested. "I don't know why." She sat upright in bed, her hair a glowing waterfall in the red warmth of
the fire. Traveler-fashion, she was fully dressed against the cold, against thieves and the possible need to get up and
run. Here in this hotel room there was no real need for such caution but Dumarest didn't object.
She might, he thought bleakly, have need of such teaching later on.
He sipped his coffee and sat enjoying the taste and warmth. Soon enough he would be where both were almost
unobtainable. "Kalin," he said. "You promised me not to look ahead."
She was stubborn. "I agreed, I didn't promise. And why shouldn't I see what is going to happen?"
"Because it makes you wake screaming," he said quietly. "Because you can't be sure of what you see." He sipped
again, staring at her over the edge of the cup. "What did you see?"
"Pain," she said. "And blood. And you all hurt."
"But you can't tell exactly when," he said. "Or where. Or how. That is why I ask you not to look. Not to attempt to
scan our futures. Some things we don't need to know. Some things, knowing, we cannot avoid. I don't want to go out
on a hunt knowing that I'm going to be hurt. The mere fact of knowing could make it certain." It was getting too
involved. He swallowed the last of his coffee and put away the cup. "I'd better get moving. The others will be waiting."
"Let them wait." Woman-like, she was indifferent to the comfort of others when a problem filled her mind. "Why,
Earl?" she insisted. "Why do you have to go out at all? We can make enough money at the gambling tables to live in
relative comfort. We could make enough to buy us passage away from here. Why can't we just do that?"
Dumarest was cold. "You're talking like a fool and you know it. They suspect you're a sensitive and only tolerate
us playing because we've enough sense to be content with small winnings and because we make a good
advertisement. If we went out for a killing you'd find they'd bar our bets. If we managed to force them to pay they
would have men waiting for us outside. Knowing what's going to happen doesn't always mean you can avoid it. Chron
is a small place as far as we're concerned. We couldn't hope to hide."
He smiled at her taut face, brushed the tips of his fingers over her white cheek.
"Look," he said. "Let's be sensible. You've got money, somewhere safe to live, heat and food when you want it.
Gambling has provided that, and with luck, will continue to provide it."
"Then why go out?" she said again. "Why risk your life? You could wind up like Crin. Lying helpless with a broken
back. You don't have to help his brothers find money for a healing operation." She clung to him. "Earl! Don't go! You
don't have to!"
He gripped her arms. "I do."
"But why? Why?"
"Because we're in a trap!" He moved his grip to her wrists and caught the scent of her hair as he pulled free of her
arms. "We're stranded, girl, can't you understand? There's no free work here, no way to earn enough money to buy a
passage. We could steal it, but the company uses scrip, has guards and checks the field. We can't win it—not with you
suspected of being a sensitive. So we have to make it. What other way is there than by hunting a zardle and hoping to
find a zerd?"
She was stubborn. "A Low passage wouldn't cost all that much."
"Sure," he admitted. "If I wore the collar for a year, didn't spend a penny of my pay, didn't gamble or drink or run
up any bills for food or clothing I might just about manage it. Of course there would be the interest charges on the
money I'd borrowed but a second year should take care of that." He leaned toward her, smiling. "Will you wait for me,
Kalin?"
"Forever, Earl." Her eyes met his and he knew that she wasn't joking. "I'd wait until the sun went out."
"I wouldn't let you." He rose, huge in the warm glow of the fire, almost shapeless because of the padding. "I
couldn't be without you that long."
"Thank you, darling, for saying that."
"I mean it." He stooped, kissed her, tasted the heaven of her lips. "Don't worry," he said quietly. "I'll get you out of
here."
Then he was gone and she sat alone in the bed, seeing a succession of images, pictures of the future. She fought
the screams which, born of fear, rose in futile negation.

***

Arn shuffled his feet in the freezing dust. "You're late," he said.
"So I'm late." Dumarest looked over the assembled knot of men. "Have you got the nets? The other stuff ?"
"It's all here."
Dumarest checked the group. Arn, Haran and his brother Wisar, five others—a total of nine. Too many, perhaps.
Three men with lasers would have been more efficient: one to tend camp, one to cover and one to hunt. But three
men wouldn't have been able to transport the meat—they would have killed for fun, not food.
As the company officials did during the fine weather. Killing for the sake of it, hoping to be rewarded with a zerd
but rarely finding any. Dumarest thought he knew why.
"All right," he said, lifting his voice. "Before we start let's get a couple of things straight. Kalin has supplied the
nets and supplies so she gets two shares. Arn, Haran and Wisar know the prey and terrain so they get a share and a
half. I get the same. Any objections?"
A man coughed. "That applies to everything? Head, skin and tails?"
"Everything," said Dumarest. "Including any zerds we may find. Kalin gets a double share. Agreed?"
Breath plumed in white vapor as they nodded.
"The other thing is that I'm in full charge," said Dumarest. "What I say goes. If you don't like it you can walk away
now. Try walking away later and I'll cut you down." He looked at their strained faces. "We're not coming back empty-
handed on this trip," he said. "We're going to stay out until we get something worth getting. All in favor?"
"Suits me," said a man. The rest added their agreement.
Dumarest nodded to Arn. "Right," he said. "Let's check the padding and start moving."
At first the going was easy, long slopes rising up from the village. The path led between the landing field and the
smelter. On the field stood ships; lines of men like ants loading their bellies with metal, trotting to the cracking whips
of overseers. Above the smelter shone the red glow of electronic fire, the swirling clouds of released fumes shot with
streaks of burning as combustible gases reached flash-point. Well away from both smelter and field, the gaudy
bubbles of Hightown shone almost iridescent in the weak light of a late dawn.
Haran looked at them and spat. "Warmth," he said. "Comfort. Running water. Good food and clean clothing. Soft
beds and soap and piped music—and my brother is lying in frozen filth!"
"It's the system," said Lough. He was one of the new men and grunted as he shifted the weight of his pack.
"Some have and a lot haven't. It's always been the same."
"It always will be," said another morosely. "Like eating, sleeping, getting born, dying. It's a law of nature."
"Like hell it is!" Wisar glowered at the bubbles. "Maybe we should change that law," he said tightly. "Go in there
and take a little of what we need and they can't use. When I think of Crin—!"
 "How is he?" said Lough. "Still no improvement?"
"There won't be until he gets a section-transplant." Wisar tore his eyes from the bubbles and looked directly
ahead. "He can move his head and arms but that's about all. At that he's lucky. If it hadn't been for Earl buying
treatment to neutralize the zardle poison he'd have died long ago."
"No, he wouldn't," corrected Haran. "He'd be walking about alive and well—but we'd both be wearing a collar for
life." He paused as the track divided. One branch curved to run down into a shallow valley, the other pointed to where
mountains loomed in the far distance. "Which way, Am? Left or right?"
"To the mountains," said Arn, and then as Haran headed right—"Two for one's a bad exchange. The way things
are you've all got a chance to get away from here fit and free."
Wisar was bitter. "If we're lucky. If we find a zerd. If it's big enough so that our share will pay for Crin's operation.
If we can have money over for three Low passages. That's a lot of 'ifs,' Arn."
"It's half of what Crin would have had to worry about if you'd sold yourselves and he had to buy you free of the
collar." Arn looked back at the village, at Lowtown beyond. "How about that? Are they willing to operate without you
selling out?"
"Sure," said Haran. "Why not? They set the price and we have to pay it. If we had the cash there would be no
problem."
Dumarest could appreciate the unconscious irony. If they had cash none of them would have any problems. He
called out as one of the men forged ahead.
"Bernie! Slow down!"
The man halted, waited for the others to come abreast. He was a tall, thin man with a peaked face and anxious
eyes. A new arrival impatient to get a stake and be on his way. "Why slow down?" he demanded. "It's cold. Keep
moving fast and you get warm."
"You also start to sweat," said Dumarest. "In this weather that can be fatal. You slow down." He explained: "The
sweat freezes and you get coated with a film of ice. Hypothermia can kill as surely as a bullet. So just remember not
to move so fast that you start to sweat."
"But we want to get there," protested the man. "Get on with the job."
"We'll get there," promised Dumarest. "And when we do you'll have reason to sweat. In the meantime just do as I
say. Understand?"
Bernie swallowed. "Sure, Earl," he said. "I understand."

***

The path veered further to the right, heading to where the giant power piles poured a flood of energy into the
mining complex. In the lower regions of the mountains machines gouged holes in the frozen dirt, laid man-thick
cables, ripped ducts and vents from the buried ore. Power, created by the tremendous wash of eddy-currents, fused
the buried minerals, freed the metal, sent it gushing through the vents into waiting molds.
From the release-ducts columns of lambent gases rose shrieking toward the sky—billowing in a corrosive cloud
of searing chemicals. The rising columns caused winds to blow into the area, filling the gap left by the rising mass of
heated air. Convection currents sent the great masses of atmosphere swirling, shedding their water content in a
clammy mist which clung to the ground like a reeking gas.
In the heat and hell of poisoned fog collared men sweated and coughed and screamed as vagrant gusts drove
living steam against wincing flesh.
Others crouched behind protective shields as white-hot metal gushed into molds, splashing searing droplets, or
worse, seething in baffled fury behind temporary blockages. When that happened men had to run with long rods to
poke and clear away the obstructing mass before the trapped devil behind could erupt into unwanted paths.
Heat and smoke and dazzling fire. Corrosive gases and blistering steam. The ever-present risk of dying beneath a
gush of molten metal, of having flesh seared from the bone, of being cooked alive. The place was a living hell. At
times the eddy-currents veered—blasting the area with invisible but all-consuming death.
The mines of Chron were not noted for their gentleness.
"Look at it," commanded Dumarest. He stood on the slope of a mountain, facing the swirling mass of gas and
vapor, the flaming discharge and incessant lightning of the manmade storm. "Take a good look. That's what we're all
trying to avoid."
A man shuffled his feet on the frozen dust. "You don't have to convince us, Earl. We all know what it's all about."
"Out here you do," admitted Dumarest. "But back in Lowtown? I've heard the whispering. Wear a collar and live
easy. When you're cold and freezing and half-starved such talk is tempting. Soft beds, good food, medical attention.
The easy life." He lifted an arm and pointed toward the mine. "Well, there it is. All of it. Remember it when we're
facing a zardle. When you might feel tempted to let go the net, run maybe, decide there are easier ways of getting
something to eat." He dropped his arm. "All right," he said. "You've seen it. Now let's get moving."
They marched all through the long, freezing day, plunging deeper into the heart of the mountains, following
narrow, almost invisible trails made an unguessable time ago. More often than not there were no trails and Arn led
the way cautiously, watching for hidden traps and dangerous sections. Apparently solid rock yielded to the impact of
a boot. As they marched, they snatched up clumps of the thorny scrub for later use as fuel. As the sun vanished
beneath the horizon Dumarest called a halt.
"We'll camp here," he decided. "There are rock walls to reflect the heat of a fire, nothing hanging above to fall on
us, a narrow ledge leading up to and beyond this point. You and you." He pointed to two men. "Go a hundred yards
down the trail to each side. Set up a trip wire and an alarm. Bernie, gather rocks to build a fire. Lough, you start
breaking the scrub into small pieces."
An hour later they sat around the glowing embers of a fire, internally warmed by hot food and scalding coffee. A
wind droned and gusted past the sheltered spot, lifting little flurries of glowing ash from the fire.
Arn threw more scrub on the fire, the seared tissue of his cheek glistening in the leaping brightness. Bernie called
from where he sat with his back against a rock, feet thrust toward the blaze. His boots were shabby, torn, rags filling
the gaps. "When are we going to get down to work?"
Arn shrugged, looked at Dumarest. "Ask Earl," he said. "He's the man in charge."
"That's right," said Dumarest. Firelight shone on a circle of faces, reflected from watching eyes. "We're after
zerds," he said. "To get them I figure we have to go where they're to be found. Now the normal method of hunting
seems to be to go out, find a zardle, hit it and hope. With luck you get the head, skin and tail and some meat besides
without losing a man in the process. More often than not, someone gets injured. Now and again you find a zerd. Not
often, just enough to keep others using the same system. I think it's wrong."
"It's wrong because the hunters are trusting too much to luck. Luck that they find a zardle at all. Luck that they
don't get hurt. Luck that they find a zerd. Usually it's bad luck. There's a reason for it, of course. The nets are on hire.
The men are hungry and eager for food. They go out mostly in the summer when there is more plentiful game. Wrong
again. The time to hunt is now when the weather is against the beasts. The cold will slow them down and they'll have
to stick close to where they can feed. That means they'll be close together."
"Easier for us," said Lough thoughtfully. "I haven't hunted before but you make sense. That right, Arn?"
The scarred man nodded. "That's right. I've figured this all out for myself, but I couldn't get enough cash together
to buy supplies to try it. Now we've got supplies, nets, all we need. If we don't get a zerd this trip I'll sell myself to the
mines!"
"We'll find them," said Dumarest. "It's a matter of picking the right beasts. Mostly the hunters run into young
ones, those driven off the territory of the older males. A zerd takes time to grow. Sometimes the young ones have
them, but mostly they don't. I'm betting that the situation is reversed among the older zardles." He put out a hand,
stopped Lough from adding more fuel to the fire. "Save it for the morning. We've a heavy day ahead." He raised his
voice. "Get some sleep now. I'll stand the first watch. I'll awaken one of you in an hour."
He picked up one of the spears they had brought with them. A scrap length of pipe, six feet long, the end
hammered so as to grip a point of glass pressure-flaked to razor point and edge. It was crude but effective: a thrust in
a soft region would penetrate and rip as if it had been tempered steel.
Leaning on it, Dumarest stood guard, listening to the gust and sigh of the wind, the faint rattles coming from
stones shaking in cans attached to the trip-wires, the heavy breathing and snores of fatigued men.

Chapter Eleven
He woke, rising through layers of ebon chill, mentally counting seconds as he had done so often when traveling
Low. Counting as the drugs took effect, the pulmotor forced his lungs and heart into rhythm, the eddy currents
warmed the frozen solidity of his flesh and blood. He almost felt the heady euphoria of resurrection. Then Dumarest
opened his eyes.
The fire was a dull ember casting a dim glow over the rocks, the shapes of sleeping men. To one side the guard
leaned against a wall, his spear propped close at hand. Dumarest frowned and raised himself on one elbow.
Something rattled in the darkness: the jangle of pebble-loaded cans strung on the trip wire down the trail.
Dumarest sprang to his feet, shouting, "Up! Up, all of you! On guard!"
It came as he stopped to snatch his spear and throw dried twigs on the fire. A head, gaping, fangs gleaming in the
rising flicker of firelight, eyes deeply set and redly wicked. Spines crested the sloping skull and scales made a metallic
shimmer on the rippling hide.
 "A zardle!" said Arn. "A young one—but hungry!"
Eight feet long, two high, it rushed forward on taloned legs, mouth gaping, barbed tail lashing with the bone-
snapping fury of a whip. The guard screamed as it smashed him against the rock, screamed again as it whipped
across his throat, then fell.
"Haran! Wisar! Get to its side! Lough! Bernie! Get on its back and smash its spine!" Arn swore as the tail lashed at
the injured guard. Cloth and padding flew beneath the impact. "The damn fool! He must have been asleep!"
Dumarest snatched a bunch of flaming twigs from the fire and ran toward the hissing beast. It turned as he lashed
at the eyes, mouth gaping to show gleaming fangs, ejecting a gust of noisome gas from its stomach. From above, the
tip of its tail came whining down toward its tormentor. Dumarest jumped back as the barbs ripped his cloak.
"Watch it!" yelled Arn. "That damn tail can hit from any direction. Lough!" he called again. "Bernie! What the hell
are you waiting for!"
Shadows danced as they rushed in. Men scampered: darting toward the beast, dodging the whiplash of the tail,
stabbing with their spears and smashing down with axes. The scaled hide was tough and the beast quick on its clawed
feet. It turned, hissing; turned again as two men managed to grab the tail while others smashed at the base of its
spine.
"Quick!" Arn was sweating, his scarred face that of a demon. "Kill it before it can recover! Before it can get free!"
More men grabbed the tail. Others beat at the skull as it rose, bending backward so as to rip at the men with its
fangs, the amazingly flexible spine permitting the creature to twist itself in any direction.
Dumarest plunged his spear into the exposed throat. He ripped it free; struck again as the head came down,
blood gushing from the lacerated tissue. Fangs snapped at his leg, tore padding, snapped again as Arn came rushing
forward with a great stone-bladed ax in his hands. He swung it, using the full force of back and shoulder muscles. The
chipped edge of the stone bit into hide and bone. He tore it loose and swung again, lips thinned with desperation. His
aim was good. The blade hit where it had before and buried itself in mass of blood and brain.
The zardle gave one convulsive twitch, then lay still.
"The skull!" someone babbled. "Damn it, Arn, you smashed the skull!"
Dumarest walked over to the guard as Arn dug his fingers into the ruin of the skull. The man was dead, his face
lying in a pool of blood. He continued down the trail and reset the trip wire. Arn looked at him as he rejoined the
hunter by the dead beast.
"Anything?"
"The guard's dead. I've reset the wire. Nothing else."
"Nothing here either," said Arn. He wiped his hands on the rags binding his legs. "The damn guard fell down on
the job," he said. "Well, he deserved what he got. If it hadn't been for you the thing might have killed us all." He stood,
brooding. "We'll strip him," he decided. "Share out what he's got. No sense in letting it go to waste."
"Nor this," said Dumarest. He kicked at the dead beast. "We can start a meal and have some left over. I'll get on
with it while you attend to the dead man."
The heavy stone ax opened the carcass and hacked through the major joints. Knives finished the skinning, cut out
the bones and internal organs. Men gathered snow and ice from the upper rocks, piled it into the skin together with
chopped-up sections of tail, the soft brain, tongue and other organs. They lifted the primitive cauldron to a support
made of lashed spears hanging over a fire fed with fresh bone.
The flames rose, charred the skin, caused it to smoke and fuse on the outside, but could not burn through it—not
while the water within kept the temperature below its flash point.
"By hell!" said a man later as he finished his stew. "Ain't nature wonderful? It provides meat, a cooking pot and
fuel all in one piece." He reached out his bowl. "Say, Bernie, any more of that tail left in there?"
"Sure," said Bernie.
"And tongue? I favor the tongue," said Lough.
"There's plenty for all," said Bernie. He smacked his lips. "Man," he said with feeling. "This is what I call real,
honest-to-God eating!"
He grinned as he fished out a tender fragment of brain.

***

Two days later they came to a broken expanse of shattered rock and splintered stone ringing a scrub-covered
declivity high in the mountains. A bowl scooped out among the soaring peaks and crags, sheltered from the winds
and storm. A crust of snow clung to the dirt and scrub. Ice hung from the rocks above, looking like a cluster of
threatening swords.
Dumarest crawled cautiously to the edge of the bowl and stared down. The sun was low on the horizon, the place
full of shadows, and his breath plumed as he watched.
"Anything?" Arn crawled up beside him, scarred face red and angry from the cold. He lifted a rag to cover his
mouth and nose and block the vapor from his eyes. "Could be anything down there," he mused. "In among those
shadows. Ten, twenty, even more. We wouldn't see them until they rushed us."
"No," said Dumarest.
"One zardle's bad enough," said the hunter. "Two is one too many. More is straight suicide."
He squinted down into the declivity. "Let's hope your plan works."
The nets were of alloy mesh with a breaking strain of several tons, the mesh three inches square. Their normal
use was to enmesh a beast while the hunters stabbed and hacked it to death. Sometimes the nets broke and more
often the men let go, allowing a raging beast to wreak havoc among their numbers.
Dumarest had a different plan.
"We'll select a zardle," he said. "An old one. We'll snare it in the nets and then we'll leave it while we go after
another. When we've caught as many as we've nets to hold, we'll go back to the first one. By then its struggles may
have exhausted it. We'll open an artery and let it bleed to death."
"Simple," said Haran. He looked at Arn. "Why didn't you ever think of that?"
A scowl puckered the scar on the hunter's cheek. "How often have you seen a group of zardles?" he demanded.
"And how often has anyone been able to supply more than a minimum number of nets? Of course I've thought of it,"
he stormed. "On Jec we used to hunt that way all the time. But the men knew how to take orders there. They weren't
crazy to see blood, to search for a zerd." He looked at Dumarest. "How do we operate? In two parties?"
"You take Bernie, Lough and Wisar," said Dumarest. "I'll take the rest. Now remember, only go after a big one.
Don't waste time on anything that's obviously young. Don't be sparing with the nets—I'd rather keep one than lose
two. And don't injure them," he added. "Don't spill any blood. I don't want the scent to frighten the others."
"You've hunted before," said Haran as they moved from the other group. "I never thought I'd see anyone who
could tell Arn his business."
"I wasn't telling him," said Dumarest. "I was telling everyone. Reminding you all of what you may have forgotten.
Now be quiet," he said to the group in general. "Don't talk and don't make any noise. Follow me and watch for my
signals."
The scrub was thick in the bowl, the spined bushes growing higher than a man's head, intertwining so as to
present an almost solid barrier at times. But paths wended through it where the beasts had forced a passage.
Dumarest followed them, warily, checking when they came to a junction or emerged into an area of sparse growth.
He paused and listened. From the left came the soft rustle of the other party, sounding as if a wind rippled the
tips of the bushes. From the right he could hear a regular medley of moving and tearing. He lifted his arm, pointed,
stabbed twice with his finger, once to either side. Haran and one of the other men fanned out to cover the flanks. The
fourth man stayed close behind Dumarest. He carried a spear while the rest held nets positioned, ready to throw.
Dumarest waited until everyone was in position, then stepped toward the grumbling noises. They grew louder as
he approached, then suddenly fell silent. Stepping past a clump of scrub, Dumarest stared directly at a zardle.
The thing had been eating; the regular sound had been that of the mechanical champing of its jaws. It was big,
fully thirty feet from nose to tip of vicious tail. The scaled hide had a peculiar dull sheen as of the patina on bronze.
Immediately it saw Dumarest: it attacked.
Dirt flew from beneath its clawed feet. The tail lashed up and over the spined head, slashing at the man before it.
The mouth gaped, letting fall a fragment of thorned scrub, blasting a fetid odor.
Dumarest sprang to one side, hurled the net, snatched another as it fell over the head and tip of tail. He shook it
out, poised and threw the glittering mesh. It sailed in a seemingly slow circle before settling almost on the other. Two
more fell over the beast as Haran and the other man came running. Hissing, straining at the mesh, threshing with
savage fury, the zardle was hopelessly trapped. Only the clawed feet and tip of the tail could move and then only for a
few inches.
"All right," said Dumarest. "Let's get another."
The second was almost a repetition of the first and if anything was easier. They caught the beast from behind as
it walked along one of the paths. A net thrown before it enmeshed its feet. A second entangled the back legs. Two
others took care of head and tail.
Haran wiped his face, smiling. "Two," he gloated. "No trouble, no one lost, not even a scratch. Even if we don't
find a zerd the trip hasn't been a waste." He looked to one side at the sound of a rustle. "That must be the others. We
might as well join them."
Without nets there was nothing more they could do. Dumarest nodded. "We'll stay together from now on. Camp
maybe and let the beasts lose their strength. Then we'll butcher and pack." He looked at the sky. "It'll be dark soon.
We'd better hurry."
 The rustle sounded again, faded away as they moved toward it. Dumarest took up the rear, Haran just ahead, the
two other men before him. They broke into a run at the sound of shouts and yells. There was a hissing and a man
screamed in pain.
"Wisar!" Haran lunged ahead, turned, snarling as Dumarest caught his cloak. "My brother! Let go, you—!" He tore
free, lunged after the others, crashing through the scrub. Dumarest followed, protecting his face from the spines with
uplifted arms. A second scream echoed as he burst into a clearing.
Before him stood nightmare.
It was big, vast—a creature from a prehistoric nightmare. The scaled hide was dull brown and green rippling on a
fifty-foot frame, the head six feet above the ground. It hissed like a steam engine and the stench of its breath filled the
air. Off to one side a smaller zardle lay struggling in a mesh of nets. Two men lay on the rocky soil—one broken,
obviously dead, lying with his face in a pool of blood.
"Wisar!" Haran surged forward, struggled as Dumarest gripped him, held him back. "Earl! That's my brother!"
"No, it isn't," snapped Dumarest. "Wisar wore a scarlet cloak in bands. That's in stripes. Bernie wore it."
Bernie, who had chuckled as he ate a zardle's brain.
"Where's Arn? Wisar?" Haran relaxed and Dumarest dropped his hands. "I can't see them anywhere. Can you? I
—?" He broke off as the monstrous creature moved. "Down!"
Air whined as the tail lashed forward, hit a man, lifted him and threw him a broken bundle of rags into the
clearing. His companion yelled and ran to where a spear lay on the ground.
"Come back, you fool!" Dumarest half-climbed to his feet, crouched, watching.
The man reached the spear, snatched it up and ran back toward the edge of the clearing. The rocky soil quivered
as the monster lunged toward him. He twisted his head, screaming as the beast approached, tripping so that the spear
flew from his hand as he hit the ground. Jaws gaped, closed, opened again to reveal red-stained teeth, red-stained
rags.
"God!" Haran retched. "It bit him in half ! Bit him right in half !"
Dumarest ducked as the tail swung again, cutting the spined scrub as a boy would lop a flower-head with a stick.
"Arn!" he called. "Wisar!"
"Over here!" An arm waved from the circling scrub. "We got a zardle," shouted the hunter. "Netted it and were
walking away when its mate arrived. Bernie and Lough got it right away. We managed to run and hide out in the
scrub. I figured on meeting up with you so we could tackle it together. You got any nets?"
"No," yelled Haran. "Have you?"
"Some. Enough I think if we use them right. Do we get together?"
Dumarest lifted his head, shouted across the clearing. "No. If you try it and the thing attacks we wouldn't stand a
chance. This way we can get at it from two directions. Get your nets ready. We'll distract it and you move in. Right?"
"When you're ready."
"Now!" Dumarest rose, sprang forward and picked up the spear. He ran toward the beast, gesturing with the
weapon, shouting. "Run to the right, Haran. Confuse it but watch for the tail. Now, Arn! What the hell are you waiting
for?"
He heard the whine of air and sprang as the tail swept beneath him, whiplashed; jumped again as it swept back. A
red eye glowed as the head turned. He aimed for it, flung the spear, grunted as the poorly balanced weapon glanced
from a spined plate of horny armor. Again the tail lashed out. It hit the heel of his boot as he jumped, numbing his
leg. Light glittered from the air as Wisar flung his net. It fell over the head, dropped to the ground. Another followed
it, falling over the head, entangling one front leg. A third caught as the beast tried to charge. The force of its own
effort sent it crashing to the ground.
"We've done it!" yelled Arn. "By God we've done it!"
He yelled again as the tip of the tail slammed against him, knocking him to the dirt, smashing the air from his
lungs. Only the padding he wore saved him from being lacerated to the bone.
"More nets," said Dumarest. "Get more nets on the tail."
"We haven't got any," called Wisar. "We'll have to finish it off the hard way." He ran forward carrying an ax. "If I
can just get one good chop at the spine—"
Dumarest ran forward and scooped up the spear. Again he dodged the tail and ran close to the head. The only
way to finish the beast now was to puncture an artery and let it spill its life and strength on the ground. It had killed
four men. That was more than enough.
He poised the spear and struck. The crude blade turned from the thick hide. He poised it again, gripped with both
hands and drove it into the throat with the full energy of his body. A fountain of blood followed the spear as he tore it
from the wound. He poised it for a second blow, then heard Haran's screamed warning.
"Earl! The tail! The tail!"
 He jumped to one side and felt the barbs rip at his cloak. He looked as it rose, judged time and distance, jumped
again as it swept down. Jumped—and felt his foot slip on the spilled blood, saw the sky and the thin whip of the tail,
saw it lash toward his face.
Felt it strike with the brutal, stunning impact of a club.
Felt the savage barbs tear into the flesh of his eyes.

***

Somewhere a metronome was busy at work. Tock! Tock! Tock! Tock! Tock! Tock!
Dumarest relaxed, listening, wondering as to its rhythm. Too slow for a heartbeat, he decided, and too fast for
minutes. An odd thing, he thought. One more odd thing to add to the rest. Why was he lying in bed between crisp
sheets, for example. Why could he smell the unmistakable odor of a hospital? Why was he bandaged about the face?
Why couldn't he see?
See?
Memory came rushing back on a thousand taloned feet.
He couldn't see because he was blind.
Blind!
BLIND!
He heard again the whispering voices as he swam up from darkness to a red-tinted hell of pain.
"Is he dead?" Wisar's voice, strained, worried.
"No, but it would be better if he was." Arn, coldly detached.
"I've heard you talk this way before." Haran, harshly gruff. "When Crin got hurt you wanted to leave him, pass
him out easy. One day someone might do just that to you."
"They'd be doing me a favor. We'd be doing him one. Do you think he wants to sit around in the dark with a bowl,
begging for his food? A man like Earl?"
A movement, the sharp hiss of indrawn breath, Haran's voice. "God! Look at his face! His eyes!"
"It's three days hard walking to get back to the village. We'd have to guide him every step of the way. More, we'd
have to carry him, but that isn't the problem. He's been lashed with zardle poison. We haven't got an antidote. In a
few hours he'll be going crazy with pain. In a week he'll be dead anyway. What's the point in letting him suffer?"
Wisar spoke from one side. "He deserves his chance. We owe him that for Crin. He helped when he didn't have to.
You're with me in this, Haran. Our brother owes his life to this man. We can't forget that."
"But he's going to die anyway… His woman might be able… leave it at that then… chance… try… owe it to him."
A mounting cacophony of blurred and meaningless voices drowned out by the pain of his lacerated eyes, the
pain of his mental awareness, the searing agony of the nerve poison already at work.
And then nothing but pain, pain, pain and screaming agony going on and on and on…
Dumarest stiffened, nails digging into his palms, forcing himself to be calm. That pain and madness belonged to
the past. It was over now. Done with. Only one thing remained.
He was blind.
Blind and stranded.
The blindness in itself was nothing. Eyes could be repaired or replaced, but not without money. And he had no
money, and without eyes, no hope of getting any.
Blind!
He heard the opening of a door, the scuff of feet, the blurred sounds of voices. Someone stood beside him and
he felt the touch of cold metal. A snipping sound as scissors cut away the bandage. A glow of brightness, a sudden
flood of light.
He could see! See!
"A first-class job." The doctor wore green and sported a small beard. Light flashed from an instrument in his
hand. He clucked in self-satisfaction. "Perfect! As good a pair of eyes as anyone could wish." He snapped off the light,
straightened, put away the instrument. "You're a lucky man," he said to Dumarest. "In more ways than one. The blow
wasn't serious as it might have been; apparently you blocked most of it with a spear you were carrying. The eyes
were ruined, true, but not so badly that we didn't have all the tissue we needed to grow replacements. You must have
incredible fortitude and you have good friends. They carried you lashed in a zardle skin, your hands bound so that
you couldn't tear out your eyes. The pain you must have suffered—" He shrugged. "I don't suppose you want to
remember that. But your eyes are all right now. You are as fit as we can make you. And," he ended, "you have a
visitor. I guess you want to see her alone."
She had reclaimed the golden tunic and wore it with a proud defiance, aware of her beauty and aware of what the
golden fabric did for it. Her hair was a blazing mass of rippling fire. Emeralds shone in her eyes.
"Earl!"
She was warm and soft and wonderful against the bare flesh of his arms and torso. Perfume wafted from her hair,
accentuated her femininity. Around his body her arms were like steel.
"Darling! I was worried," she said. "So worried. But everything's all right now."
"Tell me."
"They brought you back, Arn and the two brothers. They made a pact with each other. If they found nothing they
would have killed you. Given you a merciful ending. But they found zerds. Enough to pay for Crin's operation, to buy
you new eyes, to buy High passage for all of us. We're safe now, darling. Safe!"
He sat up in the bed. He felt fit, healed, ready for anything. Slow-time therapy had compressed two days of
healing into a single hour of sleep. The companion drug to quick-time which had the opposite effect. He swung long
legs from the bed and caught the glitter of movement at the corner of his eyes. He turned, facing the sink, the
dripping faucet which was his fancied metronome.
He looked at the woman, wonderful with visual impact, warm and human with the promise of life.
"Kalin," he said. "You are so very beautiful."
Her eyes flickered, straightened. "Get dressed, Earl. Our ship is leaving soon."
"You've booked passage? To where?"
"To Solis, darling," she said. "To home."

Chapter Twelve
Shadows filled the room: thick, clustering, broken only by the steady green eye of the signal light, the pale
intrusion of the day outside. Mede's voice was a hypnotic modulation, relentlessly repetitive, a sonic drill to penetrate
the fog of disoriented senses.
"Where is Brasque? Tell me where to find your husband! Where is he hiding? Tell me where to find Brasque!
Where is your husband? Where is your husband? Where is your husband?"
Not in the house, not on the land around the house, not anywhere on the planet as far as the cyber could
determine. And yet, logically, this was the place to which he would have run. To his planet, his home, his wife and
friends. The prediction had a probability of ninety-nine percent, which made it a practical certainty.
He had to be found!
Mede turned from the woman, accepting temporary defeat. His voice was not enough but there were other ways.
Instruments could smash through the coma and detachment, force a way to the receptive areas of the brain, reward
cooperation and punish stubbornness. And, if the questioning killed her, it didn't matter, providing he gained what he
wanted. What the Cyclan wanted and must obtain at any cost.
Mede left the room, passed through the antechamber and nodded to the girl waiting outside in the open place
facing the sea. "You may return to your place now."
She dipped a curtsy, not quite knowing how to treat the enigmatic figure in flaming scarlet. He had the freedom
of the house and access to her charge at all times and this by the direct order of the Master himself. And yet, despite
his attention, the Lady Keelan showed no signs of improvement.
She scuttled away as the cyber walked to the edge of the patio and stared down at the rocks and swirling water
below. The sea was rough with winter memory, the waves savage as they boomed against the foot of the cliff, spume
flying as they frothed about the stone. A faint wind carried the scent of brine and open spaces, teasing the edge of his
cowl, so that at one minute it ballooned and the next was pressed hard against the bone structure of his face.
He turned as Komis walked toward him across the open space. The Master of Klieg looked tired, haggard from a
growing sense of the inevitable. It had been a long, hard winter.
His eyes flickered to the closed door of the antechamber. "Any improvement?"
"None, my lord."
"It's been a long time," said Komis. "All winter, to be exact. I had hopes that perhaps you—" He broke off, shaking
his head. "I hoped for too much," he admitted. "How could you succeed where physicians fail?"
"The Cyclan has methods of its own, my lord," said Mede smoothly. "I have tried verbal stimulation and hypnotic
techniques but they are not enough. The stimulus must be stronger. With your permission, my lord, I would like to try
certain devices much used on worlds dedicated to mental care."
Komis hesitated. "Instruments?"
"Sensory stimulators, my lord. Have I your permission?"
"No," said Komis; yet where was the harm? "I must think about it," he temporized. "I do not wish my sister to be
the subject of experiments. Leave it for now."
Mede bowed. "As you wish, my lord. In the meantime I have been working on certain problems regarding matters
we have spoken of earlier. The question of diverting land and labor to other uses than the rearing of horses. The
predictions are highly favorable and—"
"Later, cyber." Komis felt a sudden relief. If the man had really worked out a system by which they could gain
wealth, then his worries were over. Money to expand, to build, to provide what Keelan must have. "We will discuss it
after dinner," he said. "Now I intend to relieve Mandris so that she can attend church."
"Church, my lord?"
"Yes. Some monks of the Brotherhood are here with a portable church. They come several times a year and ease
the souls of those who have sinned." He smiled a little as he thought of the girl. "Mandris is not what I would call a
sinful girl but it will do her no harm to bend her knee and eat the bread of forgiveness."

***

Dumarest stretched, filling his lungs with the scented air of spring, glancing at the green of rolling hills. The
landing field was small but large enough for a planet with little trade. It was well-tended, the crushed gravel clean and
without unwanted growth. Beyond the fence lay the town, a place of long, low buildings made of logs and stone, a
few of concrete, still less of mortared brick. Pens stood to one side, warehouses the other.
"A nice planet," he said to Kalin. "It should grow nice people."
She smiled and led him through the gate. A man stepped forward as they approached. He was big, dressed in
rough weave from a hand-operated loom and his hair was as red as the girl's.
"Transport, sir?" Green eyes swept over them as he touched one finger to his forehead.
Dumarest looked at Kalin. "Do we need it? How far must we go?"
"Too far to walk. The house of Klieg," she said to the driver. "You know it?"
"A long flight, my lady."
"I did not ask that. Do you know where it is?"
He bowed. "I know, my lady. You wish to be taken to the house?"
"A moment. Is there a public communicator close to hand?"
A booth stood at the edge of the field close to the gate. Dumarest waited as she made her call. She was in the
booth for a long time, and when she came out, she was solemn. Silently she climbed into the cabin of the waiting flier.
Dumarest followed her and the driver locked them in.
"The thren are most dangerous at this time of year," he explained as he took his seat. "The canopy is proof
against their attacks, but if you should forget, open it a little—" He shrugged. "Their beaks are long," he said. "The risk
not worth taking."
Dumarest settled back as the flier climbed into the sky.
"Earl!"
He looked at his arm, the fingers digging into his flesh; the wide, frightened eyes. Gently he eased her fingers.
"You're doing it again," he accused. "Why? What good does it do to know just what is going to happen?"
"If you knew," she said, "would you refuse to look?"
"No," he admitted. "Probably not. But, to me, the future is what I make it. I can win or I can lose, but I will always
try." He smiled and dropped his arm about her shoulders. "Be cheerful," he urged. "You're almost home."
"We're almost home," she corrected. "I hope you like the house of Klieg. It is big and warm and comfortable.
Strong too. When the winds really blow you can feel the walls fighting back and when the snow falls the roof seems to
shrug as it accepts the burden. It's a nice house, Earl. A wonderful house."
His arm tightened around her shoulders. "It isn't the place that's important. It's who you are with."
She smiled and traced a pattern on the back of his hand with the tip of a finger. "Earl, how important is physical
beauty to you? I mean, if a woman was old or ugly, could you love her? Really love her?"
"I don't have to," he said. "Not while I have you."
"Please, Earl! I'm serious!"
"And so am I." He turned so as to stare into her face, meet the emerald of her eyes. "You are you," he said slowly.
"If you were to have an accident, lose your beauty in some way, it would make no difference to the way I feel. I didn't
fall in love with a pair of green eyes, some white skin and red hair. I fell in love with a woman."
Her hand gripped his, tightened. "Earl. What would you say if I told you—" She broke off.
Dumarest frowned. "You're trying to tell me something," he said. "Something important. Is it to do with the
future?"
"I know what is going to happen," she said dully. "But that isn't important. Earl, what would you say if I told you
that I'd lied? That my real name isn't Kalin? That—"
She fell silent as he rested his fingers on her lips. "Listen," he said. "The past is dead. Forget it."
"But—"
"There are no 'buts,'" he interrupted. "Don't tell me something you may later regret. Something I may not want to
hear. I don't care what happened before I met you. As far as I'm concerned your past doesn't exist. I simply want you
now, as you are, for always."
"Thank you, Earl," she said quietly. "I wish—God how I wish that!"
"Please." He lifted his hand and touched her cheek. It was wet with tears. "Please, darling, don't upset yourself.
Don't do that."
"Earl," she said. "I love you. I love you, but I know I'm going to lose you. I—"
The flier banked, began to drop in a wide turn. The driver spoke without turning his head. "Klieg, my lady.
Directly below."

***

Komis met them, helping the girl from the cabin, paying the driver, examining Dumarest with a single glance of
his eyes. Green eyes like those of the girl, the driver, everyone else on the planet who had been reared from the pure
strain. Eyes and hair and translucent skin. Peas from the same genetic pod.
"You are welcome," said Komis and extended his hand. "May Klieg protect you during your stay."
Dumarest gripped the proffered hand. "As I shall protect Klieg should the need arise."
Komis widened his eyes in pleasure at the unexpected response. "You accept your obligations," he said. "I had not
thought you to be aware of our customs."
"I'm not," said Dumarest evenly. "But I have stayed in similar houses before." Stayed and fought when the need
arose, and though here there was no need, the implication remained. A guest should be willing to aid those who gave
him hospitality.
"I'll have someone show you to your room," said Komis. "You probably wish to bathe and rest before the evening
meal." He turned to the girl. "And now, my dear, we have much to discuss. I am sure that your friend will excuse us."
She turned to Dumarest. "Earl. I—"
"You have to go," he interrupted. "I understand. But remember that you don't have to worry. Not about anything."
He smiled and kissed her and watched as she followed the Master of Klieg. Gold and white and flaming red. Bright
and wonderful against the wood and stone of the house, the gray cobbles set in the ground of the yard. Then she
vanished through a door and he turned to follow his guide.
The water was hot, the soap plentiful, the bathroom a place of planked walls and plastic fittings with unguents
and lotions in crystal jars. Dumarest bathed, sponged down his clothing and went to examine the house. To the
landward side the yard held the hint of a stable-smell. Closer he caught the scent of baking bread, of smoke and
leather and stored grain. Inside the dwelling he paused in the hall and examined the weapons hanging under the great
beams of the roof. Spears and bows, axes and partisans, cross-hiked swords and curved daggers. Over the fireplace
someone had set the crossed bills of dead threns. The table was marked and gouged with egotism and time, the wood
glowing with wax, the names and insignia shadows flickering in the fading light of day.
Home, he thought, Kalin was born here, ran through this very hall, perhaps, playing with her toys. Home.
He turned and saw a dusty flame of scarlet, the pale face beneath the shadowing cowl. Light caught the seal
emblazoned on the breast and turned it to glittering brilliance.
Mede saw Dumarest and paused, watching. Dumarest frowned. A cyber? Here?
Such men were usually to be found at the heart of things, the courts and centers of business where their
influence would be the greatest, their services in most demand. Klieg was nothing more than a fortified manor. An
overgrown farmhouse fitted with modern devices and housing a family together with servants and retainers. There
was nothing really important or grand about the place. Certainly they couldn't afford the services of a cyber to advise
them as to which crops to plant, what to sell and when.
Dumarest stepped close to Mede, feeling his nerves tense, his hatred for the man and what he stood for rise in a
surging wash of red. The Cyclan had cost him too much for him to easily forget.
"An unusual place to find you, cyber," he said, masking his feelings. "Is there much to interest you on Solis?"
"All things are of interest, my lord." Mede was smooth, politely emotionless as his eyes searched Dumarest's face.
"Are you a member of this house?"
"A guest." Dumarest was curt. The hall was no longer a place of comfort and imagining. The cyber had
contaminated it by his presence. He walked past the immobile figure in the scarlet robe and down a short passage. It
led to Komis' study. The door opened and Kalin stepped through.
 "Earl!"
"Is something wrong?" She looked distraught. "Kalin. Tell me."
"Nothing is wrong." Komis stood behind her, his eyes incredulous. "She is unharmed and will continue to be so.
There will be no punishment for her desertion."
"Punishment?" Dumarest stepped forward and faced the other man. "There will be no punishment," he said softly.
"You are correct in that. It would not be wise to hurt the girl in any way."
"Please, Earl!" She stepped before him, small hands hard against his chest. "You don't understand. There's no
need to threaten. Komis wouldn't hurt me."
"I do not think your friend was making threats," said the Master of Klieg. "I took it more in the nature of a
prophecy. But she is right," he said to Dumarest. "You do not understand. You couldn't. Even I still have doubt and—"
He broke off, looking baffled. "A man must believe the evidence of his senses. There is no way this girl could have
known of the things she told me unless what she claims is true. Therefore I must believe her. Believe what she
claims."
Dumarest was curt. "And that is?"
"That her name is Mallini Frenchi of Sard. That she came here five years ago, running away from her home and
family to take up service with my house. That two years ago she deserted her post."
"Is that all?" Dumarest smiled. "A name," he said. "What is in a name?"
"Please, Earl," she whispered. "There is more."
"I don't want to hear it."
Komis stepped forward, face hard beneath the white skin, lips thinned so that he looked suddenly hard and cruel.
"You must," he repeated. "Because this affects the house, the family of Klieg. The girl is not what you think. Her body
is that of Mallini Frenchi but not her mind. That belongs to my sister, the Lady Keelan of Klieg. My sister who has not
left her bed for more than seven years!"

Chapter Thirteen
Dimness which blurred outline, a suspicion of a shape lying in the suspicion of a bed. Pipes and metering devices
and a single green lamp which shone like a living emerald and told that life still lasted, the heart still beat, the body
still functioned.
After a fashion, of course. In its own, peculiar way.
"Earl!"
The voice was a rasping whisper without depth or emotion, a strained vibration which hung on the air like the
gossamer web of a spider, light and frail, a quiver among the shadows, a ghost voice whispering ghost words.
Dumarest leaned forward, eyes narrowed as he tried to penetrate the dark. "Yes?"
"Earl! Please! They told you. I told you. You know that I am Kalin. The girl you said you loved."
He hesitated. The girl was outside with Komis sitting on the stone bench facing the sea.
"Remember Logis? Remember how we fled the ship and drifted in the sac? Remember how you bought our
freedom from the slaver and how, for three days, we tasted Heaven. Three days and more. Earl. Much more. My
darling, my dearest, my beloved! I love you. I love you. God help me, I love you!"
A rail stood at the foot of the shadowed bed. Dumarest grasped it and felt the sweat bead his forehead as the
ghost voice, rasping, horrible, stirred the air with things only Kalin could possibly know. Intimate things. Words and
deeds which had sealed one to the other. He remembered the look of incredulity on Komis' face, the stunned
acceptance of belief.
"Seven years ago I was the beauty of Solis," whispered the voice. "I married a brilliant man. Brasque was a
biochemist and life-technician, the best on Solis. On our honeymoon in the Soaring Hills our camp was attacked by
some thren. We beat them off but in the flurry I was scratched. A minor wound, we thought, nothing to worry about.
But a week later my arm began to swell. In another five days I couldn't walk. I have never walked since."
"An infection," said Dumarest. "But surely antibiotics would have cured such a thing?"
"Do you think Brasque didn't try? The disease was unique. A relatively minor infection was caused by bacteria
carried by the thren. So much we discovered. But, here on Solis, we are the victims of ancestors who held a
paranoids dream. Red hair was a sign of superiority, they claimed. And so they bred for the true color. Bred and
inbred and inbred until we developed unsuspected weaknesses. The infection, harmless to you, to the majority on this
planet, triggered off a terrible reaction. I say 'terrible,' because to me, that is what it was. I became—different. More
than that. I became a thing of horror, a burden, a disgusting…"
"Stop it!" Dumarest's hands clamped on the rail as he leaned forward. "Stop it!"
 A wet slobbering, a shifting, a waft of repellent odor. A mechanism clicked as it fed a tranquilizing solution into
the blood. Another metered sedative. The rasping whisper blurred a little.
"Brasque came back. Helped me. And, Earl, suddenly I was fit again. I could walk and talk and dance! I could see
desire in the eyes of men. I could travel and taste the delights of the galaxy. What did it matter if I starved or begged
or traveled Low? I was alive and free and every single second was paradise." The voice choked in a liquid gurgling.
"Can you guess, my darling, how I felt? Can you ever guess?"
Sitting blinded as men discussed his fate. Traveling in a hell of pain. Wondering what life had to offer and then,
miraculously, he could see again!
"Yes," said Dumarest tightly. "I can guess how you felt."
"And love," she said. "Real love. Warm love. Your love, my dearest. You remember what you said? That it
wouldn't matter how I looked, you would still love me? You remember that?"
"I remember."
"Then turn on the light," whispered the rasping gurgle. "Turn on the light—and see the real me."
Triggered by the sonic command the room began to brighten with a pearly luster. Plates glowed in roof and walls,
truglow plates which showed things as they really were, devoid of artifice and optical trickery. Dumarest looked at
the thing on the bed.
There was a head, bald, shining, creased like a mass of crumpled crepe, swollen to twice normal size. The eyes
were thin glittering slits, the mouth a lipless gash and the chin was a part of the composite whole which was the neck.
A sheet covered the body with its strange and alien protuberances. Pipes ran from beneath it and connected to
quietly humming machines. Tanks and instruments completed the life-support installation.
"Nice, isn't it?" The lips didn't move as the voice drifted weakly past them. "A metabolism run wild. Carcinoma
barely controlled by extensive surgery and continuous medication. Seven years, Earl. Five of them utter hell."
The metal of the rail bent beneath his hands. "Kalin!"
"Yes, Earl, the woman you swore you loved. Not the eyes and skin and mane of hair but the real woman. The
mind and soul and personality. The things which loved you, Earl, those things are here. The rest is a pretty shell.
Which did you love, Earl? The brain or the body? Me or that beautiful shell? Which, Earl? Which?"
He took a deep breath, remembering. This woman had saved his life, given back his eyes, given him her love. He
released the rail and stepped toward the head of the bed.
"Kalin," he said. "I shall always love you."
And kissed the slitted lips.

***

"You were kind," said Komis. "I shall always remember that."
Dumarest stared at the stone, the beams, the hanging weapons. Firelight threw shadows across his face. Komis
reached out and poured wine, pushed a goblet across the table.
"Drink," he ordered. "I know how you must feel. When the girl told me who she really was it was as if the world
had turned upside down." He drank, setting an example. "They are together now."
Dumarest emptied his goblet. "Why?" he demanded.
"They are talking, doing something. I don't know what."
"I don't mean why are they together. But why tell me? Why make me see Kalin as she really is?"
Komis poured more wine. "Keelan," he said. "Her name is Keelan."
"Keelan, Kalin, they are like enough." To Dumarest the wine was like water. "She wanted to prove something," he
said. "Wanted to know if I loved her or a pretty face. But I love the whole woman. Not an empty shell. Not a diseased
woman lying helpless on a bed. I want someone who—"
"I know what you want, Earl." She came forward as they rose, smiling, a large ring weighing one finger. "I am
whole again," she said. "As I was when we made love on the slaver's ship, gambled in Pete's Bar on Chron. Your
woman, Earl. Not half but complete again—for now and perhaps for always."
Komis frowned. "You speak in riddles, sister. There is much I do not understand."
"You will," she promised. "And now, brother, if you will excuse us? I must talk with Earl alone." She sat as he left
and helped herself to wine. Teeth gleamed as she lifted the goblet and her eyes held a sparkling green fire. "To love,
Earl," she said. "To love and to us!"
The goblets made empty rapping sounds on the table.
"I was unfair, Earl, to make you prove your love for me the way I did. But the ego is a peculiar thing. Always it
must be reassured and rejection is tantamount to death." She looked at the ring on her finger. "Death," she repeated,
and shuddered.
 Silently he poured them both more wine.
"Brasque was an unusual man," she said. "Clever, intelligent, dedicated. When it became obvious that I would
never be well again he left Solis. For years I heard nothing and then, one night, he returned. It was a time of storm.
The air was full of sleet and it was very late. No one saw him but my attendant and myself. And he was dying, Earl.
Dying."
She took a sip of wine. "All the time he'd been away he'd been searching for some means to help me. Incredibly
he found it. Somehow he'd managed to get himself employed on a special project in an unusual laboratory which
dealt in the life-sciences. Not too difficult, really, for he was very clever. He found what he was looking for. He called it
an affinity-twin. A life-form based on a molecular chain of fifteen units and the reversal of one unit would make it
either dominant or subject. He stole it, Earl. I think he killed to get it. I know that he thought he was being followed."
"He was wounded, terribly, his body filled with poisons, but he would not stop until he had done what he had
come to do. The life-form was an artificially created symbiote. It nestles in the rear of the cortex, meshes with the
thalamus and takes control of the central nervous system. So Brasque told me, Earl. But he was dying and there was
little time for explanations. He injected something into my skull—something into the skull of my attendant. I felt
dizzy for a moment and then, suddenly, I was Mallini."
"Can you imagine it, Earl? After years as a diseased and decaying woman I was suddenly alive again. Young and
beautiful and wonderfully active. In another person's body, true, but what did that matter? It felt like my body. It was
my body. I could walk and dance and lift my head to look at the sky. Life, Earl! Life!"
He sat, thinking, looking at his goblet of wine.
"This girl whose body you took over," he said quietly. "What happened to her?"
"Mallini?" She shrugged. "I don't know. Brasque wasn't sure or didn't tell me. I think that her mind became a part
of my own, that we shared all the things I did and enjoyed doing." Her hand reached out and touched his. "Enjoyed
doing so very much, Earl. So very, very much."
Dumarest remained serious. "And if she… you… her… should die, what then?"
"I don't know," she said. "Earl, that is what frightens me. I look ahead and things are confused. I—the me that you
see lives, but is it really me? The body lives but am I in it? I want to be in it. I think that if it were done carefully I
would stay as I am even though that diseased thing upstairs should die—cease functioning. I want to be free of it,
Earl. Wholly free. Sometimes, as if in a dream, I come back and… and…"
Her face changed, contorted. "Earl!"
"Kalin! What is it?"
"No!" Her mouth opened, breath rasping in her throat. "No I won't come back. No! No! No! Stop it!" she screamed.
"Earl! Help me!"
And, suddenly, her face went blank. The eyes were still green, still open but they were empty as the windows of a
deserted house. The lips moved, still red, still soft, but the smile was the loose grimace of an idiot.
"Kalin!"
Dumarest sprang to his feet, ran down the passage, up the stairs, through the room and out onto the patio where
sea-sound filled the air and sea-scent blew through the pillars.
The door to the antechamber was open. He ran through it and into the place of shadows. The shadows had gone,
dissolved in a flood of light from the truglow tubes. Metal and crystal sparkled from the life-support apparatus. At the
head of the bed the scarlet robe of the cyber glowed like fresh-spilled blood.
"No!" The voice from the creature on the bed was a pain-filled gasp of protest. "No!"
"Where is your husband?" Mede's voice held no hate, no urgency, but the level monotone was all the more
inhuman because of that. A hum came from something in his hands. "Where is your husband?"
"He's dead!" The croak was more terrible than a scream. "Dead! Dead! Dead!" And then, horribly, "Earl, my
darling! Earl!"
The signal lamp changed from green to red.
Dumarest sprang forward as the cyber rose. He saw the movement of the hand from the wide sleeve, the flash,
felt the burn. He gripped the wrist as Mede fired again, the laser searing plastic and metal and flesh before it fell from
the broken hand.
"You killed her! Tortured her to death!"
Mede stabbed the fingers of his left hand toward Dumarest's eyes. He fought with a cold detachment as he jerked
his knee toward the groin, swung his elbow toward the face. Dumarest blocked the attack, struck once and gripped
the robe as Mede sagged. Strength blossomed from his fury. This man had killed Kalin! This thing had again robbed
him of happiness!
He heaved the scarlet figure into the air, ran from the room to the patio, to where the pillars looked down onto
the sea and rocks below. For a moment he stood poised, the weight of the cyber struggling in his hands, then he
stepped forward and threw the scarlet figure over the edge.
And watched as the sea cleaned the red of blood and fabric from the granite teeth studding the shore.

***

Brother Jerome folded his hands within the sleeves of his robe and glanced at the shining majesty of Arsini's
statue. "Tell me," he said to Dumarest. "Do you also believe that all men originated on one small world?"
Dumarest remained silent. He was thinking of a girl and the long journey to Hope and in him the sense of loss
was an aching wound. Kalin was dead. The cyber had killed her with his questioning, but the body he remembered
still lived. It was as lovely, the skin as white, the hair as red as before, but something had gone from the eyes. Kalin
had loved him but Mallini did not and he could find nothing to love in Mallini. The package was the same but the
contents were not.
"Brasque, of course, must have worked in one of the laboratories somehow connected with the Cyclan," said the
Head Monk, casually. He smiled at Dumarest's expression. "We know about it,", he explained. "More, perhaps, than
you guess. The ring you are wearing, for example. Komis gave it to you. It was the last gift Brasque gave his wife and
she wanted you to have it in case something happened as, of course, she knew it would."
"She knew but she could do nothing about it," said Dumarest tiredly. "She didn't even try."
"Some things cannot be avoided," said Brother Jerome quietly. "Call it fate if you wish. And her ability was
strange to her. A side-effect of the symbiote she carried in her brain." He led the way down a winding path. "That is
what Mede was after. Brasque must have stolen the secret and been wounded making his escape. He landed at Klieg
on a stormy night. He did what he had to do and then, to hide his trail, threw himself from the patio into the sea. The
woman, call her Kalin, took his flier and began her travels. As far as Komis was concerned the girl had simply
deserted."
"But the Cyclan wanted what Brasque had stolen. They sent men to search and Mede was the one who found the
logical place. But he did not know that Brasque was dead."
Dumarest kicked at a stone. "If they developed it, then why couldn't they repeat it? The Cyclan do not lack for
experts."
"I think it had to do with luck," said the High Monk carefully. "Or, perhaps, the workings of destiny. I think it safe
to assume that Brasque stumbled on the correct sequence by chance. Fifteen units on a molecular chain. Even if you
knew which units to work with, can you guess how long it would take to cover every possible combination? Over four
thousand years," he said. "That is trying one new combination each second. How much longer would it take if each
combination required a day? No, brother, the cyber was desperate to learn where Brasque could be found. The Cyclan
does not like failure."
Dumarest looked at the ring on his finger. A flat, polished stone set in a heavy band of gold. It was a man's ring;
on Kalin it had looked enormous.
"And the girl?" he asked. "What happens to her?"
"She will stay here until her father comes to take her back to Sard," said Jerome. "I was wrong about that man," he
admitted. "Centon Frenchi is just what he claims to be. Now, perhaps, he can bring himself to love his daughter."
"Is that so hard?"
"It is when you are proud and your daughter is an atavist. The coloring was bad enough but she was more. A little
simple," said the monk softly. "Easily hurt and easily frightened. Unwanted by the others of her family. She ran away,
to the planet from which her grandmother had originated, and there she took service with the Master of Klieg."
Dumarest followed the monk down the path and along a diverging track. "How is she? I mean, does she
remember very much of what happened?"
"No. To her it is all a vague dream. The symbiote was extremely effective." He halted before a flowering shrub.
"Can you imagine the power of a thing like that? Not immortality but something so attractive to the old, the crippled,
the diseased that they would pay anything to obtain it. A new body. Literally new. A body to use and abuse, to kill
with and be killed in. Something which would give a true proxy life. A thing which—" He broke off. "Fifteen units," he
said after a moment. "I pray that they may never again be united in a correct sequence. That the secret died with the
man who stole it."
He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of the flowers. "We grow morbid, brother. A bad emotion for such a
day. You have plans?"
"To travel," mused Dumarest. "To travel. What else?"
"To travel," mused Jerome. "To search. To look for something you may never find." He looked at the hard face, the
eyes with their fading scars. Dedication sometimes took strange forms. "You are welcome to stay as my guest for as
long as you wish. I would advise, however, that you do not see the girl again. A man should not torment himself," he
explained gently. "She is not as you remember her."
"I know," said Dumarest. Would he ever find someone like Kalin again?
"I will instruct Brother Fran to give you a warrant for a High passage on any ship leaving this planet," continued
the High Monk. "You may use it when you wish. And there is more," he added. "Centon Frenchi has been most
generous. You will not leave as a pauper."
"Thank you, Brother," said Dumarest. "You are gracious."
The High Monk bowed and walked away.
Alone, Dumarest wandered the gardens before sitting on a bench. There were things to do, plans to make. Here,
on Hope, were records which could be of interest. The archives of the Church of the Universal Brotherhood would
contain, perhaps, the coordinates of Earth. Forgotten, discarded, a fragment in the mass of information.
He sat, hands beside him, the stone of the ring on his finger glowing in the light of the sun.
Glowing brighter as the statue began to sing. Shining as the sonic impulse triggered the buried "memory" of the
lustrous material. Dumarest didn't see it. He concentrated on the statue, the impressive figure straining up and away
from the flaming orb. On his finger the glow concentrated into fifteen spots of brilliance, each descriptive of a
molecular unit.
Brasque's secret.
Unnoticed in Dumarest's dream of Earth.

THE JESTER AT SCAR

Chapter One
In the lamplight, the woman's face was drawn, anxious. "Earl," she said. "Earl, please wake up."
Dumarest opened his eyes, immediately alert. "What is it?"
"Men," she said, "moving outside. I thought I heard noises from the street, screams and the sound of laughter."
The guttering flame of the lamp threw patches of moving shadow across her face as she straightened from the side
of the bed. "Cruel laughter, it had an ugly sound."
He frowned, listening and hearing nothing but the normal violence of the night. "A dream," he suggested. "A trick
of the wind."
"No." She was emphatic. "I've lived on this world too long to be mistaken. I heard something unnatural, the noise
of men searching, perhaps. But it was there; I didn't imagine it."
Dumarest threw back the covers and rose, the soft lamp light shining on his hard, white skin and accentuating the
thin scars of old wounds. The interior of the hut was reeking with damp, the ground soggy beneath his bare feet. He
took his clothes from the couch and quickly dressed in pants, knee-high boots and a sleeved tunic which fell to mid-
thigh. Carefully he fastened the high collar around his throat. From beneath the pillow he took a knife and sheathed it
in his right boot.
"Listen." said the woman urgently. The lamp was a bowl of translucent plastic containing oil and a floating wick.
It shook a little in her hand. "Listen!"
He tensed, ears straining against the ceaseless drum of rain, the gusting sough of wind. The wind slackened a
little then blew with redoubled force, sending a fine spray of rain through the poorly constructed walls of the shack.
More rain came through the sloping, unguttered roof and thin streams puddled the floor. Among such a medley of
sounds it would be easy to imagine voices.
Relaxing, Dumarest glanced at the woman. She stood tall, the lamp now steady in her hand. Her eyes were set
wide apart, deep beneath their brows; thick, brown hair had been cropped close to her rounded skull. Her hands were
slim and delicate, but her figure was concealed by the motley collection of clothing she wore for warmth and
protection. Beyond her a few embers glowed in an open fireplace built of stone. Dumarest crossed to it, dropped to
his knees beside a box and fed scraps of fuel from the box to the embers. Flames rose, flickered and illuminated the
woman's home.
It wasn't much. The bed where he'd slept was in one corner of the single room which was about ten feet by
twelve. A curtain, now drawn back, split the single room in half during times of rest. The woman's couch rested in the
far corner beyond the curtain. A table, benches and chests, all of rough construction, completed the furnishings. The
walls were of stones bedded in dirt; uprights supported the sagging roof. Against the dirt and stone, fragments of
brightly colored plastic-sheeting merged with salvaged wrappings from discarded containers.
Smoke wafted from the burning fuel and made him cough.
"Quiet!" warned the woman. She turned to Dumarest. "They're coming back," she said. "I can hear them."
He rose, listened and heard the squelch of approaching footsteps.
They halted, and something hard slammed against the barred door.
"Open!" The voice was flat and harsh. "We are travelers in need of shelter; open before we drown."
Lamplight glittered from her eyes. "Earl?"
"A moment." Dumarest stepped quietly forward and stood beside the door. It would open inward and away from
where he stood, giving him a clear field if action should it be necessary. His hand dipped to his boot and rose bearing
nine inches of razor-sharp steel. "Don't argue with them," he said softly. "Just open the door and step back a little.
Don't look towards me. Hold the lamp above your head."
She glanced at the knife held sword-fashion in his hand. "And you?"
"That depends." His face was expressionless. "If they are genuine travelers seeking accommodation, send them
on their way; or take them in if you prefer their company to mine. If they are besotted fools looking for something to
entertain them, they will leave when they discover there is nothing for them here. If not…" He shrugged. "Open the
door."
Wind gusted as she swung open the panel, driving in a spray of rain and the ubiquitous smell of the planet. From
outside grated a voice, harsh against the wind.
"Hold, Brephor. No need to knock again. You there, woman, your name is Selene?"
"Yes."
"And you sell food and shelter. That, at least, was what we were told." The voice became impatient. "Step forward
and show yourself; I have no wish to talk to shadows."
Silently she obeyed, moving the lamp so as to let the guttering light shine on her face; she remained impassive at
the sound of sharply indrawn breath.
"Acid," she said evenly. "I was contaminated with parasitical spores on the face and neck; there was no time to
consider my beauty. It was a matter of burning them away or watching me die. Sometimes I think they made the
wrong decision." The lamp trembled a little as she fought old memories. "But I forget myself, gentlemen. You are in
need. What is your pleasure?"
"With you? Nothing." Boots squelched in mud as the speaker turned from the doorway. "Come, Brephor. We waste
our time."
"A moment, Hendris You decide too fast." The second voice was indolent, purring with the sadistic anticipation
of a hunting feline. "The woman has a scarred face, true, but is it essential that a man look at her face? Such a
disfigurement, to some, could even be attractive. I am sure that you follow my thought, Hendris. If the face is bad. the
rest of her could be most interesting."
Hendris was sharp. "You scent something, Brephor?"
"Perhaps." His indolence sharpened into something ugly. The purr became a snarl as Brephor loomed in tho
doorway. "Tell me woman how do you live?"
"I sell food and shelter," she said flatly. "And the monks are kind."
"The monks? Those beggars of the Church of Universal Brotherhood?" His laugh was a sneer. "They feed you?"
"They give what they can."
"And that is enough? No," he mused answering himself. "It cannot be enough; the monks do not give all to one
and nothing to another. You need food and oil, fuel and clothing, medicines too, perhaps. In order to survive you need
more than the monks can provide." He extended his hand; the back was covered with a fine down. Steel had been
wedded to the fingernails; the metal was razor-edged and needle-pointed. The tips pricked her skin. "Speak truthfully,
woman, or I will close my hand and tear out your throat. You need lodgers in order to survive; is that not so?"
She swallowed, not answering. Spots of blood shone like tiny rubies at the points of steel.
"We will assume that it is so," purred Brephor from where he stood in darkness. "And yet when we, two travelers,
come seeking food and shelter, we are repulsed. You did not invite us in out of the rain; you did not suggest terms;
you were not even curious as to how we knew both your name and business. But that is acceptable. You are
dependent on publicity and offer a commission to those who send you clients." The spots of blood grew, swelling to
break and fall in widening streams from the lacerating claws. "I scent a mystery, woman. You are in business, but have
no time for customers. Perhaps you no longer need to sell food and shelter. It could be that you have someone now to
provide, someone lurking in the darkness." The purr hardened and became vicious. "Tell me, woman!"
"Tell him," said Dumarest as he stepped from where he stood against the wall. The reaction was immediate.
Brephor straightened his arm with a jerk, sending the woman staggering backwards, the lamp flickering as , she
fought to retain her balance. As she stumbled he sprang through the doorway, landed and turned to face Dumarest.
 "So," he purred. "Our friend who lurks in shadows. The brave man who stands and watches as his woman is
molested. Tell me, coward, what is your name?"
Silently Dumarest studied the intruder. His eyes were huge beneath lowering brows, ears slightly pointed, mouth
pursed over prominent canines. His face and neck were covered with the same fine down as the backs of his hands.
Brephor was a cat-man, a mutated sport from some lonely world, the genes of his forebears jumbled by radiation. He
would be fast and vicious, a stranger to the concept of mercy, a stranger also to the concept of obedience.
"I asked you a question, coward," he said. "What is your name?"
"Dumarest," said Earl, "a traveler like yourself." He lifted his left hand so as to draw attention away from his right
and the knife held tight against his leg. The ring he wore caught the light, the flat, red stone glowing like a pool of
freshly spilled blood. Brephor looked at it and flared his nostrils.
Abruptly he attacked.
Metal flashed as he raked his claws at Dumarest's eyes. At the same time his free hand reached out to trap the
knife and his knee jerked up and forward in a vicious blow at the groin. Dumarest swayed backwards, twisting and
lifting his knife beyond reach. He felt something touch his cheek, falling to tear at his tunic and becoming a furred and
sinewy wrist as he caught it with his left hand. The stabbing knee thudded against his thigh and, for a moment,
Brephor was off balance.
Immediately Dumarest swung up the knife and thrust along the line of the arm. driving the blade clean into the
cat-man's neck just below the ear; he twisted it so as to free the steel. The force of the impact sent them both towards
the door. Dumarest regained his balance, jerked free the knife and sent the dead man toppling from the hut.
A face showed as a pale blob against the darkness, lit by the small flame of the lamp within the hut. Something
bright rose as the woman screamed a warning.
"Earl! He's got a gun!"
Fire spat from the muzzle of the weapon as Dumarest threw the knife. He saw the face fall away, the hilt sprouting
from one eye and a ribbon of blood running down to the ruff of beard. The blood was immediately washed away by
the rain.
"Be careful!" Selene lifted the lamp, sheltering the flame. "There could be others."
He ignored her, springing from the doorway to recover the knife. Rain hammered at his unprotected head,
slammed against the shoulders of his tunic and sent little spurts of mud leaping up from the semi-liquid ooze. In
seconds it had washed the blade clean. Dumarest sheathed it and looked to either side; he saw nothing but darkness
relieved only by the weak glimmers of light coming from behind scraps of transparent plastic or through cracks in
disintegrating walls.
"Earl—"
"Give me the lamp," he snapped, "quickly!"
The flame danced as he held it close to the faces of the dead men. Hendris had none of the characteristics of his
companion, but that meant little. They could have come from different worlds. If they had grown up together it still
meant nothing. If Brephor was the norm, then Hendris could have been an atavist; if Hendris was the norm, Brephor
would have been a freak. Both, to Dumarest, were strangers.
He found the gun and examined it. It was a simple slug-thrower of cheap manufacture and used an explosive to
drive the solid projectile. Dumarest threw it into the darkness. It was useless without matching ammunition and a
laser was far more efficient. Handing the lamp back to Selene: he dragged both men into the shelter of the hut.
Straightening, he looked at the woman.
"If you want anything, take it," he said. "But don't waste time doing it."
She hesitated.
"Strip them," he said curtly. "Are you so rich you can afford to throw away things of value?"
"You know I'm not. Earl," she protested. "But if I take things which may later be recognized by a friend, I shall be
blamed for having caused their deaths."
"Men like these have no friends," he said flatly. "Let's see what they were carrying."
The clothes were ordinary, but of a better quality than they seemed. There was money, a phial of drugs from
Brephor, spare clips of ammunition for the discarded gun of the bearded man, and five rings of varying quality and
size, all with red stones. Also there were a couple of sleeve knives and an igniter and flashlight with a self-charging
cell, but nothing more of interest or value.
Dumarest frowned as he examined the rings. "Odd," he mused. "Why should they want to collect rings?"
"They were robbers," said the woman, "raiders. They saw your ring and thought to take it."
Slowly Dumarest shook his head.
"They were spoiling for trouble," she insisted. "The cat-man must have sensed your presence. He was a killer
desiring sport." Her finger touched the phial of drugs. "Doped," she said. "Riding high, and fast! When he went for
your eyes his hand was a blur. If you hadn't been even faster he would have torn out your eyes."
That was true enough. Dumarest opened the phial and cautiously tasted the contents. A euphoric, he guessed,
probably wedded to slow-time so that the effect of the drug would be enhanced by the actual speeding up of the
metabolism. If so, Brephor's speed was understandable; time, to him, had slowed so that he could do more in a
second than could a normal man.
Dumarest sealed the phial and threw it on the table. "Why?" he demanded. "Why should they have come here as
they did? They weren't looking for shelter: they had enough money to buy that at the station. And they know you had
someone staying at your home."
"Coincidence," she said. "They were looking for sport and changed their minds when they saw my face."
"They were looking for something," he agreed. "The cat-man attacked as soon as he saw my ring." He looked at it,
a warm patch against his finger, and idly ran his thumb over the stone. "They had five rings," he mused, "all with red
stones. Did five men die to supply them?"
"They were raiders." she insisted stubbornly, "men who hoped to rob and kill in the cover of the night."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "You are probably correct." He looked at the pile of clothing and the small heap of the dead
men's possessions. "Take it." he said, "all of it."
Her eyes fell to where the two bodies lay sprawled on the floor. "And those?"
"Leave them to me."
The huts were built on the slope of a valley, the only feasible place on a planet where the rain fell with the
relentless force it did on Scar. All through the thirty-day winter the skies emptied their burden of water, the rain
washing away the soil, garbage and refuse, carrying it down to the valley which was now a small sea of ooze.
Dumarest picked up the cat-man; his muscles bulged beneath his tunic as he supported the weight. Cautiously, he
walked through the cluster of shacks to where the ground fell abruptly away from beneath his feet. He heaved,
waited, and turned when he heard the splash of the body. The bearded man followed, sinking into the morass, food
for the parasitical fungi, the bacteria and the anaerobic spores.
Slowly Dumarest walked back to the hut. The door was open, the guttering flame of the lamp illuminating the
interior and casting a patch of brightness on the mud outside. He paused at the opening; the dead men's effects had
vanished from sight. Selene looked at him from where she stood beside the table.
"You're leaving," she said, "going to the station, back to the field."
Dumarest nodded. "You don't need me," he said, "not now, and it's almost spring. I would have been leaving in
any case."
Her hand rose and touched the scar on the side of her face, the seared and puckered blotch which ran over cheek
and neck. "You don't have to go, Earl. You know that."
"I know it."
"Then—"
"Goodbye, Selene."
He was three steps away from the hut when she slammed the door.

***

The rain eased a little as he climbed the slope towards the landing field where the only really permanent buildings
on the planet were clustered. Here were the warehouses, the stores, the factor's post, processing plant, commissary
and the raised and sheltered dwellings of Hightown. They were empty now. Tourists came only at the beginning of
summer, but others resided all the year round.
One of the buildings, built solidly of fused stone and with a transparent roof which could be darkened during the
time of sun and heat, shone like a lambent pearl in the darkness. Underfoot the yielding mud gave way to a solid
surface and Dumarest lengthened his stride. Light shone on a trough of running water and he stepped into it, washing
the slime from his boots before reaching for the door. Hot air blasted as he stepped into the vestibule; the air was
replaced by a spray of sterilizing compounds as he shut the door. Three seconds later the spray ceased and the inner
door swung open.
"Earl!" A man lifted his hand in greeting as Dumarest stepped from the vestibule. He sat at a table littered with
cards, dice, chips and a marked cloth. Three hemispheres of plastic about an inch wide stood ranked before him on
the table. "Care to play?"
"Later," said Dumarest.
"Well, come and test my skill." The gambler was a jovial man with a round paunch and thick, deceptively agile
fingers. Busily he moved the three hemispheres. Under one he slipped a small ball, moved them all and looked
questioningly at Dumarest. "Well? Where is it?"
 Dumarest reached out and touched one of the shells.
"Wrong! Try again."
"Later, Ewan."
"You'll come back?"
Dumarest nodded and moved across the room. Tables and chairs littered the floor. An open bar stood against one
wall, a closed canteen against another. The remaining space was filled with counters fashioned for display. Men sat or
sprawled and talked in low whispers or moved languidly about. Del Meoud, the local factor, sat at a table and
brooded over his glass. He wore the bright colors of his guild, which gave him a spurious appearance of youth; but
his face was etched with deep lines beneath the stylized pattern of his beard.
His eyes flickered as Dumarest approached him.
"Join me," he invited. Then, as Dumarest took the proffered chair he said, "I warned you: do a woman a favor and
she will reward you with anger. Your face," he explained. "You were lucky that she did not get an eye."
Dumarest touched his cheek and looked at the blood on his fingers. He remembered the razor-edged steel
Brephor had flung at his eyes. Looking down he saw scratches in the gray plastic of his tunic. They were deep enough
to reveal the gleam of protective mesh buried in the material. He dabbed again at his cheek.
"Let it bleed," advised the factor. "Who knows what hell-spore may have settled on the wound?"
"In winter?"
"Winter, spring, summer—Scar lives up to its name." Meoud reached for his bottle. "Join me," he invited. "A man
should never drink alone, not when he is haunted by specters of the past." He filled a second glass and pushed it
towards his guest. "I was the second highest in my class," he mourned. "Everyone predicted a brilliant future for me in
the guild. It seemed that I could do no wrong. So tell me, friend, what am I doing on this isolated world?"
"Growing old." said Dumarest dryly. "You had too much luck, all of it bad."
Meoud drank, refilled his glass and drank again. "No," he said bitterly, "not bad luck, a bad woman—a girl with
hair of shimmering gold and skin of sun-kissed velvet, slim, lithe, a thing of sun and summer—she danced on my
heart and brought nothing but sorrow."
Dumarest sipped his wine. It had the harsh, arid taste of the local production and still contained the drifting
motes of unfiltered spores.
"She gave me a modicum of pleasure," continued the factor, "but I paid for it with a mountain of pain. A high
price, my friend, but I was young and proud, and ambition rode me like a man rides an animal." The bottle made
small crystalline noises as he helped himself to more wine. "Was it so wrong to be ambitious? Without it, what is life?
We are not beasts to be born and breed and wait for death. Always we must reach a little higher, strive to obtain a
little more, travel a little faster. The philosophy of living, ambition!"
He drank and set down the empty glass. Reaching for the bottle he found it empty and irritably ordered another.
He poured the glasses full as the barman walked away.
"Her father was the Manager of Marque," he said.
"True, she was but his seventeenth daughter, yet she was still of the ruling house. I thought my fortune assured
when I contracted for her hand—the influence, the high associations! The guild is kind to those who have influence in
high places, kinder still to those with connections with rulers. I tell you, my friend, for a time I walked on golden
clouds." Meoud drank. "It was a dream," he said bitterly. "All I had accomplished was to engineer my own ruin."
Dumarest thought he understood. "She left you?"
"She made me bankrupt," corrected the factor. "On Marque a husband is responsible for the debts of his wife. The
guild saved me from bondage, but I ended with nothing: no wife, no position, nothing but a limited charity. And so I
wait on Scar."
"Brooding," said Dumarest, "dreaming of what might have been, obsessed with past opportunities and past
mistakes, looking back instead of forward. You surprise me—a man of business to be so sentimental! How many of
your guild suffer from such weakness?"
"How many travelers chase a legend?" Meoud was sharp. He had drunk too deeply and confessed too much, but
the winter dragged and the future was bleak. "I have heard the stories, my friend. I know why you chose to live in
Lowtown instead of taking a cubicle here at the station, of your searching and questioning. Earth," he said. "How can
a world have such a name? It has no meaning. All planets are made of earth. Why not then call Scar dirt, or soil, or
loam, or even ground? It would make as much sense."
Dumarest looked down at his hand where it was clenched around the glass. "Earth is no legend," he said flatly.
"The planet is real and, one day, I shall find it."
"A legend." Meoud poured them both more wine. "Is that what brought you to Scar?"
"I was on Crane," said Dumarest. "Before that on Zagazin, on Toom, on Hope,"—he looked at his ring—"on Solis
and before that…" He shrugged. "Does it matter? The ship which carried me here was the first to leave when I sought
passage on Crane."
Meoud frowned. "And you took it? Just like that?"
"Why not? It was heading in the right direction, out, away from the center. The stars are thin as seen from Earth."
"As they are from many lonely worlds," pointed out the factor.
"True," admitted Dumarest. "But it was a world with a blue sky by day and a silver moon by night; the stars made
patterns which wheeled across the sky. I shall recognize them when I see them again. In the meantime, if you should
hear anyone speak of Earth, you will let me know?"
Meoud nodded, staring into his glass. I should tell him, he thought, convince him that he is chasing an illusion, a
dream world fabricated when he was a child as a region in which to escape harsh reality. But who am I to rob a man
of his dream, his dream and his reason for existence?
He lifted his glass and drank, knowing that some things are best left unsaid.
Dumarest left the factor to the consolation of his wine. The buildings of the station were dreary with winter
inactivity, the residents those who had to stay from reasons of investment or duty. Others, whom the vagaries of
space travel had brought early to the planet, rested in deep sleep until the summer. Still more huddled miserably in
their damp quarters in Lowtown: the travelers whom chance had stranded on a non-productive world, the desperate
who lacked the cost of a low passage to some other planet.
Ewan looked up as Dumarest passed his table.
"Earl," he said, "please watch. I need the practice."
"You're skillful enough," said Dumarest. "You don't need my opinion."
"I do," insisted the gambler. "I want to try something new. These shells," he explained. "As I move them about I
slip this little ball beneath one. I can manipulate it as I wish." His pudgy hands moved the shells with deft skill. "Right.
Now pick out the shell with the ball. Guess correctly and I will give you five. Guess wrongly and you pay me the
same. Deal?"
"The odds are in your favor," pointed out Dumarest. "Two to one."
Ewan shrugged. "The house has to have some edge. Now pick."
Dumarest smiled and rested the tip of a finger on one of the shells. It was the finger on which he wore his ring.
With his free hand he tipped the remaining two shells over. Neither hid the little ball.
"This one," he said, tapping the remaining hemisphere. "Pay me."
Ewan scowled. "You cheated. That isn't the right way to play."
"It's my way," said Dumarest, "and others will do the same. You've had a cheap lesson; take my advice and stick
to cards and dice. It will be safer."
Ewan handed over the money. "Not if you're with me, Earl," he said. "How about it? A fifth of the profit if you will
act as bodyguard and shill."
Dumarest shook his head.
"A quarter then? I can't make it more. I've got to pay for the concession, hold capital for the next season and hold
more for emergencies. A quarter, Earl, just for standing by in case of trouble and leading, the betting. You could do it
in your sleep. Certain cash, Earl, a high passage at least; you can't lose."
The gambler frowned as Dumarest showed no interest.
"What's the alternative?" he demanded. "Acting as guide to some fat tourist, risking your life hunting rare spores,
collecting fungi for the processing sheds?" Ewan blew out his cheeks and shook his head. "You should know better;
there are easier ways to make money. You're fast, quick as any man I've seen. You've got a look about you which
would make any trouble-maker think twice. A third. Earl. That's as high as I can go. A clear third of the profit. What
do you say?"
"Thank you," said Dumarest, "but no."
"A gambling layout is a good place to pick up gossip," said Ewan shrewdly. "Most of the new arrivals want to test
their luck and they talk while doing it." He picked up a deck of cards and riffled them, his pudgy fingers almost
covering the slips of plastic. "Sure you won't change your mind?"
"If I do I'll let you know," said Dumarest. He hesitated, looking down at the gambler. Had Ewan been trying to tell
him something? He resisted the impulse to find out. Two men were dead and the less said about either of them the
better.
He crossed to where a layout of colored holograms showed a variety of fungi in all stages of growth in perfect,
three-dimensional representation. Each was labeled. The display was the property of a company operating the
processing sheds and the fungi were the strains they wanted.
"Simple, safe and secure," said an ironic voice at his side. "All you have to do, Earl, is to turn yourself into a
mobile hopper. Go out and drag back a few tons of fungi and, with luck, you'll get enough profit to keep you in food
for a week."
 "You don't have to do it," said Dumarest evenly. "No one is holding a knife to your throat."
Heldar coughed, holding his hand before his mouth as he fought for air. "Damn spores," he muttered at last. "One
in the lungs is one too many." He scowled at the display. "You don't know," he said bitterly. "When hunger has you by
the guts you don't stop to think of what the small print says. You just want a square meal."
"And you got it," said Dumarest. "So why are you complaining?"
Heldar scowled. "It's all right for you," he said. "You've got money. You can—"
He broke off, looking upwards. Dumarest followed his example. Every man in the place stopped what he was
doing and stared at the roof.
The silence was almost tangible.
For weeks they had been deafened by the unremitting thunder of winter rain.

Chapter Two
The captain was effusive with his apologies. "My lord," he said, bowing, "my lady, I regret to inform you that we
are no longer on schedule."
Jocelyn raised his eyebrows. "Regret?"
His wife was more to the point. "Why?" she demanded. "How can it be that we are as you say? Are you no longer
capable of plotting a simple course from star to star?"
The captain bowed even more deeply. As master of the sole vessel owned by the ruler of Jest, his position was an
enviable one; and if at times he wished that his command had been a little more modern, he kept such thoughts to
himself.
"We became embroiled in the fringe of an interstellar storm, my lady," he explained. "The magnetic flux disturbed
our instruments and retarded our passage a matter of some three days. I can, of course, accelerate our speed if you
so desire."
As you could have done in the first place, thought Jocelyn. So why report the matter at all? Fear, he decided To
safeguard himself against the report of a spy, to insure himself against the ambition of a junior officer. He felt his lips
twist into a familiar wryness. Did he really appear so formidable?
"My lord?" The captain was sweating. "My lady?"
"You shall be flogged," snapped Adrienne, "stripped of your command! I shall—"
"Do nothing without due consideration," interrupted Jocelyn curtly. "The man is hardly to blame for the elements,
and on Jest, we do not use the barbaric means of punishment common on other worlds."
"Barbaric!" He had touched her. Spots of color glowed on her thin cheeks, the anger reflecting itself in her
narrowed eyes. "Are you referring to Eldfane?"
"Did I mention your home world?" Jocelyn smiled into her eyes. "You are too sensitive, my dear, too quick to take
offense. But the fault is not yours. Those who trained you when young are to blame; they discouraged your childish
laughter. That was wrong. In this universe, my darling wife, laughter is the only answer a man can make to his destiny,
the only challenge he can throw into the faces of his gods."
"Superstition!" Contempt replaced her anger. "My father warned me of your peculiar ways. That is why—" She
broke off, conscious of the listening captain. "Why do you linger?"
"My lady." His bow was mechanical, an automatic response rooted in defense. "My lord," he said straightening, "I
await your instructions."
"Have they changed?" Jocelyn frowned. "Are we not proceeding to Jest?"
"We were, my lord, but the storm has placed us in a peculiar relationship. We are equidistant from both Jest and
Scar and our relative speed is common to both. That means we can reach either in the same amount of time." The
captain took a deep breath. "I am not a superstitious man, my lord, but the workings of destiny can sometimes reveal
itself in strange forms."
"Such as a storm, a malfunction of the instruments and a peculiar coincidence?" Jocelyn nodded thoughtfully.
"You could be right, Captain. You think we should proceed to Scar?"
The captain bowed, disclaiming responsibility. "The decision is yours, my lord."
And the derision should the journey be pointless, thought Jocelyn ironically. But could any journey ever be that?
Jest waited with the same eternal problems and could wait a little longer without coming to harm. It would almost be
a kindness to delay their arrival. Adrienne was accustomed to a softer world and less independence. She would have
troubles enough once they had landed and she had been installed as his queen.
He glanced at her, noting the thin arrogance of her profile, the imperious tilt of her head. Strange how those with
the least reason adopted the greater dignity, stranger still how the bare facts could be transmuted by pompous
phraseology. He, the ruler of Jest, had married the daughter of Elgone, the Elder of Eldfane. If the people thought of
it as a love-match, they were more stupid than he guessed. As a dowry she had brought him one hundred thousand
tons of basic staples, the revenues from her estate on Eldfane, a million units of trading credit to be used on her
home world, the services of an engineering corps for three years; and the promise of an obsolete space vessel when
one should be available.
The promise meant nothing. The staples were already on their way, sealed in freight cans flung into space by
tractors, aimed so as to orbit Jest until they could be collected by this very ship. The revenues would dwindle, the
credit likewise as inflation and profiteering greed slashed their value. The engineering corps would turn out to be a
handful of advisers strong on suggestion but woefully lacking in application.
All he would have left would be a shrewish woman to sit on his double throne.
All?
He felt his lips twist in their familiar expression, the wry grin he had developed when a boy and which was his
defense against hurt, pain and hopeless despair. To smile, to treat everything as a joke—how else to remain sane?
"My dear," he said to Adrienne. "We are faced with the need to make a decision, to go on to Jest or to head for
Scar, it is a problem which can be solved in many ways. We could spin a coin; we could arrange a number of random
selective-choices, such as the first officer to walk through that door would decide for us by his first word; or we could
apply logic and knowledge to guide our choice."
The edges of her thin nostrils turned white as she controlled her anger. "Is this a time for foolish jesting?"
He smiled blandly. "Can a jest ever be foolish?"
"On Eldfane," she said tightly, "we have a means of discouraging those who hold similar beliefs. Life is serious and
no cause for mirth."
"And you make it so by the use of whips, acid and fire," said Jocelyn. "But, on Eldfane, laughter has an ugly
sound." He shook his head, abruptly weary of the pointless exchange. As long as the woman kept her part of the
marriage contract he would be content: food, credit, the help of trained and educated men, and. above all, a son.
He glanced at the captain as the man cleared his throat. "What is it?"
"If I may make a suggestion, my lord?"
Jocelyn nodded.
"The problem could be resolved by one trained in such matters. The cyber would doubtless be happy to advise."
Jocelyn frowned. He had forgotten Yeon, the final part of Adrienne's dowry, added almost as an afterthought by
Elgone, which he had reluctantly accepted. He had been reluctant because he had an instinctive mistrust of a man
who could not laugh.
"Thank you, Captain," said Adrienne before Jocelyn could speak. "At last we have had a sensible suggestion. Be
so good as to ask the cyber to attend us."
"No," said Jocelyn.
She turned and looked at him, fine eyebrows arched over contemptuous eyes. "Husband?"
"Never mind." He surrendered. "Do as Her Majesty commands." She was, after all, his wife.
Yeon came within minutes, a living flame in the rich scarlet of his robe, the seal of the Cyclan burning on his
breast. He stood, facing Jocelyn, hands tucked within the wide sleeves of his gown.
"You sent for me, my lord?"
"I did." Jocelyn turned to where Adrienne sat in a chair covered in ancient leather. "Do you wish to state the
problem?" He sighed as she shook her head. "Very well, I will do so."
The cyber stood silent when he had finished.
"Are you in doubt as to the answer?" Jocelyn felt a sudden satisfaction in the thought that he had beaten the man,
presented him with a problem to which he could find no solution. The satisfaction died as Yeon met his eyes.
"My lord, I am in some doubt as to what you require of me."
"I thought it simple. Do we go to Jest or to Scar?"
"The decision is yours, my lord. All I can do is to advise you on the logical development of certain actions you
may care to take. In this case I lack sufficient data to be able to extrapolate the natural sequence of events." His voice
was a smooth modulation carefully trained so as to contain no irritating factors, a neutral voice belonging to a neutral
man.
A neuter, rather, thought Jocelyn savagely. A machine of flesh and blood devoid of all emotion and the capability
of feeling. A man who could experience no other pleasure than that of mental achievement. But clever. Give him a
handful of facts and, from them, he would build more, enough for him to make uncannily accurate predictions as to
the course of future events.
Adrienne stirred in her chair. "Is there anything you can tell us about Scar?"
Yeon turned to face her. His shaven head gleamed in the lights as if of polished bone, the soft yellow of his skin
accentuating the skull-like appearance of his face against the warmth of his cowl.
"Scar, my lady, is a small world with a peculiar ecology. The year is ninety days long and, as the planet has no
rotation at all, the seasons are compressed between one dawn and another. There are thirty days for winter, during
which it rains continuously and the same for summer, during which it gets very hot; the remainder is split between
spring and autumn. The population is transient and consists mostly of tourists."
Jocelyn cleared his throat. "What else?"
"Exports, my lord?"
"That and anything else which may be of interest."
"The natural vegetation is fungoid, both saprophytes and parasites of various types and sizes. Traders call to
purchase various spores which have some value in industry. There is also the aesthetic beauty of the planet, which
holds strong appeal to artists."
"Spores," mused Jocelyn. He sat, thinking. "Have you yet assimilated the information you required on Jest?"
"Not yet, my lord."
"Then more time would not be a total waste." He reached for the bell to summon the captain. "We shall go to
Scar."
"Are you sure?" Adrienne was ironic. "No spin of a coin, or casting of runes, perhaps? Surely you have not based
your decision on sheer logic!"
"Sometimes, my dear," he said sweetly, "destiny requires no outward symbol." He looked at the captain as he
entered the cabin. "We go to Scar," he ordered. "When should we arrive?"
"On Scar, my lord?" The captain pursed his lips. "Early spring. I could delay if you wish."
"No," said Jocelyn. "Spring is a good time to arrive anywhere."
Later, alone, he took a coin from his pocket and studied the sides. One bore the imprint of his father's head, the
reverse the arms of Jest. With his thumbnail he drew a line across the rounded cheek.
"Destiny," he whispered, and spun the coin.
He smiled as he looked down at his father's face.

***

Del Meoud stepped out of his office and was immediately blinded by swirling curtains of ruby mist. Impatiently
he lifted a hand and swept the infrared screen down over his eyes. At once his vision cleared, the shapes of men
showing as radiant phantoms against a luminous haze.
"Sergi!" he called. "Sergi! Over here!"
The engineer was big, thick across the shoulders with a neck like a bole of a tree. He wore stained pants, boots,
open tunic and a wide-brimmed hat dripped water. The screen across his eyes gave him a peculiar robotical look.
"Factor?"
"You're behind schedule," said Meoud. "The blowers around Hightown should be operating by now. Why aren't
they?"
"Snags," said the engineer bitterly. "Always snags. The pile should have been on full operation by now. The
blowers are fixed and ready to go as soon as I get the power, but do those electricians care? Wait, they tell me, no
point in rushing things. Hurry now, before a double-check has been made, could result in arc and delay." He spat into
the mud. "If you ask me, they're afraid of getting their hands dirty; I could do better with a gang from Lowtown."
Meoud stifled a sigh. It was always the same. Each spring he swore that it would never happen again, but always
it did. Little things united to build up into worrying delays. One day time would slip past too fast and summer would
find him unprepared. In that case, not even the charity of the guild would serve to protect him.
He turned as a man came stamping through the mist.
"Factor?"
"What is it, Langel?"
"I'm short of men. If you want the area sprayed as you said, I've got to have more help." Langel, like Sergi, was on
the resident maintenance staff.
"You've got all I can give you," snapped Meoud. He glared at Sergi, forgetting the other couldn't see his eyes.
"How about your men? You aren't using them, are you?"
"I need them to adjust the blowers. Anyway, you can't spray until they're working, not unless you want the stuff to
go all to hell."
That was true. Meoud scowled as he reviewed the problem. The trouble with Scar was that everything had to be
done in so much of a hurry once spring had arrived. The rains stopped, the sun began to climb over the horizon and,
immediately, the air was loaded with fog as the heat from the red giant drew up the water soaking the ground.
 These were not the best of conditions in which to ready the dwellings on Hightown for their rich occupants, rig
the protective blowers, spray the area with strong fungicides, clear the landing field, sterilize the warehouses and do
all the necessary things to make the station both attractive and safe.
"We'll have to get extra labor," he decided, "more men from Lowtown. We can issue them with the necessary
clothing and they'll be glad to earn the money." He looked at the two men. "I don't suppose either of you would like
to arrange it?"
"I'm busy," said Langel quickly, "too busy to go into that stinking heap of filth."
"Sergi?"
"The same." The big engineer turned his head, concentrating on something to one side. "Trouble," he said. "I'll be
seeing you, Factor."
Fuming, Meoud walked away, fighting his rage, and the mist, the mud, the very elements of Scar. The men hadn't
really refused and, if they had, he lacked the power to make them venture into Lowtown in the spring. It was obvious
that neither intended to leave the safety of the station area.
Ahead, hugging the edge of the landing field, he saw the outlines of a small, portable church. Despite the
streaming fog a line of men waited before the entrance. Cynically he watched them, knowing they queued less for
spiritual balm than for the wafer of concentrates given as the bread of forgiveness after they had done subjective
penance beneath the benediction light.
"You need help, brother?"
Meoud turned and stared at a figure in a rough, homespun robe. The cowl was rimmed with beads of water, the
bare feet in their sandals coated with grime, but there was nothing pitiful about the figure. Brother Glee, while not a
big man in the physical sense, was spiritually a giant. He stood, patiently waiting, the chipped bowl of crude plastic
empty in his hand.
Meoud glanced at it. "No luck today, Brother?"
"None has as yet given charity," corrected the monk quietly. "Spring, on Scar, is a time of labor and, in such times,
men tend to forget their less fortunate brethren."
"And at other times, too," said Meoud flatly. He raised his eye screen and squinted at the indistinct shape standing
before him. "Why?" he said. "I've offered to let you eat at the canteen at my expense, and you could use one of the
prefabricated huts as a church. Is it essential for you to live as animals in the mud?"
"Yes," said Brother Glee simply. "You are a kindly man, Factor Meoud, but in many ways you lack understanding.
How could we dare preach to the unfortunate if we did not share their misery? How could they trust us, believe in the
message we carry?"
"All men are brothers," said Meoud. "I don't wish to mock you, Brother, but there are many who would not agree
with your teaching."
"That is not our teaching," said the monk patiently. "It is 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you':
the golden rule and the logical one of any thinking, feeling man. Look at them," he said, turning to gesture to the
patiently waiting line. "Think of one thing, Factor Meoud. There, but for the grace of God, go I! Remember that and
all else will fall into place."
He did not gesture with his bowl. The factor was primed and in a condition to give, but to force him to donate
would be the result of pride, pride in the successful arrangement of an emotionally-loaded argument There was
another reason; Brother Glee was too good a psychologist to press his advantage. A donation now could have a later
backlash. No man likes to think that he has been used or maneuvered.
"I need men," said Meoud suddenly, "strong men who are willing to work under orders. They will receive full
rations for each day they work."
"And pay?"
"Equal to double rations," said Meoud. It was no time to haggle. "Treble rations for each man for eight days." He
looked at the eyes shadowed by the cowl. "It is enough?"
"Would you work for such a sum after being starved all winter?"
"Yes," said Meoud firmly, and believed it. "If I were starving I would work for food alone."
"So you say, brother; but have you ever starved?"
"No," admitted the factor. "Food while they work and pay enough to buy food for three days more each day they
work. I can do no more, Brother; you must believe that."
"I believe it," said the monk. "And, brother, we thank you."

***

The man was small and round, with a sweating face and an anxious expression. He wore a pointed cap and his
wrists and ankles showed ruffs of yellow. His pants and blouse were of cerise striped with emerald. "Sir!" he called. "A
moment, sir! Your attention, if you please."
Dumarest paused, casually interested. Farther down the line, a man lowered his hand, his face bleak as he turned
to his wares.
"You are a man of discernment," babbled the vendor. "I could spot that in a moment, the way you entered, the
way you walk. You are no stranger to this world, sir."
His voice was shrill with a peculiar penetrating quality which demanded attention. He stood before his wares,
which were spread on one of the display stands in the station building. Both bar and canteen were fully operational
now and the tables and chairs were fully occupied. Spring was leading to summer and a feverish excitement tinged
the air.
Dumarest straightened and caught sight of Ewan busy with his shells. Men freshly awakened from deep sleep
clustered around him and the air was full of the low buzz of conversation.
"Sir!" The vendor plucked at his arm. "Your attention for but a moment." His other hand picked up a shimmering
heap of plastic. "Look at this suit, sir. Have you ever seen anything as light? Completely acid-proof, and that is only
the start. Acid, fire, rot, spore, mold and fungus: nothing can penetrate this special material. Feel it, sir, handle it. I
would appreciate your opinion."
Thoughtfully Dumarest examined the suit. It was light and flexible, a shimmering glory in his hands. Ignoring the
actual material, he tested the seals and looked at the compact mechanism between the shoulders.
"The seals are guaranteed to withstand fifty atmospheres of pressure either way and yet can be opened with a
touch. The filters are of triple construction and set in three distinct places. The absorption material can contain sixty
times its own weight of perspiration. Dressed in one of these suits, sir, you could penetrate deep into the most
parasitical growth of fungi on the planet."
"Have you tried it?" asked Dumarest.
The vendor frowned. "How do you mean, sir?"
"Have you tested it personally?"
The man smiled. "But, naturally, sir. How else could I offer it for sale with a genuine assurance that it will do
everything I claim? I have worn it for five days under facsimile conditions and—"
"But not on Scar," interrupted Dumarest. "You haven't actually used it on a field expedition?"
"On this world, sir, no," admitted the vendor. "But the suit is fully guaranteed. You have absolutely nothing to
fear."
"I see," said Dumarest. He frowned at the mechanism riding between the shoulders. "What would happen if I fell
and buried my shoulders deep in mud?"
"The air-cell would continue to work under all conditions, sir."
"And suppose, at the same time, a fungi exploded and coated me with dangerous spores?"
"The filters would take care of that. Spores down to microscopic dimensions would be caught in one or the other
of the treble filters. I am perfectly willing to demonstrate the suit under any conditions you may select, sir."
"Do that," suggested Dumarest. "Wear one and follow an expedition; test it as they order. If you remain alive and
well you may possibly sell them—next year."
The vendor gave a pained smile. "Surely you jest, sir?"
"No," said Dumarest flatly. "I am perfectly serious. It is you who must be joking to ask men to buy your suits and
risk their lives on your unsupported word. These men," he gestured to the other sellers of suits, "live here; they know
the conditions. They know they will have to answer for every malfunction of any suit they sell, to the buyer or to his
friends. Before you can hope to compete with them, you must equal their reputation."
Dropping the suit, he moved to where the man who had lifted his hand waited. "Hello, Zegun, you looked
worried. Has he been stealing your business?"
"Not yet, Earl, but when you showed interest I was anxious," Zegun picked up one of his suits. "He's a smart
talker with a flashy line of goods. Cheap too. I can't begin to get near him."
"You don't have to," said Dumarest. "Not until he changes his design. With the filters where he has them and the
air cell way back on the shoulders, it's impossible for one man alone to change either the filters or the battery. If the
cell does keep working no matter what that isn't important, but who wants to risk his life on a thing like that?"
"No one," said Zegun emphatically. "I'll pass the word. You ready to be suited up now?"
"Later," said Dumarest. "Keep me one by."
He walked on, moving through the crowd, catching the vibrant air of expectancy which pervaded the place. It
was always like this just before summer; men would boast a little, make plans, find partners and try to learn from
those who had been there before.
A buyer stood on a low platform calling for those willing to sign up with his organization. He offered the basic
cost plus a percentage of what was gained but neglected to stress that the basic cost had first to be met before profits
could be earned. If a man worked hard and long, he could just make enough to last until the next season.
Another offered a guaranteed sum against a deposited investment.
A third knew exactly where to find a clump of golden spore.
Deafened by the drone of voices, Dumarest passed through the vestibule and out into the fog. It was thinning
now, the ruby-tinted mist dissolving beneath the growing heat of the swollen sun. It hung just over the horizon, a
monstrous expanse of writhing flame and dull coruscations spotted with black penumbra. It was dying as Scar was
dying, as the universe was dying. But Scar and its sun would be among the first to go.
He turned and walked to where the screaming whine of blowers tore the mist to shreds. A cleared space opened
before him beyond the fans and the neat paths and colored domes of Hightown, each dome interconnected so that it
was possible to stay completely under cover. Men wearing heavy clothing walked the paths with their sprays.
Suddenly restless, he turned to the landing field. Already the ships were arriving loaded with stores, supplies,
exotic foods and manufactured goods. There were people too: the hard-eyed buyers, entrepreneurs, entertainers,
vendors of a dozen kinds, young hopefuls intent on making a quick fortune and old prospectors unable to stay away.
There were travelers also, those who were willing to ride on a low passage doped, frozen and ninety percent
dead, risking the fifteen percent death rate tor the sake of cheap travel. A few would be lucky; many would not live
through the summer; most would end in Lowtown, human debris at the end of the line.
"The fools!" said a voice behind him. "The stupid, ignorant fools! Why do they do it?"
"For adventure," said Dumarest. "Because they need to know what lies beyond; because it's a way of life." He
turned. "Your way of life, Clemdish. How else did you come to Scar?"
Clemdish was a small, wiry man, barely coming up to Dumarest's shoulder, with angry, deep-set eyes and a
flattened nose. He scowled at the ship and the handful of travelers coming from it.
"I was cheated," he said. "The handler lied; he told me the ship was bound for Wain." His scowl deepened. "Some
people have a peculiar sense of humor."
"You were lucky," said Dumarest. "He could have cut the dope and let you wake screaming." He stared at the
advancing group. The chance of seeing someone he knew was astronomically small, but they were his kind, restless,
eager to keep traveling, always on the move.
"Fools," said Clemdish again. "Walking into a setup like this. How the hell do they expect to get a stake? They're
stranded and don't yet know it." He rubbed at his nose. "But they'll find out," he promised. "Crazy fools."
"Shut up," said Dumarest.
"You feel sorry for them?" Clemdish shrugged. "Then go ahead and hold their hands, wipe their noses, give them
the big hello."
"You talk too much," said Dumarest, "and mostly about the wrong things. Have you anything fixed for the
summer?"
"Why? Are you offering me a job?"
"I could be. Interested?"
"If you're thinking of prospecting, then I'm interested," said Clemdish. "On a share basis only. If you're thinking of
taking wages, then I don't know. Something else may come up, and it's certain that you'll never get rich working for
someone else." He tilted his head as something cracked the sky. "What the hell—"
A ship dropped down from space, held by the magic of its Erhaft drive, aimed arrowlike at the field below.
Clemdish whistled.
"Look at that, Earl! A private if ever I saw one! How much money do you need before you can own your own
ship?"
"A lot," said Dumarest.
"Then you're looking at real money." Clemdish narrowed his eyes. "What's that blazoned on the hull? Some crazy
pattern, but I can't quite make it out. It's familiar though; I've seen it before."
"In a deck of cards," said Dumarest wonderingly. "I've seen it too; it's a joker."
Together they watched the ship as it came to rest.

Chapter Three
Jellag Haig rested cautiously on the edge of his chair and looked thoughtfully at his goblet of wine. It was a deep
blue, sparkling as it swirled in its crystal container, reflecting the light in sapphire glitters.
"Our own vintage," said Jocelyn, "from mutated berries grown under rigid control. I would appreciate your
opinion."
 The trader settled a little deeper into his chair. He was expected to flatter, of course. It was not every day that he
was the guest of royalty, but he was experienced enough to know that a wise man never criticized his superiors,
certainly not when they had invited him into their vessel, not when there seemed to be a strong possibility of doing
business.
Carefully he waved the goblet beneath his nostrils, exaggerating the gesture a little but not enough to make it an
obvious farce. The wine had a sharp, clean scent, reminiscent of ice and snow and a polar wind, with an undercurrent
of something else which eluded him. He tasted it, holding the tart astringency against his tongue before allowing it to
trickle gently down his throat.
It was unnecessary to flatter.
"My father worked for ten years to perfect the formula," said Jocelyn as he poured the trader more wine. "He
based it on an old recipe he found in an ancient book and I think he made something in the region of a thousand
experiments before he was satisfied. We call it Temporal Fire."
Jellag raised his eyebrows. "For what reason, my lord?"
"You will find out," promised Jocelyn. He smiled at the trader's startled expression. "You see? The full effects are
not immediately apparent. Young lovers find the vintage particularly suited to their needs. Would you care for more?"
Jellag firmly set down his goblet. "I crave your indulgence, my lord, and your understanding. At my age such wine
is to be avoided."
"Then try this," Jocelyn put aside the bottle and lifted the decanter filled with a warm redness. "You will find this
acceptable, trader. That I promise."
Jellag sipped at the wine, wishing that he were elsewhere. These high-born families and their inbreeding! But they
had power, power aside from the money power he himself possessed. He blinked. The wine was the local product
colored into visual strangeness. He sipped again and wondered what else had been added aside from the dye. There
was nothing that he could determine, but that meant little. He relaxed as his host drank, refilled his goblet and drank
again.
"You prefer this vintage, trader?"
"It is more familiar, my lord." Jellag gulped the wine, a little ashamed of his suspicions and eager to show he had
no mistrust. "But the other is amusing; it would make an ideal jest."
Jocelyn smiled. "You appreciate a jest?"
"I have a sense of humor, my lord." Jellag felt it safe to claim that. He drank a little more, conscious of a faint
carelessness, a disturbing light-headedness. Had something been added to the wine, some subtle drug to which his
host had the antidote? He watched as ruby liquid ran from the decanter into his goblet. "With respect, my lord, may I
ask what brings you to Scar?"
"Destiny."
Jellag blinked. "My lord?"
"The workings of fate." Jocelyn leaned forward in his chair, his eyes hard as they searched the trader's face. "Do
you believe in destiny? Do you believe that, at times, some force of which we are not wholly aware directs our
actions, or, rather, presents us with a choice of action? At such times what do you do?" He did not wait for an answer.
"You guess," he said, "or you ponder the improbables and do what you think best. The wise man spins a coin." He
lifted the decanter. "More wine?"
Jellag sucked in his cheeks. Had he been invited aboard simply to act as drinking companion to a madman? No,
he thought, not mad. Odd, perhaps, strange even, but not mad. The rich were never that.
"I spoke with the factor," said Jocelyn smoothly. "I wanted the advice of a man who knew his business. He told
me that you were such a one. How long have you been coming to Scar?"
"Many years, my lord."
"And you make a profit?"
Jellag nodded.
"How?"
Jellag sighed. "I buy and I sell, my lord," he said patiently, "rare spores if they are available, useful ones if they are
not. Scar is a world ripe with fungoid growth," he explained. "Each season there are mutations and crossbreedings
without number. Many of the products of such random blending are unique. There is a sewage farm on Inlan which is
now a rich source of food and valuable soil. Spores from Scar were adapted to that environment, fungoids feeding on
the organic matter and turning waste into rich loam. On Aye other spores are cultivated to produce a hampering
growth on voracious insect life." Jellag spread his hands. "I could quote endless examples."
"I am sure you could." Jocelyn frowned thoughtfully. "I owe you an apology," he said. "I thought you were an
ordinary trader, but clearly I was wrong. You are an expert in a specialized field, a mycologist. I take it that you have
to grow and check, breed and test the various spores you obtain?"
 Jellag was reluctant to be honest. "Not exactly, my lord. The season on Scar is too short for me to test in depth; I
rely on my laboratory to do that. But when I arrive, I have a shrewd idea of what to look for: spores which will
develop growths of minute size so as to penetrate invisible cracks in stone, to grow there, to expand, to crush the
rock into powder; others to rear as high as a tree to provide shade for tender crops; still more to adjust a planet's
ecology; edible fungi of a hundred different varieties; parasitical growths with caps containing unusual drugs or stems
from which products can be made; molds which act as living laboratories; slimes which can be grown to need. The
economy of a world could be based on the intelligent use of Fungi." Jellag blinked, wondering at his feeling of pride.
And yet, why should I not be proud? A specialist! A builder of worlds!
Jocelyn leaned forward and poured his guest more wine. "You are a clever man, my friend. You would be most
welcome on Jest."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Most welcome," repeated Jocelyn meaningfully. "I am a believer in destiny. It seems as if fate itself directed me
to this world." He sipped his wine, eyes enigmatic as he stared over the rim of his goblet. "You have a family?"
"A wife and two daughters, my lord. The eldest girl is married, with children of her own."
"You are fortunate to have grandchildren. They, too, are fortunate to have so skillful a grandfather, a man who
could do much for his house." He lifted his goblet. "I drink to your family."
They'll never believe it, thought Jellag. The ruler of a world drinking to their health! His hand shook a little as he
followed Jocelyn's example; courtesy dictated that he empty the goblet. Politeness ensured that, in turn, he found the
boldness to return the toast.
"Now, my friend," said Jocelyn lifting the decanter. "Tell me more about your fascinating profession."

***

Adrienne stormed into her cabin, her nostrils white with anger and her eyes glinting in the hard pallor of her face.
"The fool!" she said. "The stupid, besotted fool!"
"My lady?" Her maid, a slender, dark-haired girl cowered as she approached. She had unpleasant memories of
earlier days when her mistress had vented her rage in personal violence.
"Get out!" Adrienne hardly looked at the girl. "Wait! Tell the cyber I wish to see him. Immediately!"
She was brushing her hair when Yeon entered the cabin. He stood watching her, his hands as usual hidden within
the sleeves of his robe and his cowl thrown back from his shaven skull. The brush made a soft rasping sound as it
pulled through her hair; it was almost the sound of an animal breathing, a reflection of her inner self. Abruptly, she
threw aside the brush and turned, facing the silent figure in scarlet.
"You were adviser to my father," she said. "Is it you I have to thank for being married to a fool?"
"My lady?"
"He's down there now in the lower cabin drinking with a common trader; he's praising him, toasting his family,
promising him ridiculous things. My husband!" She rose, tall, hard and arrogant. "Has he no dignity, no pride? Does he
regard the rule of a world so lightly?"
Detached in his appraisal, Yeon made no comment, watching her as she paced the floor. No one could have
called her beautiful and spoken with truth. Her face was too thin, her eyes set too close, her jaw too prominent. Her
figure was angular, though clearly feminine, as if she deliberately cultivated a masculine stance. The long strands of
her hair hung about her shoulders, loose now, but normally dragged back and caught at the base of her skull. Her
mouth alone was out of place; the lower lip was full, betraying her sensuousness.
"Why?" she demanded. "Why, of all men, did my father have to pick him?"
Yeon moved a little. "Your genetic strains are highly compatible, my lady. Both your husband and your father were
most insistent on this point; both agreed that, above all, the union should be fertile."
"A brood mare to a fool, is that all I am?" Rage drove her across the floor and back again, the metal heels of her
shoes tearing at the fine weave of the carpet, her hair swirling to glint ashen in the light. Abruptly she halted, glaring
at the cyber. "Well?"
"You wish me to answer, my lady?"
"Would I have asked if I did not?"
"No, my lady." Yeon paused and then, in the same even monotone said, "You are the wife of the ruler of a world,
a queen. Many would envy you your position."
"Are you now saying that I should be grateful!" For a moment it seemed as if she would strike the enigmatic
figure in scarlet, and then, as if coming to her senses, she shuddered and lowered her upraised arm. "I am distraught,"
she said unevenly, "unaware of what I was doing. I apologize for any offensive behavior."
Yeon bowed. "No apology is necessary, my lady. No offense was taken." He watched as she returned to the seat
before the mirror. "You disturb yourself needlessly. Against the major pattern, the trifles of which you complain are
meaningless. I would advise you to ignore such petty irritations."
Her eyes stared into the mirror and found his reflection there.
"Before agreeing to the marriage contract," the cyber continued, "your father asked me to predict the logical
outcome of the proposed union. I must admit that my answer was hampered by lack of knowledge of Jest. A true
prediction can only be based on assured fact."
She turned, her face tilted up at his shaven skull. "Continue," she ordered, remembering veiled hints Elgone had
dropped and which she had been too busy or too annoyed to understand. "What was your prediction?"
"You will have a child, a son. Failing other offspring of your family—and the genetic forecast promises none—that
child will inherit the rule not only of Jest but also of Eldfane."
She frowned. The family was inbred, she knew; but she did not think it that infertile.
"It is a matter of the direct line," said Yeon, guessing her thoughts. "Those of a station suitable for union with
either of your two brothers are incompatible. The laws of Eldfane do not recognize the issue of unregistered unions,
and your father will never consent to accept a commoner as the legal wife of either of his sons. Therefore, your child
must be the logical heir of both worlds."
Sharp white teeth bit thoughtfully at the fullness of her lower lip. The future prospects of her unborn son were
bright, but what about herself ? Yeon remained enigmatic.
"Once the child is safely conceived, my lady, many things can happen. I hesitate to do other than touch on
possibilities."
"Jocelyn could die," she said harshly. "One way or another, he could be disposed of. I would still remain Queen of
Jest."
"Perhaps, my lady."
"There is doubt?"
"There is always doubt. New laws could be passed to take care of that eventuality, perhaps old ones already exist.
I have still to assimilate much data appertaining to the world. It would be wise to move with caution."
"To wait, you mean, to act the dutiful wife, and, while waiting, to be the laughing stock of all who see the conduct
of my husband. Destiny," she snapped. "How can a grown man be such a fool? How can he hope to retain the rule of
his world? Has he no nobles weary of his antics?" Rage lifted her once more from the chair and sent her striding the
floor. "Did you hear him when he decided to head for Scar, his talk of omens and signs sent by fate? Can such a man
be allowed to rule?"
"Do not underestimate him, my lady. Many men wear a mask to hide their thoughts."
"Not my dear husband, cyber," she said bitterly. "I know more than you. He is what he appears to be." She
frowned, her anger dissipating as she considered her future. Yeon was right, it would be ill-advised to act prematurely.
First she would have to make friends, gain sympathizers and, above all, ensure the conception of her child. That, at
least, should not be difficult.

***

Dumarest paused and looked up at the low range of peaked hills, their sides scored and gullied, masses of
exposed stone looking like teeth in a rotting mouth.
"There's nothing up there," said Clemdish. He eased back the wide-brimmed hat he wore and mopped at his
streaming face. Overhead, the monstrous disk of the sun glowed with furnace heat. Even though it was barely
summer the temperature was soaring, a grim promise of what was to come. "I tried it once," he continued, "the first
season I was here and damn near killed myself climbing to the top. It was a waste of time. There's nothing beyond;
just the reverse slope running down to the sea."
"I'd like to see it," said Dumarest.
Clemdish shrugged. "Who's stopping you?" The small man looked around, found a rock and sat down. "I've gone
far enough. It's a waste of effort, Earl. The wind is from the sea all the time, and any spores will be blown back inland.
We'd do better scouting farther back this side of the range."
Dumarest ignored him, concentrating on the hills. If he were to take the gully up to where it joined a mesh of
shallow ruts, swing left to hit that crevasse, ease himself along until he reached a jutting mass of stone and then edge
right again, he shouldn't have much difficulty in making his way to the top.
He turned at the sound of a soft thud. Clemdish had slipped off his pack and was rummaging through its interior.
He looked up defiantly.
"I'm hungry," he said. "I figure on taking time out to rest and eat. You going to join me?"
Dumarest shook his head. "I'm going to take a look at what's beyond those hills. You wait here and guard the
packs." He undid the straps of his own and dropped it beside the one Clemdish had thrown down. "Go easy on the
water; it's a long way back to the station."
"Too damn long," grumbled the small man. "Coming this far out was a crazy thing to do. It's bad enough now,
what's it going to be like later?" He scowled after Dumarest as he moved away. "Hey, don't forget your markers."
Dumarest smiled. "I thought you said it was a waste of time?"
"I still think so," said Clemdish stubbornly. "But take them just the same." He threw a couple of thin rods at
Dumarest. "Sling them over your back, and Earl."
"What now?"
"Be careful."
"What else?"
"I mean it," insisted Clemdish. "You're a big man, heavy. I don't want to bust a gut carrying you down. Remember
that."
The first part of the climb wasn't very difficult. Dumarest followed his memorized route and paused as he
reached the mass of stone to catch his breath. The temptation to strip was strong, but he resisted it. The sun was too
big, too loaded with harmful radiation. Invisible infrared light could burn a man before he knew it, and there was
always the chance of a random spore. Clothing might not keep them out, but it forced the body to perspire and so
would wash them from the flesh.
He edged right, cautiously testing each foothold before applying his full weight, gripping firmly with both hands
as he moved along. The sun-baked surface was treacherous, the soil beneath weakened by the winter rains and ready
to crumble at any misdirected impact. Higher it wasn't so bad, for masses of stone, leached from the dirt, formed a
secure matrix; he covered the remainder of the journey at fairly high speed.
Resting on the summit of a peak, he looked around.
The view was superb.
Looking back the way he had come he could see the scarred plain rolling towards the horizon, the rough ground
interspersed with patches of smoothness where the trapped ooze of winter had firmed during the spring. They
looked darker, richer than the rest, and countless buds of wakening growth dotted them like a scatter of snow. Other
growths, less advanced, showed wherever bare dirt faced the sky. In the shadow of rock, molds and slimes stretched
as spores multiplied and grew in the mounting heat.
Small in the distance, Clemdish sat with his back against a rock, his legs sprawled before him and the packs
resting to one side beneath the protection of one arm. Dumarest shaded his eyes with the edge of his hand. Farther
back, almost invisible against the faint haze still rising from the ground, the tiny, antlike figures of scouting men could
be seen as they swung in a circle around the station. The landing field itself was below the horizon, since Scar was a
dense but small planet.
Dumarest turned and felt the soft touch of a breeze against his perspiring face. From where he stood the ground
fell sharply away in an almost sheer drop before it eased into a gullied slope running down to the sea.
There was no sand and no shore as such. The winter rains which had lashed the high ground for eons was
gradually washing the soil and rock into the sea. A sullen red beneath the sun, its surface was broken only by the
occasional ripple of aquatic life, calm in the knowledge that, given time, it would spread over the planet in
unquestioned domination of the entire world.
Dumarest moved and a rock, loosened by his foot, fell tumbling, bouncing high as it hit stone and rolling until it
dropped over the edge of the cliff and fell into the sea. Ripples spread, shimmering in shades of crimson and scarlet,
dull maroon and glowing ruby, the colors fading and blending as the disturbance spread, the tiny waves dying at last.
He turned, looking back to where Clemdish sat sprawled in sleep, and then looked back at the sea. With one slip
he could easily follow the rock. A fall could break his leg or send him tumbling from the cliff.
Carefully, he lowered himself down to where a boulder thrust from the dirt, a temporary resting place. Budding
growths thrust smooth protrusions to either side, and Dumarest smiled at the evidence of his suspicions. The wind
was from the sea, but released spores had been driven back against the side of the hill rather than carried over the
summit. Better still, if the wind was steady the spores would be driven back to their original sites. The chance of
scattering with the resultant crossbreeding would be diminished. Logically here, if anywhere on Scar, the fungi would
breed true.
Dirt showered from beneath a foot as he moved and he froze, feeling sweat running down his face, fingers like
claws as he gouged at the soil. More dirt shifted; a small rock fell. There was a sudden yielding of hardened surface, a
miniature avalanche, gathered momentum as it slid towards the cliff.
Dumarest rolled, his muscles exploding into a fury of action as he released his grip and threw himself sideways
to where a rock thrust from the slope. He hit it, felt it shift beneath his weight and threw himself still farther, rolling as
the stone joined the showering detritus. He choked on the rising dust, rolled again and spread arms and legs wide in
an effort to gain traction. Desperately he snatched the knife from his boot and drove the blade to the hilt in the
ground. It held, and he clung to it, trying to ease the strain on the blade, rasping his booted feet as he fought to find
purchase.
Beneath him the sea boiled with the shower of falling stones and dirt.
The knife held. His boots found something on which to press. The fingers of his free hand dug and found
comforting solidity. The dust dissipated and, after a long moment, he lifted his head and looked around.
He hung on the edge of a sheer drop, his feet inches from where moist soil showed the meshed tendrils of
subterranean growth. To one side showed more wet earth, graying as it dried beneath the wind and sun. Above lay
apparent firmness.
He eased towards it, moving an inch at a time, pressing his body hard against the dirt so as to diminish the strain.
His boots stabbed at the mesh of tendrils, held, and allowed his free hand to find a fresh purchase. He crawled spider-
like up the slope to comparative safety. Finally, knife in hand, he reached the secure refuge of a shallow depression in
a circling cup of embedded stone.
His face down, he fought to control the quivering of his muscles, the reaction from sudden and unexpected
exertion. Slowly the roar of pulsing blood faded in his ears and the rasp of his breathing eased, as did the pounding
of his heart. He rolled and looked at the knife in his hand, then thrust it at his boot. He missed and tried again, this
time stooping to make sure the blade was in its sheath.
He stiffened as he saw the cluster of hemispheres at his side.
They were two inches across, marbled with a peculiar pattern of red and black stippled with yellow. He had seen
that pattern before. Every man at the station had seen it, but it was essential to be sure.
Dumarest took a small folder from his pocket. It was filled with colored depictions of various types of fungi both
in their early stages of growth and at maturity. He riffled the pages and found what he wanted. Holding the page
beside the hemispheres at his side he checked each of fifteen confirming details.
Slowly he put the book away.
It was the dream of every prospector on Scar. It was the jackpot, the big find, the one thing which could make
them what they wanted to be. There were the rare and fabulously valuable motes which could live within the human
metabolism, acting as a symbiote and giving longevity, heightened awareness, enhanced sensory appreciation and
increased endurance.
There was golden spore all around him, in a place which he had almost died to find.

***

Clemdish lifted his head his eyes widening as he looked at Dumarest. "Earl, what the hell happened to you?"
He rose as Dumarest slumped to the ground. His gray tunic, pants and boots were scarred; blood oozed from
beneath his fingernails; his face was haggard with fatigue.
"I told you not to go," said Clemdish. "I warned you it was a waste of time. What the hell happened? Did you fall?"
Dumarest nodded.
"You need food," said the little man, "water, something to give you a lift." He produced a canteen; from a phial he
shook a couple of tablets and passed them to Dumarest. "Swallow these; get them down." He watched as Dumarest
obeyed. "I was getting ready to come after you. Man, you look a wreck!"
"I feel one." Dumarest drew a deep breath, filling his lungs and expelling the vitiated air. The drugs he had
swallowed were beginning to work; already he felt less fatigued. "I fell," he said. "I went down too far and couldn't get
back. The surface was like jelly. It refused to support my weight."
"It wouldn't." Clemdish dug again into his pack and produced a slab of concentrates. "Chew on this." He watched
as Dumarest ate. "I tried to tell you," he reminded. "I told you climbing those hills was a waste of time. You could
have got yourself killed, and for what?"
Dumarest said nothing.
"You've lost your markers too," pointed out the little man. "Not that it matters. We've got plenty more, too damn
many." He scowled up at the sun. "A waste of time," he muttered. "Too much time."
"All right," said Dumarest. "You've told me. Now forget it."
"We can't," said Clemdish. "We daren't. We've got to get back before it gets too hot."
He rose from where he sat and kicked at a clump of mottled fungi. Already the growths were much larger than
they had been when Dumarest began his climb. The entire land surface of the planet was literally bursting with life as
the growing heat of the sun triggered the dormant spores into development. The pace would increase even more as
the summer progressed, the fungi swelling visibly in the compressed and exaggerated life cycle of the planet.
To the visiting tourists it made a unique spectacle. To the prospectors and those depending on the harvest for
their living it meant a dangerous and nerve-racking race against time.
Dumarest ate the last of the concentrate, washing it down with a drink of tepid water. He lay back, his face
shadowed against the sun, feeling the twitch and tension of overstrained muscles. The journey from the place where
he had found the golden spore had been a nightmare. The ground had yielded too easily and he'd been forced to
make a wide detour, fighting for every inch of upward progress. By the time he had reached safety, he had been
practically exhausted.
Then had come the downward journey, easier but still not without risk. Fatigue had made him clumsy, and twice
he had taken nasty falls. But now he was safe, able to rest, to relax and feel the ground firm and stable beneath his
back.
"Earl!"
Dumarest jerked, suddenly conscious that he had drifted into sleep.
"Earl!" It was Clemdish. "Earl! Come and look at this!"
He was standing well over to one side, a mass of fungi reaching halfway to his knee; those were twisted,
tormented growths, striped with puce and emerald. He called again as Dumarest climbed to his feet.
"What is it?"
"Something good, I think. Come and check it out, will you?" Clemdish waited until Dumarest had joined him and
then pointed. "That's a basidiomycete if ever I saw one. Worth collecting, too. Agreed?"
Dumarest dropped to his knees and examined what Clemdish had found. Ringed by the puce and emerald
growths was a group of spiraloids of cream dotted with flecks of brown and topaz, the whole cluster seeming to be
the towers of some fairyland castle. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the folder. It was already open to show
the pictures of golden spore. He flipped the pages until he found the information he wanted.
"You're right," he told the little man. "This one is worth money. We'd better mark it and clear the area."
He swept his boot across the surrounding growths as Clemdish returned to the packs for one of the thin rods. He
thrust it close beside the cluster of spirals. Around the rod was wrapped a ten-foot length of thread and the top was
split so as to hold a card marked with their names. All the ground within the compass of the thread was theirs to
harvest.
Clemdish joined Dumarest in clearing away the unwanted fungi to give the selected growth more room to
develop.
"That should do it," he said. "Our first claim. Unless someone steals our marker," he added, "or switches cards, or
gets here before we do."
"You're a pessimist," said Dumarest.
"It's been known," insisted Clemdish. "You should know that. Some of the boys last season swore that someone
had shifted their markers. If they find him, he'll never do it again." He looked at the sun and ran his tongue over his
lips. "Let's get moving," he suggested. "You all right now, Earl?"
"I can manage."
"Well head directly back," said Clemdish. "Cut a straight line from here to the station. If we see anything good
we'll mark it, but we won't stray from the route. We can come out later," he added, "when you've had a chance to get
some rest. Run a circle close to the station and check out a couple of spots I know. You agree. Earl?"
Dumarest nodded.
"Then let's go. I'll take the lead."
"Just a minute," said Dumarest. "There's something you should know." He looked at the other man. "We've found
the jackpot," he said quietly. "There's a clump of golden spore on the other side of the hills."
Clemdish sat down, his legs suddenly weak.

Chapter Four
Heldar felt the gnawing pain in his chest, the scratching irritation and the liquid demanding release. He coughed;
the initial expelling of air triggered a bout of hacking which left him weak. Grimly, he looked at the red flecks staining
his hand.
The small, round vendor with the ruff of yellow at wrists and ankles looked at him with sympathy. "You need
help," he said. "Why don't you see a physician?"
Heldar grunted. The station had no resident medical technician, only a snap-freeze cabinet where the severely
injured could be held in stasis and the deep-sleep facilities, which could be adapted to promote healing. All else had
to wait until a traveling physician arrived to ply his trade. Such doctors had a strict order of priority: money came
first. Heldar had to raise a loan.
 Craden shook his head when Heldar mentioned it. He was new to Scar, but was far from inexperienced. Casually
he inspected one of the yellow ruffs circling his wrist, "You work for the company, don't you? Wouldn't they make you
an advance?"
"Zopolis wouldn't lend his own mother the price of a meal," said Heldar viciously. He had already tried and been
refused. The pain in his chest mounted and he coughed again. When he recovered he looked frightened. "It's killing
me," he gasped. "What the hell can I do?"
The vendor inspected his other ruff. "Beg," he suggested. "What else?"
Heldar left the room and stood blinking in the glare of the sun. It seemed to cover most of the sky with the
glowing fury of its disk, but that was an optical illusion. It was big, but not that big. If it had been Scar would long ago
have shattered into a ring of debris.
He coughed again. The chest pain was getting worse as it grew hotter and there was still more heat to come.
Heldar reached back to where his hat hung from his neck on a thong and drew it over his eyes. Beg, Craden had
advised. But from whom? The monks had nothing but the barest essentials. The factor couldn't give what he didn't
have, and neither he or anyone else would make what would have to be an outright gift of money.
He stared over the field, seeing the ships waiting to carry their passengers home and others discharging people in
order to get away. They were commercial, and, if they carried a physician at all, he would be exactly the same as the
one in Hightown. There was only one chance, the small, private vessel with the peculiar insignia. It carried royalty
and would be certain to have a physician. Maybe, if I'm humble and pile it on? He coughed again and spat a mouthful
of blood; there would be no need for pretense.

***

"Sit down," said the doctor. "Relax. Throw your head back until it touches the rest. Farther. That's right. Now just
relax."
Gratefully Heldar did as ordered. He felt euphoric, still unable to believe his luck. Coincidence, he told himself. I
just managed to see the right man at the right time, the boss man himself. I hit the right button and he did the rest.
He heard metallic tinklings behind him and resisted the desire to turn. The doctor's voice was flat and indifferent.
"Do you wish to stay, my lord?"
"Will you be long?"
"For the examination? No, my lord."
"Then I will stay," said Jocelyn. He looked down at the patient's face. "You have nothing to worry about," he
soothed. "Just do as Erlan tells you to do."
Erlan, thought Heldar, the physician. And the one who just spoke is the boss man, the ruler of Jest. But where
were the courtiers? The guards? He felt the desire to cough; then something entered his mouth and sent a spray down
his throat, killing the desire. He tensed.
"Relax," said the doctor sharply. "Constriction of the muscles does not ease my task."
Something followed what had contained the spray. Seemingly huge, it slid down his throat, probing past the back
of the throat, the tonsils and penetrating into the windpipe. There was a soft hissing, and abruptly he lost the sense of
feeling from his mouth to his lungs. Wider tubes followed; he could tell by the mechanical dilation of his mouth.
"I have expanded the path to the lungs, my lord," said Erlan, as if commenting to a colleague. "Now we pass
down the light, so, and swivel, so." He drew in his breath. "A classic case," he murmured. "Extreme erosion of the
junction together with scarification of the trachea and widespread seepage." His voice faded as he manipulated more
instruments. Metal scraped on crystal. Heldar felt something tickle deep in his chest, then the tube was withdrawn
from his throat and another spray returned feeling to the numb areas. Automatically, he coughed.
"Some wine?" Jocelyn extended a glass filled with amber glintings. "Sip," he advised, "your throat is probably a
little tender."
"Thank you, my lord." Heldar sat upright and turned his head. Erlan sat at a microscope studying a slide. As he
watched he changed it for another and increased the magnification.
"Well?" said Jocelyn.
"There is no doubt, my lord." Erlan straightened from his instrument and casually threw both slides into an
incinerator. A flash of blue flame converted them both to ash. "The man is suffering from a fungous infection,
obviously parasitic and of some duration. It could have been caused by a single spore which has increased by
geometrical progression. Both lungs are affected, the left almost hopelessly so, and the inevitable result, unless there
is surgery, is death."
Heldar gulped his wine, oblivious of the sting to his throat.
Jocelyn was gentle. "Therapy?"
 "The infection is aerobic. It would be possible to seal and collapse one lung and coat the area infected of the
other with inhibiting compounds. The capability of respiration would be greatly reduced; the patient would have to
rest with the minimum of effort for at least a year."
"The alternative?"
"Complete transplants, my lord, either from an organ bank or from new organs grown from the patient's cells. The
former would be quicker, the latter more to be preferred, but in both cases a major operation coupled with extensive
therapy is unavoidable."
"But he would live?"
Erlan sounded a little impatient. "Certainly, my lord, the operation would be a matter of routine."
"Thank you," said Jocelyn. "You may leave us." He turned and poured Heldar more wine. "You heard?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And understood?" Jocelyn was insistent. "I mean really understood?"
"Unless I receive an operation I shall inevitably die," said Heldar, and then added, "my lord."
Jocelyn sighed. "Exactly. I wanted to be sure you fully comprehended the situation. I can, of course, arrange for
you to have the necessary treatment but there are conditions."
"Anything," blurted Heldar, "anything at all, my lord."
"You would come with me to Jest under restrictive indenture?"
Heldar nodded. What had he to lose? "When?" he asked. "The treatment, my lord, when would it be given?"
"That," said Jocelyn softly, "depends entirely on yourself; not as to when, of course, but whether or not it will be
given at all." He reached behind him to where the wine stood on a table. A coin rested beside the bottle. He picked it
up and tossed it to Heldar. "Look at it," he invited. "It will decide your fate."
"My lord?"
"On one side you will see the head of a man. I have scratched a line across his cheek, a scar. The other side bears
the arms of Jest. Spin the coin. Should it fall with that side uppermost you will receive your needed treatment, but if
the other side should be uppermost, the scar, then you belong to this world and I will not help you."
Heldar looked at the coin, then raised his eyes. "My life to depend on the spin of a coin? My lord, surely you
jest?"
"No," said Jocelyn, "I do not jest." His voice hardened. "Spin!"
The coin rose, glinting, a blur as it climbed to hesitate and fall ringing to the deck. Jocelyn glanced at it, his face
expressionless. Unbidden, Heldar rose, crossed to where it lay and looked down at the shining disk. He felt the
sudden constriction of his stomach.
"Luck is against you," said Jocelyn quietly. "It seems that you are fated to die."

***

The interior of the shed was cool with a brisk crispness which stung like a shower of ice, refreshing as it hurt,
waking senses dulled with seemingly endless heat. Kel Zopolis paused, enjoying the coolness, and then, remembering
the cost, walked quickly down the shed.
"Wandara!"
"Here, Boss." The overseer came from behind a machine, wiping his hands on a scrap of waste, his white teeth
flashing against the ebon of his skin. "The cooling plant is switched off," he said before the agent could raise the
matter. "I was just testing the machines to make sure they'll work when we want them."
"And?"
"Fully operational," said the overseer, "hoppers, slicers, balers, everything." He walked beside Zopolis down the
length of the shed and opened a door, waiting for the agent to pass through before following him and closing the
panel.
Beyond lay a second shed filled with equipment. A line of rafts, each with a thousand cubic feet of loading
capacity, rested against one wall. Suits, boots, masks and sprays hung neatly on hooks. A heap of wide-bladed
machetes rested on a bench beside a grinding wheel. They were thirty inches from pommel to point, the blades
slightly curved and four inches across at the widest part. Zopolis lifted one and swung it, enjoying the heft and
balance of the well-designed tool.
Wandara spoke as he tested the edge.
"I'm sharpening them up, Boss, giving them a real, fine edge. They'll cut through any fungus on the planet."
And more than a swollen stem, thought the agent, as he replaced the machete. He remembered a time two
seasons back, or perhaps three, when two crews had fallen out, each accusing the other of cheating. Then the
machetes had been used as swords. Even now he could remember the mess, the blood and the cries of the wounded.
 "The rafts," he said. "I want them all ready to operate within five hours."
"They're ready now, Boss." Wandara sounded hurt. "You didn't think I'd play around with machetes if the rafts
needed checking?"
"No," said Zopolis. Pride, he thought. I've hurt his pride. Aloud he said, "I'm sorry. It was foolish of me to ask."
The overseer grunted, mollified. "Starting to harvest, Boss?"
"Soon. I'm taking a survey to check the state of the crop. If it's ready we'll start right away. In any case, you can
pass the word that we'll be needing men."
"Sure, Boss. The same terms?"
"Piecework, yes, but we've got to cut the price by five percent." Zopolis didn't look at the other man. "It isn't my
doing," he said. "I'm just following orders. It's a reduction all along the line."
"The processing sheds too?"
"Yes, but we'll reserve those jobs for the weak and incapable." The ones who've starved too much and too long,
he thought, the ill, the chronically sick, the dying. "I'll have a word with Brother Glee about that. He'll know who to
pick." He glanced sharply at the overseer. "Something on your mind?"
"Heldar, Boss, I don't want him around."
"Why not? He's a regular."
"He's trouble. There's talk of someone moving claim markers and stealing original finds. I don't figure on letting
him use our rafts and our time for his own business."
"He was on scout duty," mused Zopolis thoughtfully. "It would give him the opportunity. Do you think he's guilty?"
Wandara shrugged. "I don't know, Boss. He could be; he knows a lot about electronics and could rig up a
detector. I just don't want him around."
"Ground him," decided the agent. "Put him to work here in the sheds. Give him three days; and if he starts to loaf,
get rid of him."
Leaving the overseer, he walked down the shed to where the door stood open. He opened it still more and
stepped outside. The sun was nearing its zenith and the heat was stifling. The dull red light of the sun stained the
ground, the buildings and the faces of those walking about the station, so that it seemed they all lived in a giant oven.
He caught a glimpse of motion and turned. A raft was rising from Hightown, anti-gravity plates robbing it of
weight and the engine sending it silently through the air. Beneath a transparent canopy, a cluster of tourists sat in air-
conditioned comfort. They were all looking downward at the weird forest of colorful growths spreading all around the
station to the limits of visibility.
Zopolis sighed, envying them a little. They could sit and watch and wonder at the fantastic configurations of the
exotic fungi, at their monstrous size, endless variety and incredible rate of growth. He had to test and judge and
select the exact moment to commence the harvest. If it were too early, the crop would lack flavor, if too late, there
would be no time to gather the quantity needed to make the operation a financial success. The fungi would reach
maturity, produce spores, lose quality, and, worse, perhaps be contaminated by harmful elements.
Not for the first time he wished that he had taken up a different profession.

***

The entertainment had been discreetly advertised as a program of strange and unusual practices of a cultural
nature collected on a score of primitive worlds. To Adrienne it was a monotonous collection of boring filth.
The whippings didn't disturb her and neither did the flayings, cuttings, scarification of tender organs and feats of
drug-assisted endurance; Eldfane had hardened her to the spectacle of pain. On that rough world, punishment was
public and, if any sightseers gained an erotic satisfaction from the spectacle it was an unintentional bonus. To her,
pain was meant to hurt and nothing else. As for the rest, she grew impatient with the sighs and inhalations of the
others crowded in the small auditorium. Surely there was nothing strange about sex.
Impatiently she turned, searching for her maid. The girl sat with her eyes enormous, her moist lips parted and her
body twitching in time to the hiss and crack of the whip. Colors from the three-dimensional representation flowed
over her flawless skin and touched her dark hair with shimmers of rainbow brilliance.
"Keelah!"
The girl blinked. "My lady?"
"Attend me!" Adrienne rose, careless of the comfort of those to either side and careless of those she thrust aside
on her way to the exit. The anxious entrepreneur bowed as she approached.
"My lady, I trust the performance did not offend?"
"You did ill to invite me," she snapped. "The factor will hear of this, and," she added, "it would not be for you to
visit either Jest or Eldfane. My father has a way of dealing with vermin of your kind."
 "My lady?"
"Stripped," she said brutally, "castrated, blinded and released in the streets as sport for the mob."
Regally she swept through the corridors of Hightown. A scarlet shadow detached itself from a bench and fell into
step at her side.
"Do you return to the ship, my lady?"
She did not look at the cyber. "You have some other suggestion?"
"A raft could be hired if you wish to see Scar. The growths at this time of the season are extremely interesting.
The visual aspect, too, is most unusual."
With an effort she restrained her temper, remembering who the cyber was and what he represented. The Cyclan
was quick to avenge any injury or slight done to its members.
"Thank you, Yeon, but no." Spitefully she added, "Have you any other suggestions?"
"There are always the information tapes on Jest, my lady."
Irritably she thinned her lips, half suspecting him of irony. Surely he must know that she was in no mood for
education. A guard at the exit bowed as they approached, opened the first door and bowed again as they passed.
There were two more doors and a second guard stood before the final barrier. As they passed into the open air a man
flung himself at her feet.
"My lady! Of your charity, save a dying man!"
She stepped back, suddenly fearful. Assassins had been known to adopt strange disguises.
"Please, my lady!" Heldar raised distorted features to her. "A word with your husband on my behalf—a single
word!" His voice rose as she stepped farther back. "At least let me spin again! It is my life, my lady, my life!"
"What is this?" Anger replaced her fear. Where were the guards, the retinue without which one of her station
should never be without. "Who are you?"
Yeon stepped between the groveling suppliant and the woman. "Attend your mistress," he said to the girl and
then he said to Adrienne, "My lady, do not concern yourself; the man is distraught. With your permission, I will attend
to the matter."
She nodded and swept towards the ship, fuming with rage. I, the queen of a world, to be treated so! And still
Jocelyn refuses to leave this backward place. Still he insists on playing his stupid games, making his stupid promises
and talking all the time of destiny and fate.
But there was one thing at least she could do.
"Quick-time?" Jocelyn rose from his chair as she burst into his cabin with her demand. "Are you so bored?"
"I am."
"But there is so much to see. You could visit Lowtown—Ilgash will accompany you—or inspect the village around
the station. We could invite the factor and a few others to a meal, and surely Hightown has something to offer in the
way of entertainment."
She was insistent. "I did not leave Eldfane to be stranded on this apology of a world. You seem able to amuse
yourself, but I cannot. I see no pleasure in walking through slums, eating with commercially-minded fools or watching
unsavory images. I refuse to suffer longer because of your whims."
"Suffer?" Jocelyn stepped close and looked into her eyes. "Are conditions so unbearable?" he asked softly. "I had
the impression that we were on our honeymoon. There are many ways, in such circumstances, to alleviate the slow
passage of time."
"Must you talk like a peasant!" Memory of the recent entertainment brought a red flush to her cheeks. "There will
be time enough to conceive an heir after we land on Jest. Until then, I demand to be spared further humiliation. At
least quick-time will shorten this interminable period of waiting. I shall, of course," she added, remembering the girl's
nubile beauty, "expect Keelah to attend me."
Jocelyn frowned, understanding the innuendo, and his face grew hard. "I am sorry. It would not be convenient at
this time to grant your request."
She looked at him, eyes wide with incredulous anger.
"You are my wife," he said. "As such, your place is by my side. Because things are a little tedious, do you imagine
that you can escape them by running away?" His voice was a hammer driving home the point it was essential to
make. "Jest is not a soft world, Adrienne. There is much that will prove tedious and unpleasant but will have to faced.
I suggest that you begin to learn the basic elements of self-discipline."
He was being unfair and knew it. Eldfane, also, was not a soft world; but the aristocracy had cushioned
themselves against its natural harshness by becoming encysted in ritual and formality. Now, as his wife, Adrienne
expected to be the head of such a world within a world. It was best to disillusion her now.
Training helped her to contain her anger. "You are well named," she said coldly, "but I do not appreciate the jest.
Neither, do I think, will my father."
 He bridled at the threat. "You wish to break the contract? Let me warn you that, if you do, you will not be
welcome at your father's house. He has too many daughters still unwed. Why else do you think he was so eager to
give me your hand?"
Immediately he repented of his cruelty. "Adrienne," he said, softly. "I did not marry you simply for your dowry,
nor because we are genetically compatible and should have no trouble obtaining issue. I married you because—"
"You needed a wife to breed more fools," she interrupted savagely, "a woman to bring you goods and credit and
the loan of trained and intelligent minds. Well, you have those things, but do not expect to gain more. And do not
expect me to aid you with your insane projects. I do not relish being the butt of lesser folk. I, at least, have dignity."
"And can you live on that?" Her rejection sharpened his rage. "You dislike slums, but are there no slums on
Eldfane? You sneer at commercially-minded fools, but who else is to plot our prosperity? Unsavory images are only
what you make of them and, in any case, who are you to either judge or condemn?" He fought his anger, drawing air
deep into his lungs and wondering where his sense of the ridiculous had gone. Now, above all, he needed the
soothing balm of humor. "Scar is a backward world," he said. "There is no industry here, no real population, certainly
no ruling class. These people will mostly be gone at the end of summer and we shall, most probably, never see any of
them again. So, my dear, why be concerned over your image?"
"Is pride a garment to be taken off and put aside?" Her voice was thin and acid with dislike. "I gain no pleasure
from this conversation. With your permission, my lord, I will retire."
He sighed as she swept from the room. Women, who can gauge their emotions? Perhaps I've been wrong to deny
her the use of quick-time. The hours drag and who knows what mischief a bored and idle woman might do? And yet
she has to learn, accept the fact that life has to be lived, if nothing else.
He sat down and picked up his book. He held it in one hand as he stared at the cover, but he did not see the
stained and crumbling material beneath the plastic seal. He was thinking of other things. Jellag Haig for one. The
trader was hovering on the brink of decision, a little more pressure and he would surely yield.
Thoughtfully, Jocelyn leaned back in his chair.
It would be best to make him a baron, he decided, to begin with, at least. Later, if he proved himself, he could be
elevated to an earl or even a duke, but first he would be a baron.
Baron Jellag Haig of Jest.
It made a satisfying mouthful and would please his family. He would have an armored crest together with a
residence and an estate, a small residence and a big estate.
Land was cheap on Jest.

Chapter Five
Ewan sat at his table, deft hands busy as he manipulated his shells. The little ball bounded from one to the other,
vanishing only to reappear and vanish again.
"A test of skill," he droned in his flat, emotionless voice. "Now you see it, now you don't. Pick the shell it is under
and I will double your money. The more you put down the more you pick up. Why risk your neck when you can get
rich the easy way? Hurry, hurry, hurry. Hit while the game is hot."
Like the room, he thought, the station, the whole stinking planet. Late summer on Scar was the anteroom of hell.
He glanced around beneath hooded eyes, his hand moving mechanically and his voice droning its attention-getting
chant. No one took any notice; business was bad.
Business had been bad all through the season. There had been the usual flurry at the end of spring when those in
deep sleep had awakened eager for a little excitement, but lack of a reliable protector had made him cautious. He'd
been forced to play carefully, letting too many win too often, hoping to recoup later in the season.
Later could be too late. Those who had been lucky would be in a hurry to leave the planet, and those that hadn't
would be conserving their money in order to pay for deep sleep or, if they lacked enough for that, hugging every coin
to see them through to the next summer. A few would be desperate enough to take a risk, but they would have little to
lose.
"Hurry, hurry, hurry," he droned. "Pick the shell with the ball and double your money. Step up and match the
quickness of your eye against the swiftness of my hand." He scowled at the continuing lack of attention,
"You're getting good," said Dumarest. He walked from behind the gambler and sat down facing him. "Real good.
You could almost pass for an honest man."
"I am an honest man," said Ewan. "I am exactly what I appear to be." He looked up, studying the other man.
"You've been out a long time, Earl. Find anything good?"
Dumarest shrugged. "The usual. A few clumps which might pay enough to keep us going."
 "You and Clemdish?"
"That's right."
Ewan nodded and then abruptly pushed away his shells. "I saw you when you came in," he said. "The pair of you.
You both looked all in, but Clemdish was up and about some time ago. My guess is that you carried him, did all the
work."
"You guess wrong," said Dumarest. "I'm not that stupid. If I take a partner, he does his full share." He changed the
subject. "How's business?"
"Not so good. Ewan pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. I've had to work under a handicap. No
protection," he explained. "And money seems to be tighter than ever. Have you heard the gossip?"
"About the ship with the joker?" Dumarest nodded. "I heard."
"A weird character," summed up the gambler. "But he isn't the only one." He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"Listen, if you've found anything really good, be careful; I mean extra careful. There's something odd going on, too
many men hanging about for no obvious reason. I've seen it happen before. A lot of good men seemed to vanish
about that time."
"Jumpers?"
"I don't know. But when a man comes back from harvesting what he's found, he's liable to be tired and a little
careless. If someone was waiting for him, he wouldn't stand much of a chance."
"That's obvious," said Dumarest.
"Sure, it is, but if I can think of it, then so can others." Ewan reached out and touched his shells, moving them
casually with the tips of his fingers. "There's a few of them in here right now."
Dumarest didn't move.."Where?"
"Over at the bar, the group in the far corner. And there's something else: I overheard someone talking about a
ring." The shells made a little sliding sound as Ewan moved them from side to side. "A ring like the one you're
wearing."
Dumarest frowned. "I don't get it. Why should they be interested in my ring?"
"I didn't say they were," corrected the gambler. "But there's one sure way to find out."
"Sometimes," said Dumarest, "you make pretty good sense."
He rose, smiling as if at a joke, and casually turned. Three men stood engaged in conversation, one of them
looking in his direction. The man was a stranger. He crossed to where Zegun stood before his wares, and managed to
catch a glimpse of the other two. Both were unfamiliar. None of the three bore any resemblance to the cat-man or his
companion. They could have been entrepreneurs, minor traders, or belated prospectors, but Ewan knew his people.
"Hello, Earl." The vendor smiled his pleasure. "Glad to see you back. I was beginning to wonder if you'd had an
accident. You were both out a long time."
"We took a good look around," said Dumarest. "One thing I'll say for Clemdish, he certainly knows how to live off
the land. He even found some drinkable water."
"I know," said Zegun. "He's got a nose for it. He told me that you'd covered quite an area."
"Told you?"
"When he ordered your supplies," explained the vendor, "a few hours ago."
Dumarest kept his voice casual. "Maybe I'd better check his list."
"You're the boss." Zegun found a slip of paper. "Here It is: suits, spare filters, power cells, a couple of machetes,
tent, collection sacks and storage containers, the usual equipment, rope too." Zegun looked curious. "I wondered
about that. What the hell do you need rope for, Earl?"
Dumarest was bland. "We're going fishing," he said, "from a raft."
Zegun laughed. "Now I know you're joking. Every raft on the planet is booked solid. Even the tourist transport's
locked up tight." He scowled, suddenly annoyed. "Something should be done about those fat slobs taking a man's
living. They get a yen to go hunting, buy a suit and hire a guide and hope to find something to help pay expenses. But
they've got to do it the easy way, they've got to ride."
"Why not?" said Dumarest. "Wouldn't you?"
"Sure," admitted Zegun. "But that doesn't make it right."

***

Clemdish looked down at his hands. "I'm sorry, Earl. I was only trying to help."
"By tipping our hand?" Dumarest walked three paces to the end of the cubicle, turned and walked back again. He
halted, staring down at the man sitting on the edge of the bed. "Rope," he said. "Any idiot would guess from that that
we'd found something in the hills. Why didn't you leave it to me to order the equipment?"
 Clemdish met his eyes. "What difference would it have made? We still need rope."
"Maybe," said Dumarest. "I'm not so sure."
"Earl?"
"The golden spore is in a place almost impossible to reach. We've got to find it, harvest it and bring it back. The
chances are that we won't even be able to get near it unless we've got a raft. Even if we do manage to collect it, our
troubles won't be over."
"Jumpers?" Clemdish frowned. "We can take care of those."
"There's another way," said Dumarest, "a better way, perhaps. We sell the location to one of the traders, Zopolis,
even. He has the men and equipment to handle it. While he's doing that, we can take care of our other finds."
"No!" Clemdish was emphatic.
Dumarest sighed. "Be reasonable. What's the good of money to a dead man?"
"We won't be dead," said Clemdish. He rose, trembling. "No," he said again. "I mean it, Earl. I'm your partner, and
I've a right to my say. That golden spore is ours!"
Dumarest remained silent.
"We can't afford to deal with a trader," said Clemdish earnestly. "You know what will happen. He'll work on a
contingent basis. Even if he believes you and makes a deal, it will be all his way. First he'll charge for the cost of
harvesting, then he'll want his cut and more. If we get a fifth of its value we'll be lucky. That's a tenth each, Earl."
"I could make a better deal than that," said Dumarest.
"I doubt it. The traders have formed themselves into a combine so you have to play the game their way. But even
if you did up the percentage, that's all it would ever be—a part when you could have the whole. Why should we give
money away?"
Dumarest stared at his partner. "We won't be giving money away," he reminded. "Well be collecting some trouble-
free cash."
"The cost of a few high passages," said Clemdish bitterly. "And, when that's gone, what then? No, Earl. This is my
chance to get rich, and I'm not letting any fat slob of a trader cash in on it. Well get the stuff if I have to crawl naked
down the side of a mountain."
He was shouting, the metal walls vibrating to his vehemence, his face ugly with passion.
"Calm down," said Dumarest.
"That golden spore is mine!" shouted Clemdish. "Half of it anyway. We're partners, and don't you forget it!"
"I'm not forgetting it," snapped Dumarest. "Now, calm down. You want everyone to know our business?"
"I—" Clemdish gulped, suddenly aware of his stupidity. "I'm sorry, Earl. It's just that I can't let that spore go. It's
the chance of a lifetime, and I've got to take it."
"All right," said Dumarest.
"It's the thing I've dreamed about," said Clemdish, "the one real chance to make a break."
Dumarest nodded, suddenly feeling the constriction of the walls, the cramped confines of the little room. A bed, a
locker and tier of drawers both fitted with thumb-print locks, a metered entertainment screen and a single chair were
the entire furnishings of the cubicle. To Clemdish it was luxury. How could he be blamed for wanting to break free?
"Get some sleep," said Dumarest quietly. "Soak up as much water as you can; eat some decent food, and keep
quiet," he added. "What's done is done, but there's no sense in making things worse."
He left before Clemdish could answer, striding from the little room, down the echoing passage and out into the
open air. The sun hit like the blast of a furnace and he blinked, pulling the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes. Dust
swirled from beneath his boots as he walked from the dormitory. To one side, on the edge of the landing field,
someone had erected a wide awning. Shouts rose from a group of men as they watched two others wrestle. They
were crewmen from the waiting space ships, mostly, finding relaxation in primitive sport.
Wandara grinned with a brilliant flash of teeth as Dumarest approached the processing sheds. "Hello there, Earl,
you come looking for work?"
Dumarest shook his head.
"That's a real pity. You'd make a good boss for one of the rafts, or would you like to go scouting? Top rates, and I
won't bear down if you take time out to do some personal harvesting." The overseer winked. "Just as long as you
remember old friends."
Dumarest smiled. "No thanks. I've got too much to do to work for basics. Ready for harvest yet?"
"Almost." Wandara turned to where a mass of fungi lay on a wide bench. Picking up a machete he hacked off a
mass of liver-colored sponginess. "Brown glory," he said. "Tell me what you think."
Dumarest bit into the mass and chewed the succulent pulp. "Too early," he said. "The flavor still has to develop."
The overseer nodded. "Now this."
It was a mass of convoluted velvet spotted with blue and cerise. The texture was that of soft cake, the taste of a
mixture of tart and sugar.
"About right," said Dumarest. He looked past the overseer to where the main processing shed stood closed. "Got
all your staff yet?"
"We don't start them until we need them," said Wandara. "You know that. But Brother Glee is passing the word."
He turned back to his bench, his machete glittering in the sun as he chopped the collected fungi to pieces for
examination.
This batch was for testing and disposal. The rest would be for slicing and dehydrating by a quick-freeze process
which kept the flavor intact. It would be packed for the markets of a hundred worlds. Gourmets light years apart
would relish the soups and ragouts made from the fungi harvested on Scar.
Dumarest turned away and headed for the awning. A man called as he approached.
"Try this delicious confection, sir, spun sugar touched with the juice of rare fruits!"
Another said, "See the mating dance of the Adrimish. Feel the sting of their whips, the touch of their nails: full
sensory recording."
A stooped crone was next. "Cold drinks, my lord, iced to tantalize and tease the tongue."
The small-time entrepreneurs of Scar were taking full advantage of the boredom attending late summer. A man
sidled close and spoke in a whisper.
"A half share in a clump of golden spore, yours for the cost of a high passage."
From one side a man droned as he stooped over a crystal ball filled with minute and swarming life.
"See the epic struggle of the sharmen as they battle with alien spores. Watch as they turn into mobile balls of
destructive vegetation. The next show about to commence. Two places yet to be filled."
A woman laughed as she danced to the dull thudding of a drum, coins scattering around her naked feet.
A roar lifted from the center of the crowd. A man rose, stripped to the waist, struggling against the hands which
gripped hip and shoulder. He spun, twice, then was dashed to the ground.
"Brother!"
Dumarest turned to face the monk, looked at the lined face beneath the shielding cowl. "Brother Glee, how can I
help you?"
"Not I, brother, but one who claims to be a friend of yours, a woman of Lowtown. She has a scarred cheek and
neck."
"Selene?" Dumarest frowned. "She sold me food and shelter."
"Even so, brother. She asked for you."
"Why? Is something wrong?"
The monk nodded. "Of your charity, brother, will you come?"

***

She looked very small huddled on her bed of rags. The scar was hidden and, with her cropped hair, she seemed
more like an adventurous boy than a mature woman who had seen too much of the hard side of life. Then she turned
and Dumarest could see the rags and blood and the damage done to the side of her head.
"Earl?"
"Here." He found her hand and gripped it. "What happened?"
"Earl." Her fingers tightened. "I'm frightened, Earl. It's so dark, and it shouldn't be dark, not in summer, not like
this."
Dumarest raised his head and looked at the monk standing on the other side of the bed. Brother Glee spoke
before his junior could answer Dumarest's unspoken question.
"We were selecting those for work in the sheds of agent Zopolis. Men and women in the greatest need. Selene
was one. We entered and found her lying in a pool of blood; she had been struck down."
"Why?"
"I do not know, brother," said the monk quietly. "But it was rumored that she had money hidden away."
Dumarest turned, looking at the interior of the hut. The corner which had held his bed was a jumbled mess. The
chests had been wrenched open; scraps of fabric littered the floor. Even the plastic fragments lining the sagging roof
had been torn down. Someone had searched the place with a furious desperation.
"Earl." Her voice was a fading whisper. "It's so dark, Earl, so dark!"
"The blow crushed the side of her head," said the junior monk quietly. "She is paralyzed down one side and totally
blind. I have managed to staunch the bleeding, but there is extensive damage to the brain." He paused and then
added, "There are other minor injuries: bruises and lacerations together with burns."
"Torture?"
 The monk inclined his head. "It would appear so; she was gagged when we found her."
Dumarest leaned closer to the woman on the bed. "Selene," he said urgently. "Who did it? Tell me who did it."
Her fingers closed even tighter on his. "Earl," she breathed, "You came. I needed you and you came."
"Who did it?"
"A man," she said. "He wanted money."
"Which man? Did you know him? Tell me his name."
"Name?" She moved a little. "Hurt," she said, whimpering. "He hurt me."
"The damage to her brain has obviously impaired her memory," said the junior monk softly. "It could be that she
is unable to tell you more."
"She must." Anger made Dumarest curt. "A woman," he said, "harmless, trying to make a living the best way she
could—and some money-hungry swine comes to her home and does this to her." He stooped even lower over the
bed, his lips almost touching her ear. "Selene!" he said sharply. "Listen to me."
"Earl?"
"You must tell me who the man was. Who did this to you?"
She moved a little as if trying to escape from something unpleasant.
"Tell me," he insisted.
"Rings," she said abruptly. "Rings!" Then, with a fading softness, she continued, "Earl, don't leave me. Earl… don't
leave me."
He felt the fingers locked on his own suddenly relax, watched as the cropped head turned, falling on the crude
pillow, hiding the scar for the last time.
Dumarest rose, stepping back as the monk gently closed her dead eyes and turning to face the silent figure of
Brother Glee.
"You came here looking for her," he said. "Did you see anyone leave as you approached? Someone who stood
close to the hut, perhaps, or who may have passed you on the path."
Beneath the shadow of the cowl the eyes of the monk were steady on his own. "What do you intend, brother?"
"I am going to find the man responsible for this," said Dumarest rightly. "He will not do it again."
"Murder, brother?"
"Justice, monk, the only kind of justice there is on this planet. Or do you wish to see the man who did this
escape?"
Brother Glee shook his head. Dumarest was right. There was no law on Scar, no police or other authority which
had any interest in what had happened. But, if he should prove too hasty, what then?
"There was a man," said the monk softly. He would suffer penance for this later; it was not his place to speak
when his superior remained silent. But he was young and not yet divorced from anger. "A contract man, Heldar."
"Heldar," said Dumarest slowly. He had heard the gossip. "He was close?"
"He passed us on the path."
"Alone," said Brother Glee quickly. The damage was now done; all he could do was to minimize the probable
consequences. "And there is no proof. We saw nothing to connect him with the crime."
"Have no fear, Brother," said Dumarest curtly. "I shall not harm an innocent man."

***

The crowds had thickened at the fair when Dumarest returned. A girl caught his arm; her face was dotted with
luminous points and her hair a frizzled mass of silver and gold.
"Hello, handsome," she cooed. "Why look so grim?" He shook free his arm and pressed deeper into the crowd, his
eyes searching.
Another girl, a blonde with tattooed lips, pressed her lush body against his chest. "How about me giving you
something nice, good looking?" Her smile was inviting. "Nice clean sheets, full stimulating apparatus and something
to get you into the mood. Satisfaction guaranteed, or a full refund." She tilted her head to where a space ship,
blazoned with phallic symbols, stood close by. "Yes?"
"No."
"Impotent?" she snapped, then lost her sneer as she saw his face.
He ignored her, pressing through the crowd and using the advantage of his height. A man like Heldar, frightened
perhaps, would find comfort in a crowd; he would not like to be alone until his nerves had settled. Yet he wasn't at the
fair. The station, perhaps?
Dumarest strode through the dormitories, not finding the man he sought. He could be lurking somewhere in
Lowtown, though it was doubtful, or the sheds, perhaps.
 ***

Wandara shook his head. "No, Earl, I can't say that I've seen him. Is it important?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Do you mind if I have a look round?"
"Sure," said the overseer, "help yourself."
The interior of the shed was silent, shadowed with equipment. Dumarest walked slowly down the center, his eyes
probing to either side. Heldar could have entered by the door to the rear of where Wandara had been working. He
heard a soft rustle, the sound of movement.
"Heldar?"
It came again. It was the sound of fabric sliding against metal, as if a man were squeezing himself between the
end of a raft and the wall of the shed.
"Come out," said Dumarest. "If I have to come after you, you'll regret it."
"What you want?" Heldar blinked as he came from between two rafts. "I was catching a nap; you woke me up.
What's all this about?"
"Come outside," said Dumarest. "I've got something to tell you." Casually he led the way to where Wandara stood
at his bench. The overseer looked up and laid down his machete.
"Find him?"
"I'm here." Heldar stepped into the sunlight. "I still want to know what all this is about."
"A woman was murdered down in Lowtown," said Dumarest curtly. "I think you did it."
"You're crazy!"
"You were seen!"
"That's a lie!" Heldar looked at Wandara. "I've been here for the past five hours, asleep in the shed. How the hell
could I have murdered anyone?"
"Just a minute," said the overseer. He looked at Dumarest. "So a woman's been murdered," he said. "So what
business is it of yours?"
"She was a friend of mine."
"That's different," said Wandara. "You're lying," he said to Heldar. "This shed was locked tight until three hours
ago."
"So I misjudged the time," said Heldar. "But why blame me if a woman got herself killed? I had nothing to do with
it."
"The woman was hit over the head," said Dumarest. "She bled quite a lot. You've got some of it on your boots."
Heldar looked down, then up, his eyes frightened. "I didn't do it."
"There's an easy way to find out," said Dumarest gently. "The witness could be wrong. All you have to do is to go
to the church and get under the benediction light." he explained. "The monks are good at finding out the truth."
It was by hypnosis, naturally, with the swirling mass of kaleidoscopic colors from the benediction light a perfect
tool for the purpose. If Heldar was innocent there was no reason why he should refuse. "All right," he said. "I'll do it."
He walked past Dumarest towards the landing field, where the portable church was almost lost among the milling
crowd. He reached the bench, the spot where the overseer had laid down his machete. As he passed he picked it up
and, spinning in a blur of motion, swung it at Dumarest.
Automatic reflex saved him. He ducked and felt the blade slice off the crown of his hat. He jumped back as
Heldar advanced and felt the point rasp across his chest, laving open the plastic and baring the protective mesh
beneath. Then Wandara moved in, trapping Heldar's arm and twisting it until he dropped the blade.
"Hell," he said, "If you want to fight, do it properly."
It was an excuse for a spectacle. Dumarest felt the sun on his bare head as men rushed to make a circle, the avid
faces of women appearing at their sides, the dust slowly settling as volunteers attended to the formalities.
"You'll have to strip, Earl!" His ebon face gleaming with sweat, Wandara looked to where Heldar was baring his
chest. "He's good," he warned. "I've seen him fight before. Watch out for an upward slash on a backhand delivery; he
twists the blade at the last moment."
"I'll watch out for it," said Dumarest.
"He's got a trick of dropping and slashing at the ankles, too." Wandara took the proffered tunic and threw it over
his arm. "Do you really think he killed that woman?"
"Why else did he attack me?"
"I heard about it," said Wandara. "The poor bitch! Don't let him get away with it, Earl." He handed over a
machete. "I'll have to take your knife."
Dumarest nodded, handed over the weapon and stopped forward, swinging the machete to get the feel of it. It
was too long and clumsy for comfort. At the far side of the ring Heldar was accompanied by the men Dumarest had
seen at the bar. They took his tunic and slapped him on the back.
"All right," said Wandara. His voice rose above the babble and brought silence. "This is between these two;
anyone interfering can have his chance later." He looked from one side of the ring to the other. "It's all yours. What
are you waiting for?"
He ducked away as they advanced, the scuff of their boots loud in the silence.
It was a silence Dumarest had heard before; the bated breath of watchers hungry for the sight of blood and pain,
eager to taste the vicarious thrill of hacking a man to death. It hung over the crowd like a miasma, merging with the
brooding heat of the sun, adding to the mounting tension so that men clenched their hands until the nails dug into
their palms and women chewed orgiastically at their lower lips.
"Earl," said Heldar as he approached. "There's no need for this. What the hell can you gain by killing me?"
Dumarest advanced, poised on the balls of his feet, the machete gripped so as to reflect the sun from the
polished blade.
"I've got nothing to lose; I'm dying anyway," whispered Heldar. "Maybe you'll do me a favor by making it quick."
His arm sagged a little, the gleaming blade lowering its point to the dirt, almost as if the weight was too great for
his hand. It flashed with reflected sunlight, flashed again and then seemed to disappear.
Dumarest sprang to one side and felt the wind of the blow against his upper left arm. Immediately he slashed, a
blow level with the ground at waist height, drawing back the blade in a slice.
He felt the shock and jar of a parrying blade, the rasp of steel racing towards his hand and swung his own blade
in a swinging counter-parry. Heldar grinned as he forced continuance of the motion, throwing Dumarest's machete to
one side and opening his defense. Sunlight sparkled in rainbow shimmers as his blade hissed through the air, cutting
through the spot where Dumarest had stood, snarling at the lack of impact.
Again he rushed to the attack, and again Dumarest saved himself by a quick retreat. Heldar was good, fast and
clever with the blade, moving with the unthinking speed of automatic reflex, using the sun itself to disguise the
movements of his machete as he caught and lost the blinding reflection. Steel rasped, scraped with a nerve-grating
sound and hummed with diminishing vibrations. Dumarest felt something touch his upper arm. He spun, stroked with
the blade and saw a gush of red appear at Heldar's side.
The man turned, ran to the far side of the circle and turned with his free hand dabbing at the wound. He
advanced again and as he came within range, threw a handful of blood at Dumarest's eyes. At the same moment he
dropped and brought the machete around in a whining blur at his ankles.
Dumarest sprang to one side and upwards. The blade passed beneath his feet. Before Heldar could recover, he
swept down with his blade. There was a sound as of an ax hitting wood. From the assembled crowd came the hissing
intake of breath.
"He's done it!" Wandara yelled as he jumped into the circle. "Cut his head damn near right off ! Dumarest wins!"
Dumarest thrust his machete into the ground and stooped over the dead body. From a pocket he took a scrap of
rag. Opening it, he stared at five rings, each with a red stone.
"Is that what he killed her for?" Wandara shook his head. "For a handful of lousy rings?"
Dumarest said bleakly, "No, for his life."
He walked to where Brother Glee stood at the edge of the crowd. "Here," he said, and gave him the rings. "Take
them, for charity."

Chapter Six
Jocelyn lifted his glass. He said, "A toast, to all who love justice!"
Dumarest touched his lips to the blue wine. Across the table Del Meoud suddenly spluttered, dabbing hastily at
his beard. Dumarest caught Adrienne's look of displeasure and her husband's wry grimace. Jellag Haig laughed with
amused condescension.
"The factor finds such a toast hard to swallow," he said. "There is little justice on Scar."
"And less mercy!" The factor was sharp. "And who makes it so? There are traders who care nothing how they
make their profit, nor how men are turned into beasts in the scrabble for wealth."
Jocelyn waited as a servant refilled the glasses. "You are too hard on Baron Haig," he said quietly. "Is a man to
blame for the system? If he is wise, he uses it. If he is foolish, he allows it to use him." He looked at Dumarest. "You
fought well," he said. "Would I be wrong if I said that you are no stranger to the arena?"
"I have fought before," said Dumarest.
"Often?" Adrienne leaned forward across the table; her eyes were bright with anticipation. "Tell us about it."
 "I fight only when necessary, my lady, when there is food to be earned, my life to protect or a friend to avenge.
There is no pleasure in blood for those who fight."
She frowned, disappointed. On Eldfane man fought as a profession, and most of them seemed to enjoy the
activity and the rewards. She said so. Dumarest met her eyes.
"You are speaking of entertainment, my lady. Some men may enjoy killing and may even wish to die, but I am not
one of them. A fight, to me, is something to be ended quickly. You cannot afford to play with a man who seeks your
life."
"But Heldar—"
"Was a fool," he said brusquely. "He depended on tricks to win. When a trick fails there is no defense. He should
have relied on skill and speed."
"As you did. You were fast," she admitted. "We could see it all on the scanners. But if you find no pleasure in
battle, why seek it? What was Heldar to you?"
"He had murdered a friend," said Dumarest tightly. "He killed for money; but, with respect, my lady, he was not
wholly to blame."
She looked at him, waiting.
"He was dying," explained Dumarest. "He knew it. A dying man has nothing to lose. Had he not lost the spin of a
coin he would be alive, the woman would be alive and we should not be sitting here drinking to a thing called justice."
"You do not like the word?"
"My lady, I do not. I would prefer to drink to a thing called mercy."
He had gone too far. He could tell it from the tension which had closed around the table, the way Haig refused to
meet his eyes, the way the factor fumbled at his beard. A guest should never insult his host. The more so when that
host is the ruler of a world. But they were not on Jest. They were sitting in Jocelyn's ship on a free planet and
Dumarest had too recent memories: a cropped head turning to hide a scar, staring eyes which could not see, the
pressure of a hand, a man made desperate because of a ruler's whim.
There had been blood on the dust and a body lying sprawled in the sun.
Meoud coughed and glanced at his timepiece. "My lord, I crave your indulgence and permission to depart; there
are matters to which I should attend without delay."
"You may leave," said Jocelyn. "You also, Baron. We shall talk again later."
"My lord." Jellag Haig rose. "My lady." He bowed to them both. "My thanks for a wonderful meal." He bowed
again and followed the factor from the cabin. The sound or their footsteps died as the door closed behind them.
"Wine," ordered Jocelyn. The gush of liquid from the bottle sounded unnaturally loud. He waited until all three
glasses had been refilled, then picked up his own. He said, "A toast, to justice!"
Dumarest set down his empty glass.
"Tell me about yourself," said Jocelyn abruptly. "The factor tells me that you search for a dream, a legendary
planet. Is that true?"
"Earth is no legend, my lord. I was born there, I know."
Adrienne frowned. "But in that case, surely you would know where it is. Could you not find it by merely retracing
your journey?"
"No, my lady. I left when I was very young," he explained. "Ten years of age. I stowed away on a ship. The captain
was kinder than I deserved; he should have evicted me but he was old and had no son. Instead, he kept me with him.
From then on, it was a matter of traveling from world to world."
"Always deeper into the heart of the galaxy," mused Jocelyn, "where the worlds are close and journeys short.
Until perhaps, you probed into the far side from the center. He nodded. I can appreciate the problem. Can you, my
dear?"
Adrienne sipped her wine, her eyes on Dumarest as she tasted the blue stimulant. He was tall and hard with a
face of planes and hollows, a firm mouth and strong jaw. His was the face of a man who had learned to live without
the protection of house or guild, a man who had learned to rely on none but himself.
She looked at her husband. He was not as tall, not as broad; he had russet hair, a sensitive face, delicate hands
and an old-young look around the eyes. But he too, she realized with sudden insight, had learned to rely on none but
himself. But, where Dumarest had an impassive strength, Jocelyn used the mask of ironic humor.
"Adrienne?"
She started, aware that Jocelyn waited for an answer. "I can appreciate many things," she said ambiguously. "But
does not each man have his own problem?"
"Philosophy?" Jocelyn looked at his wife with wondering eyes. "You betray hidden depths, my dear."
"Only to those with the wit to plumb them, my lord." The wine, she realized, was affecting her senses. The recent
fight too had stimulated her, so that she was uneasily conscious of the proximity of men. Firmly she set down her
glass. "Shall we move into the lounge, my husband? The remains of a meal is not the most attractive of sights."

***

Yeon rose as they entered the lounge, a flash of scarlet against the lined walls and worn furnishings. He looked at
Dumarest as if sensing his dislike, then looked at Jocelyn. "Do you wish me to depart, my lord?"
"Stay," said Jocelyn carelessly. "You may be able to help us with a problem."
The cyber bowed and resumed his chair. A viewer stood on a small table before him, a rack of tapes to one side.
While the others had eaten, he had studied. Food, to Yeon, was a matter of fuel for his body. He could neither taste
nor enjoy the varied flavors savored by normal men.
"You spoke of a problem, my lord?"
"A matter of extrapolation," said Jocelyn. He smiled as Adrienne passed a tray loaded with delicacies.
Deliberately, he chose and ate a compote of crushed nuts blended with wild honey. "How long would it take a man to
visit each world?"
"Each habitable world, my lord?"
"Yes."
"It would depend on the route," said Yeon carefully. "If the journey was that of a spiral starting from the outer
edge of the galaxy and winding in towards the center it would take many lifetimes. If the journey was done in reverse
it would take almost as long, but not exactly because of the galactic drift which could be turned to some slight
advantage. It—"
"Would take longer than a man has reason to think he will live," interrupted Jocelyn. He helped himself to
another sweetmeat. "That does not aid us, cyber. If you were to seek a planet, the coordinates of which you neither
knew nor could discover, how would you go about it?"
"I would accumulate all available information and from that extrapolate a probable locality." The cyber
maintained his even modulation despite the apparent pointlessness of the question. "The mathematics of random
selection could, perhaps, be used to advantage; but I must inform you, my lord, the problem verges on the
paradoxical. To find a place the location of which is unknown is surely an impossibility."
"Improbability," corrected Jocelyn. "In this universe nothing is impossible."
"As you say, my lord." Yeon looked sharply at Dumarest. "May I ask if the problem has some personal
significance?"
"Yes," said Jocelyn. "Earl," he looked at his guest. "I may call you that? Thank you. Earl is looking for his home
world, a planet called Earth. Of your skill and knowledge, cyber, can you aid us in the matter?"
"The name means nothing to me, my lord. Would there be a description?"
Dumarest said, "A scarred place, a large, single moon in the sky. The terrain is torn as if by ancient wars. Life is
scarce, but still ships call and leave again. They serve those who reside deep in caverns. The sun is yellow. In winter
there is cold and snow."
Yeon shook his head. "It means nothing."
Adrienne carried the tray to Dumarest and offered it for his selection. "Try one of the fruits," she suggested, "The
texture is of meat laced with wine, blue wine. I think you will appreciate the combination."
"Thank you, my lady." His insult, apparently, had been wholly forgiven, but still he did not completely relax. There
were undercurrents of which he was uneasily aware. But the sweets seemed harmless enough. He chose and ate. As
she had promised, the combination was pleasing.
"Take another," she urged. "Several. I weary of acting the servant." Putting down the tray she sat down, her long
legs somehow ungraceful, her hair an ashen cascade. "Tell me," she demanded. "What do you think of our vessel?"
Dumarest leaned back, glad of the opportunity to be openly curious. To one side, Jocelyn and the cyber
conversed in low tones. Beyond them, lining the walls, ancient books rested in sealed frames. The carpet and chairs
were old and the small tables scattered about bore an elaborate inlay which could only have been done by hand.
He looked up at the ceiling. It was vaulted and groined in an archaic style which belonged more to a edifice of
stone than to a vessel designed to traverse space. It was a clue which had eluded him and made everything fall into
place.
"Well?" Adrienne was watching him with her bright eyes, her cheeks flushed a little as if from inner excitement.
"It is strange, my lady," said Dumarest slowly. "I have never seen such decoration before in a space ship. It is as if
someone had recreated the interior of a study belonging, perhaps, to some old stronghold."
"A museum," she said, suddenly bitter. "A collection of worthless rubbish."
"Far from worthless, my lady," corrected Dumarest. "There are those who would pay highly for such items."
"Lovers of the past," she said. "But what is the use of that? The past is dead, only the future remains of
importance."
My future, she thought. With my son heir to both worlds, myself as his regent. Jocelyn's child. Or was that so
essential?
She looked at Dumarest, conscious of his strength and determination. He had courage, and that was a quality
admired on Eldfane. Her father would have lifted him high—or broken him on the wheel for having dared to say what
he had. Jocelyn? Only he knew what thoughts coiled in his brain. Did he consider it a jest? Would his peculiarities
descend to his child?
Dumarest met her eyes. "The future, my lady, is the result of the past. As the child is the fruit of the father, so
today is the child of yesterday. Actions done today have their effect tomorrow. That is why there are many who
respect what has gone before."
"Pour me wine," she demanded. Had he been able to read her thoughts? "The green wine, not the blue. Join me if
you will."
He leaned across the small table and lifted the decanter. Red fire shone from his ring as he passed her a glass.
"That ring," she said abruptly. "A gift?"
Dumarest nodded.
"From someone special? A woman?"
He looked down at it, rubbing his thumb over the stone. "Yes, my lady," he said quietly, "from someone very
special."
A mane of lustrous red hair, eyes like sparkling emeralds, skin as soft and white as translucent snow.
Kalin!
"Rings?" Jocelyn turned from the cyber. "Is there a mystery about them? The man you killed, Heldar, had rings
also. Where did he get them?"
"From the woman he killed, my lord." Dumarest was curt.
"And she?"
Dumarest shook his head. "I do not know. Gifts, perhaps; who can tell?"
"They had red stones," said Jocelyn thoughtfully. "I saw them after you had given them to the monk. Is there
something special about such rings? If so, then be wary, my friend." He rose from where he sat. "You are excused,
cyber. Adrienne, I think it time you retired."
Dumarest rose together with the scarlet figure.
"Not you, Earl," said Jocelyn. "We yet have unfinished business."

***

It was going to happen now, thought Dumarest. The talk and preliminaries were over. Soon the guards would
come, the crewmen and Ilgash, the bodyguard who had brought him the invitation to the meal. It had been out of
curiosity, Dumarest suspected. It seemed to be something new to relieve the monotony of bored and jaded
aristocrats, condescending to eat with a traveler, but not an ordinary man, someone who had recently killed and who
might be expected to talk about what he had done. But who had, instead, insulted his host.
Dumarest tensed in his chair. Anger warmed his blood, already tender with memory. If they thought he would be
easy to take, they were due for a surprise. This was Scar, not Jest. Once out of the ship, he could laugh at them all and
kill them if they came for him. He could kill those who might be eager for a possible bribe. Kill all the smug, gloating,
self-satisfied fools who regarded those less fortunate than themselves as animals, beasts without feeling or emotion.
Kill!
He caught himself, trembling, wondering at his rage. The wine? Has something been slipped into the wine? The
sweetmeats? He thought of the woman, of the thing he had seen in her eyes, the interplay he had sensed. Had she
primed him with some drug to explode into a mindless fury, to kill her husband?
"Drink this," said Jocelyn. He stood beside Dumarest, a glass of foaming effervescence in his hand. "Drink," he
said sharply. "You ate and drank an unusual combination; the effects can sometimes be peculiar." Dumarest gulped
the foaming liquid. "Adrienne has a peculiar sense of the ridiculous," said Jocelyn conversationally. "I think she must
have acquired it on her home world; Eldfane is a barbarous place. Have you been there?"
"No, my lord." Dumarest rose. "With your permission, I think I should go now."
"And, if I refuse?" Jocelyn smiled. "But why should I refuse? If you wish to leave, none will prevent you. But I
should regard it as a favor if you stay." He poured two glasses full of sparkling red wine. Here." He held them both at
arms length. "Take your choice." Their eyes met. "You are well to be cautious," said Jocelyn. "But I give you my word
as the ruler of a planet that you have nothing to fear, from me, at least." I cannot speak for others."
Dumarest took one of the glasses. "From the Lady Adrienne, my lord?"
 "I was thinking of the cyber," said Jocelyn. "You don't like him, do you?"
"I have reason to detest his breed."
"So we have at least one thing in common." Jocelyn sipped, his wine. "Yeon is a gift, a part of Adrienne's dowry.
Often I wonder as to the generosity of my father-in-law. The services of the Cyclan do not come cheap."
"There is a saying, Beware of those bearing gifts!"
"A wise adage." Jocelyn put down his empty glass. "Tell me, Earl, do you believe in destiny?"
"Fate? The belief that a thing must happen, no matter what a man does to prevent it? No."
"Luck then, surely you must believe in that."
"Yes, my lord."
"Forget titles. If you believe in luck, then why not in fate?"
"Are they the same?" Dumarest paused, looking at his host. The man was serious. "Luck is the fortuitous
combination of favorable circumstances," said Dumarest slowly. "Some men have it more than others. From what I
know of fate, it is evenly spread. A man has his destiny; all men have theirs. What will be will be. But if that is so, why
should anyone strive? Where is the point of a man trying to better himself, to gain more comfort for his family,
perhaps, or build a fortune to safeguard against bad times?"
"Let us talk of Heldar," said Jocelyn. "You blame me for what happened, but be just. It was his fate to die as he
did."
"And the woman he killed?"
"That also."
Dumarest was bitter. "Justification, my lord?"
"Fact." Jocelyn took a coin from his pocket, spun it and caught it without looking. "Heldar's fate rested on sheer
chance. Had his luck been good, I would have healed him. It was bad. He could not escape his fate." He added,
"Because of that, both he and the woman met their destiny."
"Why?" Dumarest put aside his wine. "I do not think you are a cruel man; why play such games?"
Jocelyn turned and strode to the far side of the room; then he turned again to face his guest.
"A man must believe in something," he said. "He must have some sure guide in a world of insane confusion. Jest
is such a world. There are three suns, overlapping magnetic fields, cosmic flux in a constantly changing set of
variables. We are poor because we are cursed. Astrological influences are strong: men forget, women forget, children
die of starvation because they are not remembered, things are left half-built, roads lead to nowhere, diseases change,
no two harvests are alike, and everywhere grows a power with a narcotic scent, nepenthe weed. Inhale the fumes and
reason takes wing—madness, Earl, madness!"
"Imagine if you can a world on which little can be predicted with any degree of certainty. You sow your seed and
wait and forget how long you've waited so you plow and sow again—and ruin the sprouting crops. You keep records
and forget what they are for, make notations and find that, today, you cannot read and go for a walk and sit and stay
there for days and rise and forget that you sat at all. We live in caverns, Earl. We have to seal ourselves in a miniature
world of our own devising because we cannot trust our senses unless we do. And we are poor. Poor!"
His hand smashed down on one of the tables with force enough to shatter the thin legs. Jocelyn looked down at
the ruin.
"Poor," he said. "Can you imagine what that means to the ruler of a world? I married Adrienne for her dowry and
for the son I hope she will give me. I came to Scar because of accident and because I must follow every chance
guide, hoping that fate is leading me to prosperity. I made Jellag Haig a baron because I have nothing but titles to
bestow. I need him and his knowledge. He knows his trade. Perhaps he can evolve a strain of fungi to kill the
nepenthe weed. If he does, I shall make him a duke. I forced Heldar to test his luck because, on Jest, an unlucky man
does not live long. I do what I must, Earl, because I have no choice. And I make a jest of life because, if I did not, I
would spend my life in tears!"

***

Yeon paused, stepping back to allow Adrienne entrance to her cabin. She opened the door, saw the compartment
was empty and gestured for the cyber to follow her inside. A drifting red shadow, he obeyed her command. Patiently
he waited for her to speak.
"Have you fully assimilated the tapes on Jest, yet, Yeon?"
"There is much to be learned, my lady."
"Answer the question! Have you?"
He guessed what was on her mind. "There are no laws preventing your claiming the throne should the present
ruler die." he said deliberately. "But there is a provision as to the nearest relative. If you had no issue, your right could
be challenged. It would mean an inquiry as to who could provide the greatest good. As a stranger, you would have
little chance of winning the majority vote of the Council."
"And if I had a child?"
"In that case, there would be no argument. The child would inherit and you would be regent."
She nodded, almost satisfied, but there was one other matter. "If I should be pregnant?"
"Again, an inquiry to determine the ancestry of the child. Tests would be made. It would be far better for the
present ruler to recognize his heir. No inquiry, then, would be made." He anticipated her next question. "In the case of
you having a proven heir and your husband dying, you would become regent. If you should marry again your new
husband would become your consort with no actual power other than a seat on the Council."
She inhaled, expanding her chest. "So I am stuck with the fool until he fathers a child. Is that what you are
saying?"
"I am advising you, my lady. I can do no more."
"A pity." But she had her answer. First the child and then, with my position secure, a man to keep me company, a
real man. Dumarest? She smiled. Anything was possible. "Very well," she said to the cyber. "That will be all."
Quietly he left the room. His own cabin was on an upper level, a small cubicle containing little more than a cot.
Carefully he locked the door and touched the wide bracelet about his left wrist. The device ensured that he would
remain safe from spying eyes; no electronic scanner could focus on his vicinity. It was an added precaution, nothing
more.
Lying supine, he relaxed, closing his eyes and concentrating on the Samatchazi formula. Gradually he lost the
senses of taste, touch, smell and hearing. Had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Locked in the prison of
his skull, his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli; it became a thing of pure intellect, its knowledge of self
its only thread of individual life. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements become active. Full rapport followed.
Yeon expanded with added dimensions.
Each cyber had a different experience. For him it was as if he were a crystal multiplying in geometric progression,
doubling himself with every flicker of time, the countless facets opening paths in darkness so as to let in the shining
light of truth. He was a living part of an organism which stretched across space in innumerable facets each glowing
with intelligence. Crystals connected one to the other in an incredibly complex mesh of lines and planes stretching to
infinity. He was a part of it and all of it at the same time, the lesser merging with the greater to form a tremendous
gestalt of minds.
At the heart of the multiple crystal was the headquarters of the Cyclan. Buried beneath miles of rock, deep in the
heart of a lonely planet, the central intelligence absorbed his knowledge as a sponge sucks up water. There was
nothing as slow as verbal communication, just a mental communion in the form of words: quick, almost
instantaneous, organic transmission against which even the multiple-light speed of supra-radio was the merest crawl.
"Verification of anticipated movement of quarry received. Obtain ring and destroy Dumarest."
There was nothing else aside from sheer, mental intoxication.
There was always a period after rapport during which the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the
machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental control. Yeon floated in a dark nothingness while he
sensed strange memories and associations, unlived situations and exotic scenes, the scraps of overflow from other
intelligences, the waste of other minds. They were of the central intelligence of the tremendous cybernetic complex
which was the heart of the Cyclan.
One day he too would be a part of that gigantic intelligence. His body would be discarded and his mind
incorporated with others, similarly rid of hampering flesh, hooked in series, immersed in nutrient fluids and fed by
ceaseless mechanisms.
There were more than a million of them, brains without number, freed intelligences, potentially immortal,
working in harmony to solve all the problems of the universe. The reward for which every cyber longed was the time
when he could take his place in the gestalt of minds to which there could be no imaginable resistance or end.

Chapter Seven
Dumarest looked at the instrument strapped to his left wrist, studying the needles beneath the plastic cover. One
held steady on the magnetic pulse transmitted from the station, the other swung a little as it pointed to the right. He
said, "To the right eight degrees. Got it?"
Clemdish bent over a map as he squatted on the ground. "That will be number four," he said, his voice muffled a
little as it came through the diaphragm of his suit. "The next will be on the left and then two more to the right." He
rose, folding the map and slipping it into a pocket. "We're on course, Earl, and making good time."
 "So far," said Dumarest. "Let's hope we can keep it up." He lifted his shoulders, easing the weight of the pack on
his back, and checked the rest of his gear with automatic concern. "All right," he said. "Let's get moving."
There was an eeriness about Scar in late summer, a stillness, as if nature were preparing for something
spectacular, gathering its energies before erupting into violence. The air was oppressive with heat and tension; there
was no sound other than that they made as they walked through the weird forest of monstrous fungi.
It was, thought Dumarest, something like walking under water. The suits were envelopes designed to shield the
wearer from harmful spores; they were sealed and fed by air forced through filters, trapping body heat until they
drenched the wearer in perspiration. Absorbent packs soaked up the excess moisture, but nothing could be done
about the heat.
The terrain added to the illusion. The ground was hard, uneven and crowded with delicate growths as though
with coral. The towering plants cut off the light from the sun, allowing only a crimson twilight to reach their swollen
boles. Fronds of red and black, yellow and puce, deathly white and sapphire blue hung from gigantic mushrooms;
there were also buff extensions like the spread ribs of a ladies' fan and warted lumps looking like naked brains.
Growth lived on growth and others were deep in the soil.
Through this colorful fantasy they walked, miniature men crawling among nightmare shapes.
"It's hot!" Clemdish halted, face red and streaming behind the transparency of his suit. "Earl, can't we take a
break?"
Dumarest maintained his pace. "Later."
They passed their markers on the left and right, Dumarest checking their position as the detector picked up the
signal from their slender rods. Once something exploded high above, an overripe cap releasing its spores and sending
them in a dust-fine cloud to settle through the heavy air. Finally, when Clemdish was stumbling, his mouth wide as he
gasped for air, Dumarest called a halt.
"We'll rest for a while," he said. "Find us something to eat, while I set up the tent."
Safe within the transparent sack Clemdish tore off his helmet and scratched vigorously at his scalp. "I've been
wanting to do that for miles," he said gratefully. "I don't know what it is, Earl, but every time I get suited up I want to
scratch. I've bathed, used skin deadeners, the lot, but I still want to scratch. Psychological?"
"Probably." Dumarest picked up a piece of the food Clemdish had gathered. He ate, chewing thoughtfully and
examining the green-striped fungi. "Candystalk," he said. "Too ripe for good eating. It must be later than we thought."
Clemdish shook his head. "I don't think so. There was some deadman that was really immature." He picked up a
fragment of brown and black. "Try this brownibell, it's real good."
It was good to the taste but low in protein and almost devoid of vitamins. The fungi had bulk and flavor but little
else. It could be collected and dried for food and fuel, but those who ate nothing else quickly showed signs of
degeneration. Those who deliberately selected the caps containing hallucinogens died even sooner, from starvation,
parasitical spores, even simple drowning during the winter rains.
Dumarest leaned back, feeling the hot stickiness of his body against the confining walls of the tent. Clemdish had
fallen asleep, his flat-nosed face red and sweating and his mouth open to emit a gurgling snore. Dumarest leaned over
and placed his hand over the open mouth. The small man grunted, rolled over and settled down in silence.
Thoughtfully Dumarest studied his map.
The sites where they had left the markers were dotted in red, their path was a thin line of black. The place where
he had found the golden spore was deliberately unmarked. The detectors were supposed to be foolproof, each
instrument able only to pick up a matching signal, but it was wise to take no chances. At harvest time Scar lived up to
the savagery of its name.
Putting away the map Dumarest took a sip of brackish water and tried to relax. Sleep was a long time coming. It
was too hot and too stuffy, despite the mechanism humming as it circulated clean, filtered air. The ruby twilight was
too reminiscent of the interior of an oven. It pressed around the tent giving rise to a claustrophobic irritation.
Finally he drifted into an uneasy doze in which a laughing jester danced around him with a jingle of bells on cap
and shoes. The wand in his hand bore an inflated bladder and he kept thrusting it toward Dumarest's face. Then,
suddenly, the wand was the glinting metal of a knife and the jester wore the face of Heldar. He snarled and opened
his mouth to spit a gush of blood.
To one side a figure cloaked in flaming scarlet watched with burning eyes.
Dumarest jerked awake, sweating, heat prickling his skin. A red glare stabbed into his eyes. From one side the sun
shone with baleful fury, the unmasked disk huge as it spread across the sky. Against it drifted a black shape and noise
came from men working beneath.
Clemdish rolled, muttered, and was suddenly awake. "Earl! The sun! What's happening?"
"Harvesters," said Dumarest.
As he watched, another towering growth fell with a soggy crash and exposed more of the naked sky. Men
grappled with it, hooking lines to the cap and cutting it free so that others could draw it up to the loading well of the
raft. As it lifted, sweating, unsuited figures flung themselves at another fungus, their machetes flashing as they hacked
at the base.
"Zopolis's men," said Clemdish. "The crazy fools."
They were pieceworkers, risking infection for the sake of easier movement, paid by the load and racing against
time to make a stake for the winter.
"Look at them," said Clemdish. "What's to stop them jumping a marker if they find one? They could strip the site
and who would be the wiser?"
No one would; but harvesting took time, the teams were large and it would have to be a concerted effort.
Dumarest shrugged.
"Well stay here until they've gone," he decided. "There's no point in arousing their curiosity. What they don't
know, they can't talk about. We'll eat and rest while we've got the chance." He looked at Clemdish. "If the harvesters
have got this far the rest won't be far behind," he reminded. "Some of them could be looking for us."
"The rope," said Clemdish. "Don't rub it in."
"I wasn't, but we've got to move fast and get to the hills before anyone else. Once we start to climb we'll be at a
disadvantage." He smiled at the serious face close to his own. "So you'd better get your scratching done while you've
the chance. Once we start moving I don't want to stop."
"Not even for sleep, Earl?"
"No," said Dumarest, remembering his dream. "Not even for sleep."

***

The hills had changed. Now, instead of a scarred and crevassed slope leading up to jagged peaks, a colorful mass
of disguising fungi stretched in disarray. There was no possibility of standing back, selecting a route and checking to
see alternatives and difficulties. They would have to climb it the hard way, testing every inch and praying they would
meet no serious obstacles.
Dumarest flexed his arms. His shoulders ached from the weight of the pack and the necessity of cutting a path.
He turned, looking back the way they had come. They had left a trail but how obvious he could only guess.
A growth fell and opened a wider window towards the hills. Clemdish called from where he stood with his
machete, "That enough, Earl?"
"That should do it. Find some stones now so we can make a couple of mallets."
Despite their size, the growths were weak. With care it was possible to climb one, but only if it was the the right
kind and buttressed by others. As Clemdish moved off, questing like a dog for the required stones, Dumarest chopped
a series of steps in a warted bole and eased himself upwards.
Halfway up he paused. The tiny clearing they had made gave him a fair field of view. Carefully he studied the
slope ahead.
The ground itself was impossible to see but the fungi provided a guide; some grew thicker and taller than others
of the same type. Stony ground? Bared rock inhibiting the smaller growth's development? Water would have been
trapped in shallow basins, cups scooped by the action of rain and probably ringed with rock. Such places would
provide fertile ground for moisture-hungry rootlets. Certain of the molds and slimes preferred a smooth surface on
which to spread. Exposed boulders would provide such conditions.
Clemdish looked up as Dumarest climbed down from his vantage point. He was crouched over a couple of rocks,
lashing a cradle about each so that they could be carried slung over a wrist. Each stone weighed about ten pounds.
"The best I could find," he said, handing one to Dumarest. "But they should do the job. Do we share the stakes?"
"Stakes and rope, both," said Dumarest. The stakes were rods of metal two feet long; the rope was of synthetic
fiber, thin but strong. He took a deep breath, conscious of his fatigue, the sticky interior of the suit and the soreness
of his sweat-softened skin. They had slept on reaching the hills, but the rest hadn't done much good. "All right," he
said. "Let's get at it." The first part wasn't too bad. The lower slope was gentle and it was merely a matter of walking
uphill; then, as the gradient became more pronounced, the fungi itself acted as a ladder. Clemdish lunged ahead,
fatigue ignored now that he was so near a fortune. He clawed his way around swollen boles, kicking free masses of
fragile growth as he dug the toes of his boots into the spongy material. For a while he made good progress then,
abruptly, he came to a halt.
"I can't get a purchase up here, Earl." Slime coated his gloves and glistened on his suit and boots. "This damn
mold's all over the place."
Dumarest frowned, remembering. "Try moving to your left," he said. "About ten yards should do it."
Clemdish grunted and obeyed. Again he forged upwards, his boots sending little showers of dust and fungi down
at his partner, the showers ceasing as he came to a halt again.
Dumarest looked up at an overhang.
"We'll use a stake," he decided. "Slam one in to your right. I'll anchor a rope and try to climb higher. If I make it,
you can knock the stake free and use the rope to join me."
It was elementary mountaineering made difficult because they couldn't see what lay ahead. It was doubly difficult
because the crushed fungi coated the ground with slippery wetness. Dumarest clawed his way upward, his fingers
hooking before he dared to shift the weight from his feet and his toes searching for a hold before he could move his
hands.
With a final effort, he dragged himself onto a narrow ledge. A boulder showed at the base of a fungus. He
reached it and, using the rock dangling from his wrist, hammered a stake into the ground Hitching the rope around it,
he tugged and waited for Clemdish to join him.
"Made it," said the little man as he caught his breath. "No trouble at all, Earl. I'll tackle the next one."
Slowly they moved upward. Once Clemdish slipped and fell to hang spinning on the end of the rope. Dumarest
hauled him up, changed places and tried the climb himself. His extra height gave him an advantage, and he managed
to find a shallow gully running up and to one side. It led to a boulder, to a hidden crevasse into which they almost fell,
to a gully filled with a spongy mass of slimy growth through which they clawed, and up to an almost clear area from
which they could see back over the plain.
Dumarest sprawled on the shadowed ground. "We'll rest," he said. "Cool down, and replace our filters while we're
at it." He looked sharply at Clemdish. "Are you alright?"
"I'm beat." Clemdish scraped a mass of crushed fungi from his suit's diaphragm. "This is knocking the hell out of
me," he admitted. "We ought to get out of these suits, Earl, sleep, maybe. Have something to eat at least. Much more
of this, and we won't be much good when we hit the top."
Clemdish made sense. Dumarest leaned back, conscious of the quiver of overstrained muscles, the jerk of
overtired nerves and knowing that he had driven them both too hard. The worst part of the journey was still before
them: the steep, treacherous slope on the far side of the hills and the cliff falling to the sea. Tired men could easily
make mistakes and one could be fatal.
"All right," he said. "Well set up the tent, check the suits and have something to eat."
"Something good," said Clemdish, reviving a little. "I've got a can of meat in the pack."
It was good meat. They followed it with a cup of basic, spacemen's rations, a creamy liquid thick with protein,
laced with vitamins and sickly with glucose. Moving awkwardly in the limited confines of the tent, Clemdish stripped
and laved his body with a numbing compound to kill the irritation of sensitive skin.
As he worked, Dumarest looked back over the plain. The sun was swinging down to the far horizon, past its
zenith now, but still with a quarter of the way to go. Already he thought he could see a tinge of growing cloud on the
skyline. He thought it his imagination, probably, for when the rain clouds gathered, they came rolling from the sea to
hang in crimson menace before shedding their tons of water.
In the distance, he could see the tiny motes of rafts as harvesters gathered their crop. As he watched, one seemed
to grow, almost swelling as it rode high above the plain.
"It's coming towards us." Clemdish finished wriggling back into his clothes and suit to be fully protected aside
from his helmet. "What's it doing this far out from the station?"
"Scouting, probably." Dumarest frowned as the raft came steadily closer. They were a long way from the
harvesting sheds, and scouts worked in a circle rather than a straight line. Distance equaled money when it came to
collecting the crop, and never before, to his knowledge, had they ever harvested close to the hills.
Clemdish scowled at the nearing vehicle. "It's a scout, right enough," he admitted. "One of Zopolis's machines.
But who the hell ever heard of a scout carrying three men?" He looked at his partner. "Are they looking for us. Earl?
Is that what you think?"
"They could be."
"That rope." Clemdish bit his lower lip. "I must have been crazy, Earl. I'm sorry."
Dumarest didn't answer. It was too late for regret. If the men in the raft were searching for them, they would
either find them or not. Nothing else really mattered.
He watched as the raft came closer, then veered along the line of the hills, the men inside using binoculars to
examine the terrain. It rose, circled and returned, dropping towards the plain as if those inside had seen something of
interest.
Clemdish sighed as it turned and went back the way it had come. "They didn't see us, Earl," he said. "They didn't
find what they were looking for."
Dumarest wasn't sure.
 ***

Wandara glowered at the pilot of the raft. "Come on!" he yelled. "What you waiting for?"
The man scowled but lowered the vehicle carefully to the weighing plate of the scale. He cut the anti-gravs and
sat, waiting.
The overseer checked the weight, made a notation on his clipboard and climbed up to the open control bench.
Behind a low seat, the loading well of the raft was open to the sky. He looked at the mass of fungi, then glared at the
pilot.
"You're cutting too far down the stalk," he said. "We want the caps and don't you forget it. Return with a load like
this again, and I'll knock it off your pay. Understand?"
"Why tell me?" The man was overtired, jumpy and quick to take offense. "I just drive this thing."
"That's why I'm telling you," snapped Wandara. "You tell the others. Now get unloaded and remember what I
said."
He jumped down as the raft lifted and rose above a hopper. The under-flaps opened and the mass of fungi fell
into the chute. Two men with poles rammed it down as the raft drifted away, under-flaps closing as it went.
Zopolis came out of the processing shed, a blast of cold air following him into the sunshine. He looked at the raft
and then at the overseer. "I heard you shouting. Anything wrong?"
"Nothing I can't handle, Boss."
"They trying to load us up with stalk instead of caps?"
"The usual. Boss. Nothing to worry about. They're just getting a little tired."
Tired and greedy, thought Zopolis, but that's to be expected. The five-percent cut hadn't been popular and the
men were probably trying to get their own back by careless work. Up to a point it could be tolerated, but beyond that
he'd have to clamp down.
"How's the new man, the one on the scout," he said.
Wandara didn't look at the agent. "No complaints as yet, Boss."
"I hope there won't be any," said Zopolis. "I didn't like putting a brand-new worker on a job like that. You sure he
knows what it's all about?"
"I checked him out good." Wandara was sullen. "Tested him on twenty-three types, and he could name them all;
knows about harvesting, too. He did the same kind of work on Jamish."
Zopolis frowned. "That's an aquatic world."
"That's right, Boss," agreed Wandara. "He was scouting for fish and weed. Underwater work, but the same in
principle: hunt and find, find and report, report and lead. Only here he doesn't have to lead, just send in the
coordinates."
"As long as he does that," said Zopolis. "I don't want the men to be idle. They won't like losing pay, and the
company won't like losing produce." He dabbed at his sweating face. "How are we on bulk?"
"On schedule, Boss."
"Let me see your board." Zopolis took it and pursed his lips as he read the figures. "We're running too high on
candystalk. Better cut down and concentrate on bella-pellara. Get that scout of yours to locate it for us." He looked
up as the raft came drifting towards the weighing plate. "What the hell's happened there?"
A man sat slumped beside the pilot. He whimpered as the overseer jumped up beside him. A tourniquet was
bound about his left arm above the stump of his wrist. His left hand had been neatly severed.
"What is it?" demanded Zopolis. "What's wrong with him."
"Hand gone, Boss." Wandara looked at the pilot. "Quarrel?"
"Accident. They were chopping a bole and someone took one cut too many. That or he didn't move fast enough.
Do we get another helper?"
"You just wait a while." Wandara helped down the injured man, his face shining with sweat and exertion. "Take it
easy, man, you'll be all right," he soothed. "You got insurance?"
"That's a joke."
"Any money at all?" With money he could buy a new hand, but who in Lowtown had money? "Any friends?
Someone to look after you?"
"Just fix my hand," said the man. His eyes were dilated and he was still in shock. "Just fix me up and let me get
back to work."
"Sure," soothed Wandara. "Next year, maybe. Now this is what you do: go and find the monks, tell Brother Glee
that I said to fix that stump." He looked at Zopolis. "That right, Boss?"
Zopolis shrugged. "Why not? It's the best thing he can do. Better pay him off so he'll have something to buy
drugs with. Count in this load." Then, to the pilot of the raft, he said, "Well, what are you waiting for?"
 "Weigh me in," snapped the man, "and forget that other helper. We'll split between those that are left. Hurry," he
shouted as Wandara watched the injured man walk away towards the portable church. "We've got a living to earn."
It's started, thought Wandara as he checked the load and gave the man the signal to go ahead. A lopped-off hand
and who could tell if it's an accident or not? Most probably it was, but who was really to blame, the man who had
swung the machete, the man who had left his hand in the way, or the man who had cut the rate and so made them
work all the harder?
It's all right for Zopolis. He can linger in the processing sheds where it's nice and cold and he doesn't have to
check each load, sweating in the sun, driving men to the limit of their tolerance. There would be fights before the
harvest was over, more men with "accidental" wounds, others who would come back screaming with the pain of
searing acid or not come back at all with parasitical spores taking root in skin and lungs. They should wear their suits
at all times, but how could they work like dogs dressed like that? So they took a chance and some of them paid for it.
Too many paid for it.
They paid for the greed of a company that didn't give a damn what happened as long as they made their profits.
"Don't forget what I said about that new scout you took on," said Zopolis. "Keep him at it."
"I'll do that," said Wandara. "Leave it to me, Boss."
Leave it all to me, he thought as the agent vanished into the cold interior of the processing shed. The hiring, the
firing, the lot. But don't ask me to get rid of the new man, not when he paid me more than his wages to get the job.
In this life, a man's a fool not to look after himself.

Chapter Eight
The crimson shadows made it difficult to see and the sweat running into his eyes made it almost impossible.
Dumarest blinked, wishing that he could remove his helmet, wipe his face and feel the soft wind from the sea. He
blinked again, squinting at the stake held in his left hand. The cradled rock in his right hand seemed to weigh a ton.
Slowly he lifted it and swung it against the head of the stake.
He did it slowly, because he ached with fatigue, because it was important he hit the target, and because he clung
precariously to the slope and any sudden shift would send him from his hold.
If the upper stake didn't hold, both he and Clemdish would fall down to the cliff and the waiting sea.
Again he swung the crude mallet, feeling the jolt through both wrists as the dulled point bit deeper into the sun-
baked dirt. When the stake was fifteen inches deep, he looped the rope around in a clove hitch.
"All right, start moving," he called to Clemdish.
Like a spider, the little man eased himself from where he sprawled against the almost sheer surface. The sound of
his rock as he knocked free his stake was swallowed by the surrounding fungi, which made the descent even more
perilous. Dumarest caught Clemdish by the foot as he scrabbled closer and guided it to the safety of the stake. He
could hear the sound of the small man's breathing, harsh and ragged as it came through the diaphragm of his suit.
"Are you all right?"
"I'll manage," said Clemdish. He had no choice, but the pretense gave him comfort. "We're too close to go back
now."
"Rest a minute," advised Dumarest. "Catch your breath and study what you're going to do next."
Move over and down to the right, he thought. Find a spot where you can halt and slam in a stake. Loop the rope
around it while I follow and pass and repeat what we've done before. How often? He'd lost count. But the clump of
golden spore couldn't be far now, not if the detector was correct, and there was no reason to think it was not. It was
just a matter of moving like flies over the cluttered slope until they reached the haven of their destination.
Elementary mountaineering.
They had lost too many stakes; the four they had left were dull. They were both tired, too tired for safety, almost
too tired to continue. But there was nothing else they could do.
Dirt and broken scraps of fungi showered as Clemdish scrabbled across the slope and downward, to where the
golden spore should be. He halted and Dumarest heard the slow hammering of his rock, the silence and the call.
"All right, Earl."
The stake was stubborn and hard to shift. Dumarest left it knotted to the rope as he moved towards the little man;
that way there was no danger of it slipping from his belt. He reached his partner, rested for a moment, and checked
his position. The next leg would have to be almost straight down. Once he slipped and fell five feet before managing
to roll into a clump of fungus. It yielded, but not before he had found new holds. He felt a tug at his waist and called
for more slack. As he began to hammer in a stake, Clemdish fell.
He dropped the length of his rope and swung, hands and feet busy as they sought new holds. Before he could find
them, the stake tore free.
Dumarest heard a yell and saw a shower of dirt and the plummeting figure of the little man. Fifty feet of rope
separated them. When Clemdish reached the end of the slack, he would be torn from his holds. The stake was barely
an inch deep, it would never support their combined weight.
Dumarest tore it free and flung himself to one side.
It was a gamble. Lower down and a little to his right, he'd seen a mound of slime which could have covered a
boulder. If it did and he could get the other side of it so that the rope would hit the barrier, it could save both their
lives.
He hit, rolling through yielding fungi and clawing as he rolled to gain more distance. He felt a savage jerk at his
waist and then something slammed with great force against his back, almost stunning him with the impact. He
managed to turn his head and saw naked rock where the rope had scraped it free of slime. The rope itself was
pressed hard against the lower edge, taut as it pulled at his waist.
At the other end of it Clemdish would be suspended.
Dumarest laid his hand on the rope and felt vibration as if Clemdish were swinging or spinning. He waited until it
had died and then, lining his feet, managed to get his boots against the boulder. Gently he pressed, throwing himself
back so as to gain purchase on the rope, sweating for fear the boulder would suddenly rip free from its bed.
The rock held. Legs straightened, Dumarest began to haul up the rope. It was a direct pull with all the
disadvantages of an awkward position. Sweat ran into his eyes as he hauled hand over hand, the muscles in back and
shoulders cracking with the strain. Twice he had to pause and rest. Once he shifted positions he imagined he felt the
boulder move a little beneath his feet. Finally, a suited figure appeared on the other side of the stone.
"Help me!" snapped Dumarest. "Take your weight. Quickly! If this boulder goes, we're both dead."
Clemdish lifted his hands and clawed at the dirt and the stone. Dumarest snagged the slack of the rope around his
shoulders and, reaching back, managed to hammer in a stake. Looping the rope around it, he relaxed a little. Now,
even if the boulder should fall, they still had a chance.
"All right," he said. "Up you come."
Lowering himself, he caught Clemdish by the shoulders and heaved.
"Earl!"
"Come on!" snapped Dumarest. "Use your feet, man. Get over this edge."
"I can't, Earl." Clemdish scrabbled with both hands, found a purchase and tugged as Dumarest heaved. Together
they fell back against the support of the boulder. Clemdish sagged, his breathing loud and broken, and Dumarest took
up more of the slack.
For the first time he looked behind him.
A clump of twisted candysticks, striped in an elaborate pattern of red and black and topped with pointed
minarets reared towards the crimson sky. Golden spore!
"Look," said Dumarest. "We've found it. We're at the jackpot!"
Clemdish stirred sluggishly, his hands moving as if trying to raise his chest. Dumarest frowned and stared at the
face beyond the transparency. It was flushed, streaming with perspiration, the mouth ringed with blood.
"Earl!" Clemdish opened his eyes. "I'm hurt," he said. "When I fell, I swung against a rock or something. My lungs
hurt and I can't move my legs. Earl! I can't move my legs!"

***

Brother Glee closed the door of the church and slowly turned away. Hightown was comfortable despite the
external heat and the church well appointed despite its small size. He regretted having to leave it. Sternly he
repressed the emotion. Summer was almost over and already most of the tourists had gone. All that now remained
were the hunters and traders, the professional entertainers, the harpies and entrepreneurs and, of course, the
stranded and desperate, the poor that were always a part of the scheme of things.
Sighing, he made his way to the exit, acknowledging the salute of the guards and pausing as he emerged into the
heat. The landing field looked emptier than it had, the station more wild than it was. Dust drifted from beneath his
sandals as he resumed his progress. From all about came the thin, monotonous whine of the blowers as they created
their barrier against drifting spores.
"Locking up, Brother?" Del Meoud fell into step at his side. "I wish it were possible to allow you to use the church
in Hightown during the winter, but it cannot be. The maintenance, you understand—to open a part I would have to
open all."
The monk smiled in the shadow of his cowl. The factor seemed eager to please. "Do not disturb yourself, brother;
I fully understand. The portable church will suffice."
 "You could take advantage of my offer: a shelter for use as your church and food from the canteen."
"The church will return to where it is needed," said the monk evenly. "But I thank you, brother, for your concern."
Thoughtfully, he watched as the factor nodded and strode away. Del Meoud seemed tense and more on edge than
normal, almost as if he had something on his mind or on his conscience and, by offering his help, hoping to make
friends or amends.
Interestedly he looked ahead to where Adrienne sauntered with the tall grim figure of Ilgash, Jocelyn's
bodyguard, a step behind. The woman seemed to be waiting for someone. With wry surprise, he realized that the
person was himself.
"Brother," she said as he drew near, "may I talk to you?"
He looked at her for a moment before answering, his eyes studying her face. "Is something troubling you, sister?"
Irritably she shook her head. "No—yes—I don't know. Are you busy? Could we talk?"
"If you wish to unburden yourself, sister," said the monk evenly, "the church is at your disposal." He caught her
hesitation. "I am on my way to Lowtown. If you would care to accompany me, we could talk as we go."
Adrienne nodded, her long legs easily matching the other's stride. "The summer is almost over," she said abruptly.
"Shouldn't all those who hunt spores be back by now?"
"No, sister. Some of them make long journeys and many spores are unavailable until the very end of summer." It
was his turn to hesitate. "Did you have someone special in mind?"
"Dumarest," she said curtly. "My husband invited him to share a meal with us. I have not seen him since. Do you
know the man?"
"Yes, sister, but he could be one of those of whom I spoke." He sensed her desire to hear more and her
bafflement at not knowing how to phrase her questions without betraying her interest. Skillfully, he changed the
subject. "Your husband has done much to alleviate the distress of those living in Lowtown. The services of his
physician alone are most welcome. And he has agreed to give passage to several wishing to travel to Jest."
"As workers, as indentured servants," she snapped.
"Until they repay the cost of passage," the monk corrected gently. "Even so, the offer is a generous one."
"The act of a fool," she said, suddenly angry. "I assume that he wants each one to spin a coin so as to decide his
fate?"
"Not quite, sister. I have been given the task of arranging a lottery. Available space is limited," he explained. "Only
a few can be accommodated. Your vessel does not have facilities for low passage, and quick-time does not come
cheap." He was surprised at the venom of her reaction.
"Is that why I was denied?"
"Denied?"
"Yes, I—" She broke off; her lips thinned as she fought her anger. Was this why she had been refused use of the
drug which would have eliminated her boredom? Under its influence an hour passed in a second, a day in a few
minutes. She assumed she had been refused it in order to save the drug for the use of stranded travelers.
"Be careful here, sister," said Brother Glee as they approached Lowtown. "The path is somewhat rough."
The houses were also rough, were hovels in which men, women, even children lived. There were numbers of
wide-eyed tots in rags chewing on scraps of fungus. Their bellies were swollen and their skins showed the inevitable
results of their diet.
People were working on the huts, slowly making up the walls and strengthening the roofs. Many were past repair
and the materials which had gone into their construction were used to repair others. Those not engaged in building
collected masses of fungi for drying and storage.
Everywhere was the smell she had once noticed in the slums of Eldfane, the stink of poverty.
"My lady," said Ilgash softly in her ear. "I do not think it wise for you to be here. These people are unused to one
of your stature."
He doesn't mean exactly that, she thought with sudden insight. He thinks that I lower my dignity by being here
and, by association, his own. She looked at the children. Dignity? Among the starving, what was that?
She said to Brother Glee. "The children would require less quick-time and take up less room. We could take more
of them."
"And what of the parents? They would willingly relinquish their children, but have we the right to present them
with such a choice? Your husband recognized that we could not, and so the lottery. Some will be lucky; some of the
lucky ones will yield their places to others."
He caught her inhalation of disbelief and felt her anger.
"You doubt that? You think the poor and desperate have no higher motivation than the beast impulse to eat and
stay alive? Sister, you know little of the realities of life. You think your husband a fool because he does what he must;
I tell you he is far from that. How often does the ruler of a world concern himself with the welfare of those less
fortunate? You are indeed to be envied, having married such a man. There are so few who, having power, use it as it
should be used, to aid and not to destroy."
She caught a reflection of his anger, the helpless rage born of frustration and the indifference of many, of
watching children starve while men squandered money on things of transient pleasure, of seeing the arrogance of
the wealthy and the unfeeling cruelty of rulers. Startled, she looked at the monk. The church, she knew, had power
and many friends in high places. Where poverty lurked they were to be found but, also, their plain robes merged with
the colorful garments of many a court. She compared him with Yeon. Cybers, also, graced the places of wealth and
influence, but they never mingled with the poor.
She shook her head, baffled by novel concepts and a little annoyed because of them. Had she misjudged Jocelyn
so badly? If the church regarded him with such favor could he be such a fool? More important, would they turn
against her in times to come?
"My lady, it is time you returned to the ship." Ilgash was insistent.
"A moment." Adrienne looked at Brother Glee. "I am a stranger to Jest," she said. "But if you have no church
there, you would be most welcome."
He acknowledged her offer with a slight inclination of his head. "You are gracious, sister, but the matter has
already been arranged. A Brother will be accompanying you when you leave."
She was sharp. "Not yourself ?"
Was his reply a rebuke? Adrienne examined the words, the tone, and shook her head. It was a simple statement
of fact from an old and dedicated man who did what he could with what he had, a man who neither judged nor
condemned.
Ilgash said deferentially, "My lady, with respect, it is time to return."
Thoughtfully she walked up the path, pausing as she crested the slope to look back, seeing the monk now
surrounded by children and thin-faced women eager for news. The memory lingered all the way to the ship.
A fungus exploded dully to one side, releasing a cloud of yellow spores. They drifted in the soft wind from the
sea, the yellow tinged with red so that, for a moment, they seemed a spray of orange blood.

***

"A parasite," said Clemdish. "A bad one. Get a spore on your bare skin and you're in real trouble."
Dumarest wiped the other's sweating face.
"Trouble," said Clemdish. "That's a joke. Who needs trouble when they've got me?"
"You had bad luck," said Dumarest. "It could have happened to anyone."
"I didn't listen," said the small man. "You warned me, but I wouldn't listen. I was greedy. I wanted it all. Now what
have I got? A busted spine and ribs tearing my lungs to shreds." He coughed and dabbed at the fringe of blood
around his mouth. "A cripple," he said bitterly, "a helpless cripple."
He lay against one side of the tent, resting on a bed of soft fungi, his almost naked body glistening with sweat.
Rough bandages swathed his chest where Dumarest had set his broken ribs, but there had been nothing he could do
about the broken spine.
Dumarest leaned back, his eyes closed, reliving the muscle-tearing effort of dragging the little man to a place of
safety, of setting up the tent, of sterilizing them both and tending his partner's injuries. Since then it had been a
matter of supplying food and water.
The water was running low.
"We've got to think of something," said Clemdish. "I'm no help like this. Hell, Earl, what can we do?"
Dumarest opened his eyes. "You know the answer to that."
"Split," said Clemdish.
It had been obvious all along. Only a raft could move the injured man and a raft could only be obtained at the
station. Dumarest would have to climb the slope alone, descend the far side and make his way back in safety. Even a
twisted ankle could mean death for them both.
"There's no hurry," said Dumarest. "Try and get some sleep while I gather supplies."
Outside the tent he straightened and crossed to where the clump of golden spore stood in fantastic splendor.
Transparent plastic bags covered the pointed caps, the thin material hanging loose from the binding almost filled with
the precious spores. Dumarest slapped each cap smartly with the palm of his hand, watching for the yield. No further
spores dropped from the gills of the open caps; the harvest was complete.
Carefully he loosened the bindings, removed the bags from the caps and lashed tight the open necks. Trapped air
ballooned the sacks into globes several feet across. Later he would expel the air, transfer the spores to storage
containers and seal them against infection. He went to where a clump of liver-colored fronds shaded the tent, and
tucked the sacks out of sight. Draping the straps of the canteens over his shoulder he began a cautious descent to the
sea.
While waiting for the harvest there had been time to cut steps, drape ropes and set stakes so as to make the
descent possible. He swung and dropped into shallow water. A tiny inlet showed a patch of cleared dirt where he had
dug a well. Clear water covered the bottom. Dumarest hoped that it would be drinkable.
Dropping onto his stomach, he let the empty canteens fall into the liquid, bubbles of air rising from their mouths
as water forced its way into the containers. Leaning farther over the edge of the pit, he sealed them while still
immersed. Rising, he stood looking over the sea.
Fifty yards from where he stood something traced a thin line across the leaden waves.
In contrast to the land, there was animal life in the sea, strange aquatic beasts rarely seen and rarely caught. Out
in the deep water they browsed on submarine growths and smaller species, able to survive in a medium which was
proof against the ubiquitous parasitical spores dominating the land.
Protein, thought Dumarest. Good, solid food to build strength, chemicals and drugs, minerals too, even. Endless
riches waiting to be exploited but which never would be. The initial investment would be too great, the immediate
return too small, and there were so many other worlds offering just as much for far less effort, a billion worlds,
perhaps. Slinging the canteens over his shoulder, Dumarest turned to the cliff and commenced the climb to the upper
slope.
There he would find edible fungi and medicinal caps whose hallucinogens could offer Clemdish a means of
easing his pain. He would lie in a drugged fantasy, waking to eat and drink and chew more of the caps and to sink
again into a restful oblivion.
Dumarest reached the top of the cliff and eased himself over the edge. Rising, he made his way towards the tent.
He froze as he saw the raft.

Chapter Nine
It was Zopolis's scout raft and must have arrived while he was busy at the foot of the cliff getting the water. For a
moment Dumarest thought that someone had missed them and had sent out a rescue party, Wandara or the agent
himself, perhaps. Then he heard a cold voice and the hope died.
"You there, come forward! Slowly!"
A man stood before a clump of fungus in which he had hidden. The gun in his hand was a primitive slug-thrower
and he held it aimed directly at Dumarest's stomach.
"That's right," he said as Dumarest obeyed. "You're a man of sense, just stay that way. Now the machete, get rid
of it." The gun jerked a little in his hand. "Careful now. Try anything stupid and you'll get a bullet right smack in the
gut."
He was one of the three men Ewan had pointed out back at the station. Another sat at the controls of the raft, his
face impassive behind the transparency of his suit. Dumarest did not see the third.
"Hurry!" snapped the man with the gun. "The machete. Move."
Dumarest dropped his left hand to the hilt, unsheathed it and threw it to one side. It landed point first and stood
quivering in the dirt. Deliberately he let the canteens fall from his shoulder. "You're late," he said. "What kept you?"
"You're smart," said the man with the gun. "Maybe too smart. You expected us?"
"You were looking for us days ago. We saw you from the other side of the range." Dumarest looked around.
Where was the third man? "We could make a deal," he suggested. "We need transport back to the station and we're
willing to pay for it."
"Forget it!"
"Three high passages, honest money and no trouble. A quick profit and no complaints." Casually Dumarest
added, "Where's your friend?"
"Looking for me?" The third man came from the direction of the tent. He held a knife in his hand, its point stained
with blood. "No good," he said to the man with the gun. "He couldn't take it. Maybe this character can sing as well as
argue?"
"Maybe." The gun jerked again. "All right, friend. Where is it? The golden spore," he snapped as Dumarest didn't
answer. "You've harvested it and put it somewhere. We want it. If you don't hand it over, we'll get rough."
"Kill me and you'll never find it," said Dumarest evenly. His eyes darted from side to side, weighing his chances.
The man in the raft could be temporarily ignored, as could the man with the knife. If he could find some way to down
the man with the gun and get it perhaps, he might stand a chance.
The one with the knife tittered. "Who said anything about killing you?" he demanded. "We wouldn't do that. Cut
you up a little, maybe, but not kill you, not right away." He gestured with the blade towards the tent. "Why don't you
take a look at your friend? He might help you to make up your mind."
Dumarest felt his stomach tighten as he looked at the tent. The thin plastic was ripped to shreds. Under the
ruined cover Clemdish lay, eyes open, blood ringing his mouth. His body was cut in a score of places, deep, vicious
gouges above sensitive nerves, the blood making a pattern of ruby on the white skin. He was dead. "He tried to
scream," said the man with the knife casually. "But I stopped that. Cut out his tongue," he explained. "We didn't want
conversation, only a straight answer to a straight question. I felt sure he'd come across when I tickled a nerve or two.
That kind of pain will make a dead man get up and dance. But not him. Odd."
"He was crippled," said Dumarest, "paralyzed from the waist down. He couldn't feel what you did."
He had not felt it, but he had known of it, realizing the damage done to nerve and sinew, and not all of the cuts
had been made low down. Dumarest drew air deep into his lungs, fighting for calm. This was no time to yield to blind,
consuming rage; Clemdish was dead and beyond help or harm.
Slowly he walked back to where the machete stood upright in the dirt.
"So you see your position," said the man with the knife. He was enjoying himself. "You've got the spore and we
need it. We've gone to a lot of expense to get it. So, if you don't want to wind up like your friend, you'll hand it over."
"Hurry it up," said the man on the raft. He had a harsh voice, heavy with impatience. "I've been out too long as it
is. By the time I drop you off and report in, they could be asking questions."
"Relax," said the man with the gun. "Phelan knows what he's doing."
"That's right," said Phelan. He looked thoughtfully at his knife. "Give it to him, Greek. One slug in each knee. Fire
at the count of three unless he comes across."
"You want the spore, you can have it," said Dumarest quickly. "You can have anything you want. Just leave me
alone."
"Sure," said Greek. "We'll leave you alone. Just deliver the spore and we'll all be happy. Now go and get it before I
get impatient."
"Please," said Dumarest. "Just give me a minute. Please."
He cringed a little, putting fear into his voice, almost running as he went to collect the sacks of spore. He opened
the necks of the containers as he returned.
"I'll make them easier to carry," he said. "I'll tip one into the other." He stood, manipulating the swollen bags,
making two from the seven. "There! Is that all right?"
Greek smiled and raised his gun. "That's fine," he said, and frowned as he realized that Dumarest was holding the
sacks in such a way that they shielded his body. A bullet would pass through them without hindrance, but the valuable
spores would escape through tho holes. Greed overcame caution. "Throw the bags to one side," he snapped.
"Quickly!"
The man on the raft cleared his throat. "Hold it, Greek. Get the ring first."
"To hell with the ring!"
"It was part of our deal. Get it, or we could be in trouble. Unless you want to run up against the big time; I don't."
Greek snarled his impatience. "Quick!" he ordered Dumarest. "Hand me that ring on your finger."
Dumarest frowned. "I'll have to take off my suit to get it."
"Then take it off. Hurry!"
Slowly Dumarest obeyed. It was awkward removing the suit while holding the sacks of spore and he was
deliberately clumsy, moving as if by accident closer to where the machete stood in the dirt. Death, now, was very
close. To the threat of the gun and knife was added that of the parasitical spores. At any moment a ripe fungus could
fling its lethal cargo into the air. Even now a minute spore could have settled on his skin and be thrusting hungry
rootlets to the moisture beneath, to explode into frantic life.
Dumarest threw aside the sacks of precious spore. Automatically Greek followed them with his eyes, then, too
late, realized his mistake. The thrown suit came hurtling through the air to settle over his gun. A shimmer of steel
followed it as Dumarest snatched up the machete and flung himself after the suit. The pistol roared as he lifted the
blade and roared again as he swept it down. Greek stared in horror at the stump of his arm, at the blood jetting like a
fountain from the severed arteries and at his hand, still holding the gun, lying on the ground. "Phelan!"
Dumarest cut once more; then sprang aside as Greek fell, his life gushing from his slashed throat. He threw the
machete. The blade spun, glittering with crimson droplets, and buried its point in the knife-man's stomach. He
staggered, tried to throw his knife, then fell face down in the dirt.
Dumarest snatched up the blade as fire burned across his shoulders.
Leaning from his seat at the controls of the raft, the third man aimed his laser again. The beam again narrowly
missed, cutting across Dumarest's side, searing the plastic of his tunic, fusing the protective mesh and burning the
flesh beneath. Dumarest threw the knife.
 The knife plunged hilt-deep into the soft flesh of the man's throat. He reared, the laser falling from lax fingers as
he reached upwards, then he toppled, falling from the seat to the ground. Relieved of his weight, the raft lifted to be
caught by the wind and carried away.
A bursting cloud of spores rose from the spot where the pilot had fallen.
They were yellow, tinged with the ruby light so they looked like a spray of orange blood. The wind caught them,
scattered them on a vagrant breath and them drifting like smoke over the slope and towards the encampment.
Dumarest looked at them, then at his suit. It would be impossible to don it in time. To stay meant certain death
from the parasitical spores. The raft was hopelessly out of reach; the tent was useless. He had perhaps three seconds
in which to save himself.
Snatching up the sacks of golden spore, he raced down the slope and flung himself from the cliff into the sea.
He hit with a bone-bruising impact, feeling the sacks torn from his grasp; falling deep, until he managed to
convert his downward motion into first horizontal and then vertical movement. He broke the surface retching for air
and weakly treading water until his starved lungs allowed him to think of other things. To one side he spotted the
sacks and swam towards them. There were two of them, their necks tied so as to trap the air. He turned on his back
and rested his neck on the juncture so that a sack rose to each side of his head. Their buoyancy ensured that he
would not drown.
But, if drowning was now no problem, there were others. Spores could drift from the coast despite the wind and
he concentrated on putting distance between himself and the land. The exertion made him conscious of his burns.
Fortunately the skin was unbroken as far as he could discover and there was no choice but to suffer the pain.
He thought of stripping; then changed his mind at memory of what could lurk beneath the waves. The clothes
were hampering but would protect his body against fin or scale. Thoughtfully he stared up at the sky.
It was past the end of summer. During the next few days the fungi would finish sporing and the spores would
settle. To be safe he would have to remain well out to sea until the autumn and the first rains, about twelve days, he
guessed. Then would come the effort of reaching land, climbing the hills and reaching the station. It would be hard,
but not impossible. The sea would contain food of a kind and some of it should contain drinkable fluid. The sacks
would allow him to sleep and the wind would prevent him losing sight of the coast. Even if he drifted lower he could
still make his way back. The sun if nothing else would guide him. It was a question of timing.
Something traced a line across the waves to his left He heard a muffled sound through the water lapping his ears
as if an oared vessel had passed close by. He turned, resting his weight on the sacks, his eyes narrowed as he
searched the waves. He caught a glimpse of a line crossing ahead. It circled, came closer, and aimed itself directly at
him.
Dumarest released the sacks, ducked and snatched the knife from his boot. He stared into the crimson murk. A
shadow lunged towards him and he kicked himself to one side, catching a glimpse of large eyes, a fringe of tentacles
and a whipping tail. The thing swept past, turned with a flash of yellow underbelly and a lash of the tail. It hit
Dumarest on the chest, its barbs gouging the plastic, the impact enough to send him backwards through the water.
Rising, he gulped air and looked around.
Nothing but a thin line moving towards him.
He ducked again, fighting the weight of his clothing, knife extended as he faced the direction from which he
thought the creature would strike. A shadow loomed, grew huge, and became a gaping, tentacle-fringed mouth. They
were splayed and lined with suckers which grasped his left arm and dragged him towards the teeth. He kicked,
slashed down with the knife and kicked again as the tentacles parted. As an eye passed him he stabbed at it with his
blade.
He felt the tail smash against his back and other tentacles grab his right arm. Pressure mounted as the beast
dived, the wide, flat body undulating as it went towards the bottom. Desperately he changed the knife from hand to
hand, slashing, stabbing, kicking as he fought to break free. Blood gushed from the creature and stung his eyes. Lungs
bursting, he felt something give and swam frantically upwards. The water lightened, cleared, became air. Dumarest
coughed and fought for breath. The sacks bobbed to one side and he headed towards them, throwing his left arm over
the junction, letting them support his weight. If the beast grabbed him again and took him below, he knew that he
would never survive.
Around him the water suddenly boiled as something streaked from the depths. It surfaced, rising from the waves
to hang momentarily against the sky, the body lacerated, the fringe of tentacles showing ragged members, one eye a
gaping ruin. Then it crashed back into the water as a score of smaller fish followed it.
They were scavengers, intent on food and attracted by the scent of blood, worrying the huge beast as dogs
worried a bear, darting in, attacking and weakening the creature even more.
Dumarest clung to his sacks and watched as the surface fury vanished towards the horizon. He could have been
unlucky, the great beast could have been a rare oddity, but somehow he didn't think so. To be safe at all he had to hug
the coast where the water was shallow, and the chance of falling victim to a parasitic spore was great.
Weakly, he began to swim to where the coast rested against the crimson sky. With care, he thought, by keeping
himself wet and by staying as far away from land as he dared, he might still have a chance. He could even head back
towards the encampment. At least he knew there were suits there, and equipment he could use or adapt to be useful.
He still had a chance.

***

There were no birds on Scar, so the black dot in the sky could only be a raft. Dumarest looked at it as it came
closer. It hovered over the coast, then veered to drift to a halt directly above where he floated. Jocelyn looked down.
Behind him Ilgash loomed, a protective shadow. Both were suited.
"An interesting situation, Earl," said the ruler of Jest conversationally. "How long do you think you can survive as
you are?"
Dumarest studied the sky. A broad band of cloud lifted from the seaward horizon and the hills were limned with
ruby light. Autumn was coming to a close, but winter was still several days away.
"Not long enough, my lord," he said frankly. His throat hurt and it pained him to talk. "Will you give me aid?"
"That depends."
"On what, my lord?"
"Many things. On your luck, for example, or on the value you place on your life." Jocelyn reached behind him and
lifted a canteen. "You thirst," he said. "How much will you give me for this water?"
Dumarest licked his cracked lips.
"You hesitate, but there is no need, I am not a seller of water." Jocelyn lowered the canteen by its strap. "Take it
as a gift."
His hands were bloated with immersion and the seal was tight so that it seemed an age before Dumarest could
open the canteen and taste the water it contained. It was sweet and cool, better than the most expensive wine. He
sipped, cautiously, fighting his inclination to gulp. Around him the water made little sucking noises as he shifted his
position, the sacks bobbing as he lifted his head. He lifted the canteen again, the sleeve of his tunic falling back from
his left wrist. Blood glistened from a seeping raw patch.
"A spore, my lord." Dumarest caught the question on Jocelyn's face. "I was careless. It took root and spread as I
watched. Fortunately I have a knife."
"You cut away the contamination?"
"How else to stop the infection? I have no acid, no fire."
And no feeling in my body, he thought, as he sipped again at the canteen. There was no food in his stomach, but
that was a minor thing. The real strain had been lack of water and lack of sleep. He had dozed, jerking awake at every
fancied danger, sometimes finding they were far from imaginary. Hugging the coast there had been no more large
creatures, but the smaller ones were ferocious enough, and were too agile for easy killing. He looked up at the
hovering raft.
"How did you find me my lord?"
"I have my ways," said Jocelyn. "You may thank my wife for her concern. She missed you and mentioned the
matter. But enough of details. Tell me, Earl, have you been in this situation before?"
"In risk of my life?"
"Yes."
"There have been occasions when I have been close to death," said Dumarest flatly. He felt a little light-headed as
if he were conversing in a dream. If Jocelyn intended to rescue him, why didn't he get on with it? If not why did he
remain?
"This is novel to me," said the ruler of Jest. "A perfect example of the workings of fate. You are here through no
act of mine. I owe you nothing. You admit that?"
Dumarest remained silent.
"You can hardly deny it. So I have been given a rare opportunity to learn." Jocelyn leaned a little farther over the
edge of the raft. Ilgash moved as if to grab his master should he venture too far. "To learn the value a man sets on his
continued existence," said Jocelyn slowly. "Wealth is relative, as I think you will agree. What will you give me if I save
your life?"
"All I possess, my lord."
"Is life then so valuable?"
Dumarest coughed and looked at his hand. He washed it in the sea before answering. "Without life what is
wealth? Can a dead man own possessions? I float on a fortune, my lord. It is yours if you will lift me from the sea and
restore my health."
A fire burned deep in Jocelyn's eyes. "A fortune? Golden spore?"
"Yes."
"So Yeon was right," murmured Jocelyn and then he said, "What is to stop me taking it and leaving you here?"
"Try it and you get nothing." Dumarest was curt, tired of playing. "I have a knife. It is pointed at the bottom of the
sacks. One puncture and the spore is lost in the sea." He coughed again. "Hurry, my lord. Make your decision."
The raft descended. Strong arms reached out and hauled Dumarest from the water. Jocelyn himself took charge
of the plastic containers. He smiled as he saw the hilt of Dumarest's knife still in his boot.
"So, Earl, you were bluffing all the time."
Dumarest coughed again, looked at the redness on his hand. "No, my lord," he said. "Desperate. A spore has
settled in my lung. I would not have lived to see the winter."

Chapter Ten
There were little noises, the clink and tap of metal on metal, a liquid rushing, the soft susurration of air. Erlan
made a satisfied grunt and straightened, his head haloed by an overhead light.
"Good," he said. "Completely clear of any trace of infection and the tissue has healed perfectly."
Dumarest looked up at the physician from where he lay on the couch.
"The upper part of the left lung was badly affected," continued Erlan cheerfully. "A bulbous mass of vegetable
growth which had to be completely eradicated by major excision. That was a vicious spore you managed to get inside
you, a quick-grower, nasty."
He stepped back and did something to the couch. The head lifted raising Dumarest upright.
"I had to remove quite a large area but managed to do it by internal surgery. There may be a little scarring but the
regrowth has fully restored the lung capacity so you will have no difficulty as regards oxygen conversion. I also
repaired your left eardrum which had burst, probably due to high pressure."
Dumarest looked at his arm. There was no trace of where he had cut himself. "How long?"
"In slow-time therapy?" Erlan pursed his lips. "About forty days subjective, a day normal. Your tissues showed
signs of dehydration and malnutrition so I gave you intensive intravenous feeding. You can rest assured, my friend,
that you are now completely fit and free of any physical disability, both present and potential."
"Thank you," said Dumarest. "You've taken a lot of trouble."
Erlan shrugged. "Don't thank me, it was Jocelyn's order. He is waiting for you in the lower cabin. Your clothes are
on that chair."
They had been refurbished and were as good as new, the soft gray of the plastic seeming to ripple as it caught the
light. Once dressed, Dumarest left the medical chamber and descended a stair. Ilgash ushered him into a cabin. Inside
Jocelyn sat listening to music.
It was a sweeping melody of strings and drums with a horn wailing like a lost soul in atonal accompaniment.
There was a wildness about it and a hint of savagery, the taint of the primitive and barbaric splendor of ancient days.
Jocelyn sighed as it ended and switched off the player. "Unusual, is it not? The factor allowed me to take a copy of
his recording. He has quite a wide selection of melodies and shows a particularly sensitive taste. This one, I believe,
originated on Zeros. Do you know the planet?"
"No, my lord."
"And yet you have traveled widely, I understand." Jocelyn shrugged. "Well, no matter. A man's, path sometimes
takes him in strange directions, to Scar, perhaps even to Jest."
Dumarest made no comment.
"You disagree?" Jocelyn smiled. "And yet, what choice have you? The price you paid me for saving your life was
the total of your possessions. Your clothes and ring I do not claim; the rest I do. Sit and discuss the matter."
"There is nothing to discuss, my lord." Dumarest took the proffered chair. "I do not wish to accompany you to
Jest."
"You intend to remain on Scar without money and with the winter almost due? How will you survive?"
Dumarest shrugged. "I can manage, my lord. It will not be the first time I have been stranded on a hostile world."
"You are stubborn," said the ruler of Jest. "It is a trait which I find admirable. Without it, you would now be surely
dead."
He rose and paced the floor. At his rear the worn bindings of ancient books rested in their cases of wood and
crystal. He paused, looking at them, then glanced at Dumarest.
"Are you willing to leave the matter to fate?"
 "The spin of a coin, my lord? No."
"A pity," sighed Jocelyn. "How else can I persuade you?" He resumed his pacing, feet silent, head inclined a little
as if about to spring. "Wait," he said. "There is something you seek, a world, Earth." His eyes were bright as he looked
at Dumarest. "Terra."
Dumarest surged from his chair. "You know it?"
"The name is not strange to you?"
"No. I have heard it before, on Toy." Dumarest caught himself. "And again on Hope, my lord, in the archives of the
Universal Brotherhood. Do you know where Terra lies?"
Jocelyn was honest. "No, but I have thought of your problem and perhaps I could be of help. My father was an
unusual man. He loved the past; he squandered his wealth on ancient things. Traders came from all over with their
wares. They even coined a name for him, the Jester, the Fool. Sometimes I think the name was apt."
Dumarest made no comment, recognizing the bitterness in the other's tone.
"He bought old books, charts, mathematical tables together with the works of those who probe into the meaning
of things, philosophers. I think that they alone can teach you how to find what you seek."
Books, printed in almost indecipherable words in a medley of languages no longer current, hardly seemed the
answer. Dumarest felt a sudden anger. Was Jocelyn toying with him, enjoying his private jest? How did he expect a
traveler to have the knowledge or time to read who could guess how many books?
"You would need specialists," said Jocelyn as if reading his thoughts. "You would need those who have devoted
their lives to the study of what has gone before, men who dream of strange possibilities alien to accepted fact, not
scientists, who are limited to what they can see and feel and measure, but philosophers, who recognize no mental
boundaries. For example, I can give you a clue. Not the name Terra, which you already know, and which was a
fragment of a forgotten poem, but the use of navigational coordinates. We use a common zero, correct?"
"The center," said Dumarest. "Where else?"
"Let us assume something ridiculous," said Jocelyn seriously. "Let us, for the purpose of argument, assume that
all mankind originated on a single world. The ancient poem I spoke of mentioned such a possibility. In that case,
where would the zero of their coordinates lie?"
"On their home world." said Dumarest slowly. "As they expanded they would use that as their point of reference."
"Exactly! Now do you see how it may be possible to solve your problem? If Earth, Terra, was the home world
then, somewhere, there could be a set of navigational tables which would use that planet as their zero point. Find
such a set, discover a common reference with those we use at present, and you will find the coordinates of the world
you seek." Jocelyn smiled. "You see, my friend, how simple it really is."
It was simple if the suggestion that Earth, at any time, had really been the originating planet of mankind, if any
navigational tables existed from that time, if he could find them and if there were any common reference points.
"Yes, my lord," said Dumarest dryly. "You make it sound very simple."
"Great problems usually are when looked at from the correct viewpoint," said Jocelyn. "On Jest we have many
ancient books, perhaps one of them will contain the information you seek."
"Perhaps," Dumarest ignored the obvious bait. "One thing, my lord."
"Yes?"
"You knew where to find me. Will you please tell me how you knew where I would be?"
Jocelyn laughed. "Now that is simple. I asked. Why else should I keep a cyber?"

***

Zopolis spread his hands. "Earl, I didn't know, I swear it. Do you honestly think I would supply a raft to men like
that?" The agent's face was sweating despite the coolness of the processing shed. "It was Wandara," he added, "that
lousy overseer of mine. He took a bribe to hire a new scout. The louse must have picked up his friends and jumped
you."
"They killed Clemdish," said Dumarest flatly. "They almost killed me."
"I know how you feel," said Zopolis quickly. "I felt the same. Do you think I want anyone coming after me with a
knife? I tell you it was Wandara who supplied the raft. And I still haven't found it," he mourned. "It must be
somewhere over the sea by now. More expense, more trouble."
"And Wandara?"
Zopolis shrugged. "Gone. I kicked him out when I discovered what had happened, not what happened to you," he
explained. "If I had known that I'd have come after you, but when I found out about the new scout, I held back his
pay and he had to travel low. Maybe he won't make it," he added. "A man like that doesn't deserve any luck at all."
"Wrong," said Dumarest. "He deserves plenty of it—all bad."
 Outside the cloud had spread to cover half the sky and the lower edge of the sun rested on the horizon. In a few
days it would be out of sight and cloud would cover the entire sky. Then would come winter and the rain. If he was
going to remain on Scar he had better make some arrangements, but they could wait. Something else had higher
priority.

***

Ewan pursed his lips as he manipulated his shells. "Nothing, Earl," he said. "Not a whisper. As far as I knew you
had simply gone on a long trip." The shells made little rasping noises as he moved them over the table. "Clemdish?"
"Dead. Tortured."
"That's bad," Ewan lifted his head, his eyes direct. "I'm clean, Earl. I'm no paragon, hut I wouldn't set a gang of
jumpers on anyone. I warned you about them, remember?"
Dumarest nodded. "And you said something else, about a ring."
"Gossip, a snatch of conversation." The shells paused in the pudgy hands. "Are you saying they were after your
ring?"
"As well as other things, yes."
"And you don't know why?"
"Not yet," said Dumarest grimly. "But I intend to find out."
A ship left as he stepped through the vestibule into the open air. It lifted, then seemed to vanish with a crack of
displaced air. A red flash glittered as sunlight reflected from the polished hull and then it was gone. On the landing
field men slowly leveled the spot where it had stood.
"Dumarest!"
He turned and saw Adrienne. She was coming from Lowtown, her maid a step behind and a monk bringing up the
rear.
"My lady?"
"You have been avoiding us," she said with mock severity as she came to where he stood. "How are you now? Do
you continue to be well, no bad effects from Brian's administrations?" She checked herself, conscious of her betrayal.
No one of her rank and station should reveal such concern. "I have been working with Brother Jeffrey," she explained.
"He is coming with us to Jest. I've been talking to the children and others who will be accompanying us." Her eyes
searched his face. "And you, will you not come also?"
"No, my lady." Dumarest softened his refusal. "I have other plans and Jest does not lie in the direction I wish to
go."
"But I thought—"
"That I have no money?" He smiled. "That is true. I was not talking about leaving immediately."
"Then yon could come with us for a while at least," she insisted. "What have you to lose?"
Nothing but his life. Dumarest had met such interest before, and was wary of it. To her he was novel, someone to
break the monotony, a stimulating personality. She showed interest, later that interest could turn into something
stronger. If he yielded and took the opportunity he would invite an assassin. If he rejected it he would earn her
hatred.
Keelah sensed his embarrassment and smiled. Brother Jeffrey came smoothly to the rescue.
"Could I help you, brother. Were you looking for someone?"
"The factor," said Dumarest. "Is he in Lowtown?"
The monk shook his head. "I believe he is dining on one of the ships." he volunteered. "A farewell party thrown
by a group of tourists. I am not certain, but I will inquire if you wish."
"Thank you. Brother, but there is no urgency," said Dumarest. "I will see him later."
"And us?" Adrienne rested her hand on his arm. The touch was gentle, intimate. "Will we see you again, Earl?"
His eyes were direct. "Quite possibly, my lady."
"Why the doubt?" Her hand closed on his arm, the fingers digging into his flesh. "You will eat with us," she
decided. "You cannot refuse."
He glimpsed a flash of scarlet and followed it with his eyes. The color of the cyber's robe was accentuated by the
crimson of the sun so that he seemed blood upon blood, a mobile shadow as he walked from the landing field to the
station.
"Earl?"
Dumarest remembered the woman. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but I must beg your indulgence. If you will be so
kind as to do me a service?"
Adrienne smiled. "Of course, Earl."
 "Please ask your husband to meet me in the factor's office at once, my lady. It is very important."

***

Del Meoud wasn't at a party. Dumarest could hear the murmur of voices as he approached the door of the office,
the talk abruptly ending as he opened the door.
The factor looked at him from where he sat at his desk.
"What the—? Earl! Do you mind? I'm busy!"
"So am I." Dumarest closed the door and leaned back against the panel. Yeon stood against the window with his
hands tucked in the wide sleeves of his robe.
"If this is business, I will leave," he said in his even monotone. "Our discussion, factor, can wait until later."
"Stay where you are, cyber." Dumarest remained leaning against the door. "My business concerns you." He heard
the sound of footsteps from the passage outside and stepped from the door as it opened. Jocelyn entered.
"Dumarest." His eyes moved from the factor to the cyber. "I understood you wanted to see me on a matter of
urgent importance."
"That is correct, my lord." Dumarest shut the door. He took a chair from where it stood against the wall and
rested his right boot on the seat, his right hand inches from his knee. "I intend to punish the man who tried to take my
life."
He head Meoud's sharp inhalation and saw the widening of Jocelyn's eyes. Only the cyber remained unmoved.
"This is ridiculous!" Del Meoud took a handkerchief from a drawer and dabbed at his bearded lips. "Surely you
don't suspect either of us for what those jumpers did, Earl?"
"I don't suspect, I know," said Dumarest grimly. "Those men didn't come after us by accident. The man who
allowed them to use a raft has left Scar—fortunately for him. But those men weren't ordinary jumpers; they were
primed; they knew too much." His eyes moved from face to face. "Someone told them," he said deliberately.
"Someone in this room."
Jocelyn cleared his throat, conscious of the tension and of Dumarest's resolve. "You haven't any proof," he said.
"I sympathize with you, Earl, but how can you be sure?"
"I thank you for your sympathy, my lord," said Dumarest tightly. "But this isn't a court of law. There is no law on
Scar. I don't need proof. I would prefer not to harm the innocent but I am going to do as I say." His lips thinned as he
looked from one to the other. "I was there," he added harshly. "I saw what those men did to my partner. I know what
they intended doing to me. Do any of you really think that I'm going to let the man responsible get away with it? If I
have to kill you all he is going to pay!"
"Earl! You can't—"
"Be quiet!" Dumarest turned from the factor and looked at Jocelyn. "I recently asked you a question, my lord. I
asked how you knew where to find me. You said that you asked your cyber." He looked at the calm figure in scarlet.
"How did you know?"
"My lord?"
"Answer him."
Yeon inclined his head a fraction, the ruby light from the window gleaming on his shaven skull. "It is my purpose
to advise," he said evenly. "In order to do this I take what facts are available and from them, extrapolate a logical
sequence. I learned that your partner had ordered rope. This obviously meant that you intended reaching the hills.
When you were late in returning where else should I have suggested you were?"
"The hills are not a small range," said Dumarest. "How did you know exactly where to look?"
"Extrapolation again," said Yeon. It seemed he spoke with amused condescension. "I plotted the routes you would
most probably have taken. There were three; one had a higher degree of probability than the others. As a task it was
elementary."
"There, Earl, you see?" Del Meoud released his breath in a gust of relief. "No one here is to blame. In fact, you
should thank the cyber for guiding the rescue. If it hadn't been for him, you would be dead by now." He found his
handkerchief and dabbed again at his lips. Tossing the square of fabric back into the drawer he made as if to rise.
"Sit down!" Dumarest's voice cracked like a whip. "The cyber knew where to find me. He could not pick one spot
in an entire range of hills simply because my partner ordered a rope. If you believe that, you would believe anything.
He could say how to find me because he knew where I was."
"Now, wait a minute, Earl! Are you accusing the cyber?"
"No, Meoud. I'm accusing you!"
The factor lifted a hand and touched his lips. "Me? Earl, have you gone crazy? Why the hell should I send men
out after you?"
 "Because you're greedy; because you're fed up with this planet and you want something better. Listen," said
Dumarest. "At the end of winter two men tried to kill me. They wanted something I own. This." He held up his left
hand, catching the light on his ring so that it shone like freshly spilt blood. "The cyber wasn't here then, neither was
the Lord of Jest. Only one man could have told them where I was; only one man could have primed those jumpers so
they knew where to look. You, Meoud!"
"No, Earl, you're wrong! I swear it!"
"You can't," said Dumarest softly. "Because there's something I haven't told you. Those three men didn't all die at
the same time. One lived for a while and he talked. He was glad to talk. He told me that you had given them their
orders, that you were going to handle the selling of the loot."
"Wrong," said the factor. He was sweating, his beard dripping with perspiration. He reached for the drawer, his
hand scrabbling, metal shining as he lifted it from beneath the handkerchief.
Dumarest threw his knife.
It was a blur.
The factor made a strained coughing sound as he bent forward, one hand reaching for his throat and the hilt of
the blade, the other releasing the laser which fell with a thud to the floor,
Jocelyn looked at the pistol, then at the factor doubled over on his desk, a red stain widening from the knife
buried in his neck.
"You killed him," he said blankly. "I didn't even see you move."
"He betrayed himself," said Dumarest. "He reached for a gun in order to kill me. I didn't feel like letting him do it."
Thoughtfully Jocelyn looked at Dumarest. The man was cold, ruthless and fast. He could have thrown the knife at
any one of them with equal skill. He thought of Ilgash and wondered what protection the man would be if present.
None, he decided.
He watched as Dumarest tugged out the knife and wiped it on the handkerchief he took from the drawer. "So it's
over then? You've killed the man you were after."
Dumarest met his eyes. "No, my lord, it isn't yet over."
Jocelyn frowned. "I do not understand."
"I want to know why the two men who tried to kill me wanted my ring, why Meoud wanted it. I want to know
more of the three men who jumped me and the person who sent you to rescue me when they didn't return."
"Adrienne? But what part could my wife have in this?"
"Not your wife, my lord." said Dumarest patiently. "But the one who set the idea in her mind, the one who told
you exactly where I was to be found." He looked directly at Yeon. "Well, cyber? Are you going to tell me the answer?"
Yeon remained impassive. "I cannot."
"A pity."
"A statement of fact. I do not know why anyone should want your ring."
"But you want it." Dumarest stepped a little closer to the scarlet figure. "You gave orders it was to be taken, but
you don't know why, is that it? You are merely obeying instructions?"
"That is so." Yeon abruptly took his hands from within his sleeves. One of them held a fragile ball of glass. Within
it trapped yellow caught the light. "Put aside the knife," he ordered. "Quickly. Obey or I will destroy you both."
It fell with a ringing sound on the desk.
Jocelyn stepped forward and halted as Dumarest caught his arm.
"Be careful, my lord. He holds a container of parasitic spores, probably mutated, a vicious weapon."
It was a safe one. Who would query such a death on a world like Scar?
Yeon stepped to the door and opened it. The panel swung inwards and he stood in the gap, the door half open,
his free hand gripping the edge.
"Wait!" Dumarest extended his left hand. "My ring. Do you want it?"
"No." Yeon hesitated, then yielded to temptation, eager to enjoy the only pleasure he could experience, to tell
these emotional animals how he and what he represented would achieve their aim. "Keep it," he said. "It will be a
simple matter to obtain it from your body." His brooding eyes fell on Jocelyn. "And you have served your purpose.
The marriage is a fact. Even if your wife is not yet pregnant, such a simple matter can be arranged. Selected sperm
taken from our biological laboratories to match your physical characteristics and accelerated gestation to adjust the
time element will make her the proud mother of an heir to both Jest and Eldfane."
She would be hopelessly dependent on the Cyclan to keep the secret, to maintain her in power, and to safeguard
the precious child. She could wear the baubles of rule, the Cyclan would have the real power. Another firm step
would have been taken towards the final domination of the habitable worlds. His reward could surely be nothing less
than an early incorporation into the central intelligence.
Yeon threw down the container of spores.
 Dumarest moved. He flung himself forward, warned by the subtle movement of a sleeve, a tensing of the hand
resting on the edge of the panel. His hand shot out, caught the glass ball, lifted it and threw it directly into the cyber's
face.
It broke with a crystalline tinkle, a cloud of yellow rising about the shaven skull. Yeon staggered back as
Dumarest thrust at his chest and slammed the door.
Sweating, he listened to the noises from outside, the bumping and threshing, muffled cries and incoherent
moaning.
"Gods of space!" Jocelyn stood by the window. He pointed with a trembling hand. "Look at that!"
A scarlet figure stood outside. A growing ball of yellow frothed from the open robe, two smaller ones hung at the
end of each sleeve. Yeon had staggered outside unaware of direction. He could feel no pain but the multiplying
fungus clogged his mouth and his nostrils, grew on the surface of his eyes, sprouted from his ears and filled his lungs.
It dug into his flesh, thrusting through the pores of his skin, growing until even the scarlet of the robe was hidden.
After a while the threshing stopped and a swollen ball of yellow fungus lay quivering on the ground.

***

Dumarest dug his spoon into a mound of emerald jelly, tasted it and found it both astringent and smooth to the
tongue. "The cyber had an accident," he said. "That is all you need to say. The Cyclan are not eager for their intrigues
to come to light."
Adrienne frowned. "But what of their aid? How can we manage without their guidance?"
"As we did before, my dear." Jocelyn was sharp. "You did not hear the man. He regarded you as a beast to be put
to breeding for the Cyclan's purpose. Perhaps that would not have bothered you, but once the child had been
accepted, how long do you think you would have been permitted to stay alive?"
"Surely you exaggerate."
Dumarest put down his spoon. The cabin was snug and intimate with its ancient furnishings. It only needed an
open fire to complete the illusion that it was part of a stronghold rather than a space vessel.
"Never underestimate the Cyclan, my lady," he said. "Their plans are subtle and rarely as innocent as they seem.
They are like spiders twitching the strands of a web so as to ensnare those over whom they seek power." Casually he
added. "Tell me, do you have many cybers on your home world?"
"None now," she said. "Yeon was the only one and he came with us."
"And how long had he been there, a few months, perhaps, a short while before the negotiations began for your
marriage?" Dumarest smiled at Jocelyn's expression. "Yes, my lord. Even that was a plan of the Cyclan's. You see how
far ahead they look?"
"But the malfunction of the vessel? How could he have known that we would go to Scar?"
"Because he wanted to go there," said Dumarest flatly. "Where the Cyclan are concerned, there is no such thing
as chance. On your own admission you rule a poor world. Men are human, the Cyclan is powerful and a poor man
would think twice at defying them. And so a small malfunction of the ship, a captain who mentions a peculiar
circumstance. Given your preoccupation with destiny, the rest was inevitable."
Jocelyn nodded thoughtfully as he sat in his chair. "Destiny," he said. "Could not the Cyclan themselves be
instruments of fate?"
"They could," admitted Dumarest. "Brother Jeffrey could answer you better than I."
He caught Adrienne's start and inwardly smiled. Give it time and the gentle power of the Universal Brotherhood
would dull her ambition. Once beneath the benediction light, she would discover an unexpected happiness in being
gentle, kind, considerate and thoughtful of others—and she would be conditioned against seeking the death of
another.
"The ring," said Jocelyn abruptly. "I understand that you trapped the factor, that the man hadn't spoken at all, but
why should he want it?"
"He didn't," said Dumarest. "The Cyclan did—does," he corrected, looking at the ruby fire on his left hand. "But
he tried to collect it for them. I thought at first it might be the gambler who was responsible for sending those men
after me, but Ewan was innocent. He even tried to warn me and went so far as to speak of a ring. He wouldn't have
done that if he had been involved."
Adrienne was curious. "I still can't understand why they want it, Earl. Do you know why?"
"No, my lady."
But he could guess how they had conducted their search: an extrapolation of his probable journeys and a supra-
radio call to certain factors in the area where they predicted he would be. Del Meoud would have been eager to
please so powerful an organization and others would be also.
 Jocelyn cleared his throat. "One more thing," he said. "Why did you send for me?"
"As a witness, my lord."
"A witness? On Scar where there is no law." The ruler of Jest shook his head. "You are discreet, Earl, but I can
guess the reason. You suspected that I might be involved, working with the cyber in order to steal your treasure. If I
had you would have killed me."
"Yes, my lord."
"At least you are honest and do not lie," said Jocelyn. "Not when it is unnecessary, and I cannot blame you. Your
sojourn in the water could not have been pleasant."
Dumarest smiled at the understatement. "What have you done with the golden spore, my lord?"
"Baron Haig has taken it in his charge. He is sure that it will be possible to breed it under controlled environments
on Jest. Always before expense has limited the quantity available, but with the large amount you obtained he has
enough and to spare for errors." Jocelyn sighed with pleasant anticipation. "It will make us wealthy, Earl. Independent
of external aid. We might even be able to end the struggles of those who seek it on Scar."
"They wouldn't thank you for it, my lord," said Dumarest.
"I suppose not," admitted Jocelyn. He looked at his guest. "We owe you much, Earl. Come with us to Jest. Agree
and I will return a quarter of the value of the spore, and I will make you an earl. You will be the richest noble on the
planet."
Dumarest felt the impact of Adrienne's eyes. "I am sorry, my lord. You know why I must refuse."
"To continue your quest, to hunt the bones of a legend?" Jocelyn leaned forward, his face intent. "Why not leave
the decision to fate?" he suggested quietly. "You could have an earldom and a quarter of the value of the spore, a
residence and a large estate, a wife, even children to bear your name. Is this not a fair exchange for a dream?"
"And you will be safe on Jest," said Adrienne. "The Cyclan will be unable to find you."
Light glittered from the metal as Jocelyn produced a coin. "Let fate decide. If the arms of Jest show uppermost
you will accept all I have named and come with us."
"And if you lose, my lord?"
"The cost of ten high passages," said Jocelyn quickly, "yours before you leave this vessel. You agree?"
"Spin, my lord."
Together they watched the coin rise glittering into the air, followed it with their eyes as it fell and looked at the
scarred representation of a man's head.
Adrienne caught her breath. "Earl!"
"I am sorry, my lady," said Dumarest. "It seems that fate has decided we must part."
"To wander, to drift from world to world, perhaps even to die. And you could be so comfortable and happy on
Jest. Jocelyn, tell him he must not go!"
"No, I cannot do that," said Jocelyn. "The decision is made, but always he will be welcome on Jest." He looked at
Dumarest. "Remember that."
He would remember; perhaps he would have reason to regret the lost chance. But he didn't think so. A man has
to follow his destiny.

LALLIA

Chapter One
On Aarn a man was murdered and Dumarest watched him die.
It was a thing quickly done in a place close to the landing field: a bright tavern of gleaming comfort just beyond
the main gate of the high perimeter fence, a cultured place of softness and gentle lighting snugly set on a cultured
world. The raw violence was all the more unexpected because of that.
Dumarest saw it all as he stood with his back to a living mural in which naked women swam in an emerald sea
and sported with slimed beasts of obscene proportions. Before him, scattered over soft carpets, the customers of the
tavern lounged in chairs or stood at the long bar of luminescent wood. An assorted crowd of crewmen and officers,
field personnel, traders, and transients. Bright among them was the gaudy finery of pleasure girls, flaunting their
charms. Soft music saturated from the carved ceiling and perfumed smoke stained the air.
Against the softness and luxury the killer looked like a skull at a feast: tall, horribly emaciated, eyes smoldering in
the blotched skin of his face. He was a mutant with mottled hair and hands grotesquely large, a sport from some
frontier world. He crossed to the long bar, snatched up a bottle of heavy glass and, without hesitation, smashed it on
the back of his unsuspecting victim's head. Half-stunned, dazed, the man turned—and received the splintered shards
in face and throat.
"Damn you!" The mutant dropped the stained weapon as he spat at the dying man. "Remember me? I swore I'd
get you and I have. It's taken years but I did it. You hear me? I did it! I got you, you stinking bastard! Now roast in
hell!"
A woman screamed and men came from the shadows to grasp the killer. Dumarest took two long strides towards
the door then paused, thinking. The tavern was close to the field, police could not be far away and it was possible that
he had already been noticed. To leave now would be to invite suspicion with the resultant interrogation and
interminable delay. He regained his position before the mural as officers poured into the tavern. On Aarn the police
were highly efficient, and they moved quickly about the tavern as they quested for witnesses. Not surprisingly they
discovered them hard to find.
"You there!" The officer was middle-aged, his face hard beneath the rim of his helmet. His uniform was
impeccable and the leather of his boots, belt, and laser holster shone with a mirror-finish. "Did you see what
happened?"
"Sorry, no," said Dumarest.
"You too?" The officer echoed his disgust. "Over fifty people in the place and no one saw what happened." He
glanced over his shoulder towards the scene of the crime. "If you were standing here how could you avoid not
seeing? You've a perfect view."
"I wasn't looking that way," explained Dumarest. "I was studying this." He pointed at the mural. "All I heard was
some shouting. When I turned the sport was standing over something on the floor. What happened? Did he hurt
someone?"
"You could say that," said the officer dryly. "He killed a man with a bottle." He stared curiously at Dumarest, eyes
narrowing as he took in the gray plastic finish of pants, knee-boots, and tunic. The tunic was long-sleeved, falling to
mid-thigh and fastened high and snug around the throat. It was unusual wear for a city dweller of Aarn. "Are you a
resident?"
"No, a traveler. I came here to arrange an outward passage."
"Why not go to the field office?" The officer didn't wait for an answer. "Never mind. I suppose a tavern is the best
place to do business if you can afford it. Your papers?"
Dumarest handed over the identification slip given to him when he had landed. The officer checked the
photographic likeness and physical details incorporated in the plastic. He softened a little as he saw the credit rating.
"Earl Dumarest," he mused. "Planet of origin: Earth." He raised his eyebrows. "An odd name for a world. I don't
think I've ever heard it before. Is it far?"
"A long way from here," said Dumarest flatly.
"It must be. Why did you come to Aarn?"
"To work. To look around." Dumarest smiled. "But mainly to visit your museum. It is something rather
exceptional."
He had struck the right note by his appeal to planetary pride. The officer relaxed as he handed back the
identification.
"We're rather proud of it," he admitted and then added, casually, "my son has a position there. In the ancient
artifact division, with special reference to Aarn's early history. Did you know that once the planet held an intelligent
race of sea creatures? They must have been amphibious and there is evidence they used fire and tools of stone."
"I didn't," said Dumarest. "Not before I visited your museum, that is. Tell me, is your son a tall, well-built
youngster with thick curly hair? About twenty-five, with vivid blue eyes?" The officer had blue eyes and the hair on
the backs of his hands was thick and curled. "If so I may have met him. A person like that was most helpful to me in
my investigations."
"I doubt if that was Hercho," said the officer quickly. "He works in the laboratories. Reconstruction and
radioactive dating."
"Specialized work," said Dumarest. "It's a pretty important position for a young man to hold. You must be very
proud of him."
"He's done well enough for himself." The officer glanced to where two men carried a stretcher towards the dead
man. "May I ask what your own particular subject of interest at the museum might be?"
"Navigational charts and tables," said Dumarest easily. "Really old ones. The type which were in use before the
Center-oriented charts we have now. I didn't find any."
"I'm not surprised. We have data from over a hundred thousand habitable worlds and ten times that many items
on display, but there has to be a limit. And perhaps you were looking for something which doesn't exist. Are you sure
there are such tables?"
"I think so," said Dumarest. "I hope so."
"Well," said the officer politely, "there's no harm in hoping." He turned to move away then halted as Dumarest
touched his arm. "What is it?"
"A matter of curiosity," said Dumarest. He nodded to where the attendants carried a sheeted figure towards the
door of the tavern. "That man. Who was he?"
"The victim?" The officer shrugged. "No one special. Just a handler from one of the ships."
"The Starbinder?"
"The Moray. Captain Sheyan's vessel. His name was Elgart. Did you know him?"
"No. I was simply curious."
Dumarest turned to stare at the mural as the dead man was carried away.
The Moray was a small ship, battered, old, standing to one side of the busy field as if ashamed of associating
with her sister vessels. Her captain matched his command. Bernard Sheyan was small. A ruff of white hair showed
beneath his uniform cap. His face, beneath the visor, was seamed and scored with vicissitude and time. He leaned
back in his chair and stared up at Dumarest over the wide expanse of his desk.
"You wanted to see me," he snapped curtly. For such a small man his voice was startlingly deep. "Why?"
"I want a job."
"Forget it. I've a full complement."
"No," said Dumarest flatly. "You haven't. You're short a handler. A bit of Elgart's past caught up with him and he's
dead."
Sheyan narrowed his eyes. "This past you're talking about," he said softly. "You?"
"No. I just saw it happen. My guess is that Elgart was rotten. That he got his lacks from letting those riding Low
wake without the benefit of drugs. One of them finally caught up with him." Dumarest's eyes were bleak. "If I'm right,
he asked for all he got. The only thing is that he got it too easily. A man like that should be given a double dose of his
own medicine."
To wake, rising through layers of ebon chill to light and the stimulating warmth of the eddy currents… the
screaming agony of returning circulation without the aid of drugs to numb the pain so that throat and lungs grew raw
with the violence of shrieking torment.
Sheyan said quietly, "You've traveled Low?"
"Yes."
"Often?"
Dumarest nodded, thinking of a skein of barely remembered journeys when he'd traveled doped and frozen and
90 percent dead. Riding in the bleak cold section in caskets meant for the transport of livestock, risking the 15
percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. Risking, too, the possibility of a sadistic handler who reveled in the
sight and sound of anguish.
"So Elgart's dead," mused Sheyan. "You could be right in what you assume, but he didn't play his tricks with me.
Even so, he came from one of the big ships and a man doesn't do that without reason. You want his job?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I want to leave Aarn," said Dumarest. "Working a passage is better than traveling Low."
Anything, thought Sheyan, was better than traveling Low; but Aarn was a busy world and a hard worker would
have little trouble in gaining the cost of a High passage.
He leaned further back in his chair, shrewd eyes studying the figure standing before him. The man was honest,
that he liked, and he was an opportunist—few would have acted so quickly to fill a dead man's shoes. He looked at
the clothing, at the spot above the right boot where the plastic caught the light with an extra gleam. The hilt of a
blade would have caused such a burnishing and it was almost certain that the knife was now tucked safely out of sight
beneath the tunic.
His eyes lifted higher, lingering on the hard planes and hollows of the face, the tight, almost cruel set of the
mouth. It was the face of a man who had early learned to live without the protection of house, guild, or combine. The
face of a loner, of a man, perhaps, who had good reason for wanting a quick passage away from the planet. But that
was not his concern.
"You have had experience?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I've worked on ships before."
Sheyan smiled. "That is probably a lie," he said mildly. "Those who ride Middle rarely do anything else. But could
you perform a handler's duties?"
 "It was no lie," said Dumarest. "And the answer is yes."
Abruptly Sheyan made his decision. "This is a rough ship. A small ship. Snatching the trade others manage
without. Short journeys, mostly, planet hopping with freight and such, heavy loads and hard work. You'll be paid like
the rest of us, with a share of the profit. Sometimes we make a pile, but mostly we break even. At times we carry
passengers who like to gamble. If you accommodate them I get a half of the profit."
"And if I lose?"
"If you can't win then don't play." Sheyan leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk. "Work hard, be willing,
and cause no trouble. That way we'll get along. Questions?"
"When do we leave?"
"Soon. You'll find a uniform in Elgart's cabin." The captain looked curiously at his new handler. "Aren't you
interested as to where we are bound?"
"I'll find out," said Dumarest, "when we get there."
The steward guided him to the cabin. He was young, recent to space with a voice which had barely broken, but
already his eyes held a flowering hardness.
"Elgart was a pig," he said as he led the way from the captain's office. "Mean and close and hard to get along with.
I'm glad he's dead."
Dumarest made no comment. Instead he looked at the walls and ceiling of the passage down which they passed.
The plastic carried a thin patina of grime and was marked with a mesh of scratches. The floor was heavily scuffed,
uneven in places, and showing signs of wear and neglect.
"My name is Linardo del Froshure del Brachontari del Hershray Klarge," said the steward as they reached the
cabin door. "But everyone calls me Lin. Will it be all right for me to call you Earl?"
"I've no objection." Dumarest pushed open the door of the cabin and passed inside. It was as he'd expected: a
bare room fitted with a bunk, a chair, a small table. Cabinets filled one wall; the others bore lurid photographs of
naked women. A scrap of carpet, frayed, covered the floor, and a player stood on the table. He switched it on and the
thin, piping strains of cazendal music filled the air.
"Elgart was a funny one," commented Lin. "That music and this other stuff." His eyes moved to the photographs.
"A real weird."
Dumarest switched off the player. "How many in the crew?"
"Five. You've met the captain. Nimino's the navigator and Claude's the engineer. Both are out on business, but
you'll meet them later. Nimino's another weird and Claude likes the bottle." The steward's eyes dropped to Dumarest's
left hand, to the ring on his third finger. "Say, that's quite a thing you've got there."
"The ring?" Dumarest glanced at it, the flat, red stone set in the heavy band. "It was a gift from a friend."
"Some friend!" Lin was envious. "I wish I had friends like that. You're wearing the cost of a double High passage at
least." He leaned forward so as to study the ring more closely. "My uncle's a lapidary," he explained. "He taught me
something about gems. That was before my old man got himself killed and I had to earn a living. I think he wanted
me to join him in the business, but what the hell! Who wants to spend their lives stuck in a shop? My chance came
and I grabbed it while it was going. Another few years and I'll become an officer. Then for the big ships and the wide-
open life."
"Is that what you want?"
"Sure. What could be better?"
It was the defiance of youth, but Dumarest knew what the youngster didn't. The wide-open life he dreamed of
was nothing but an endless journeying between the stars, constantly bounded by the monotony of imprisoning walls.
The years slipping past broken only by planetfalls and brief dissipation. Those who rode Middle lived lives of
incredible restriction despite the journeys they made. Too often they found refuge in strange diversions and perverted
pleasures.
"So you haven't been very long on the Moray?"
"No," Lin admitted. "But it's the best kind of life a man could have. Moving, traveling, seeing new things all the
time. Always gambling that the cargo you're carrying will be the one to hit the jackpot. At least," he amended, "it is in
the Web."
"Is that where you're from?"
"Sure. Laconis. You've heard of it?"
"No," said Dumarest. He looked thoughtfully at the steward. The boy was eager to enhance his stature by
imparting information. It would do no harm to encourage him and perhaps do some good. "Tell me about it."
Lin shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. It's just a place. Some agriculture, a little industry, some trading. Mostly
we mine the ridges for rare metals and gems, but that's for prospectors, mostly. The yield is too low for a big
operation. There's some fishing, but nothing special. It's just a place like most of the Web worlds. You'll see."
 Dumarest frowned. "Is that where we're bound? The Web?"
"Didn't you know?"
"It's a long way from here. What's the Moray doing on Aarn if it's a Web trader?"
"The engines went on the blink." Lin was casual. "The old man managed to get a cargo and decided to have a
refit. The stuff barely paid for the energy to haul it, but at least we got here for free. And you don't get Erhaft
generators as cheap as you can get them on Aarn."
"New generators?"
"Hell, no!" Lin was disgusted. "We could have got those in the Web. Reconditioned—but they'll do the job. Claude
checked them out and he's satisfied. After all, it's his neck too."
"Yes," said Dumarest dryly. "Let's hope that he remembered that."
"Meaning?"
The boy was star-struck, despite his superficial hardness. His head was filled with dreams and he was unable to
recognize unpalatable truths. He would learn fast—if he did not die before the opportunity to learn presented itself.
Dumarest was harsh as he looked at the steward.
"Meaning that he may not intend to rejoin the ship. That he could have been drunk at a critical time or, if not
drunk, had his mind on a bottle instead of the job at hand. Damn it, boy, grow up! The universe isn't a place of
heroes! Men are what they are and no one is perfect."
"Claude wouldn't do a thing like that." Lin's eyes betrayed his uncertainty. "He likes to drink, sure, but where's the
harm in that? And he teaches me things. Anyway," he added triumphantly, "the old man wouldn't stick his neck out
like that. There's nothing wrong with those generators. There can't be."
"Then where's the engineer?"
"I told you. He's out looking for business with Nimino."
"That's right," agreed Dumarest. "A weird out with a drunk. A happy combination. This trip should show us a lot
of profit." He stressed the plural so as to let the boy know that he considered himself a part of the crew and, as such,
had a right to be critical. "Do you think they'll find any?"
"I don't know," admitted the steward. "I doubt if Nimino will bother much. He's probably spending his time at
some revival or other. He's religious," he explained. "I don't mean that he's a member of the Universal Church. He's
that and a lot more. He dabbles in every cult going. Transmigration, Reincarnation, Starcom, Extravitalis, Satanism,
Planarism, Amorphism—you name it and he's interested. His cabin's full of charms and fetishes, idols and symbols,
sympathetic relationship mandalas and inspired pictographs. When I said he was a weird that's what I meant."
"And Claude?"
"If there's a load to be found in a tavern then he'll find it," said the steward. "He got us a few crates of machine
patterns—you'll have to check the temperature of those— strain-impressed molecular structure designs in a
protoplasmic gel. And he managed to pick up some new sonic drill recordings."
"Speculative buying," said Dumarest. "Just the sort of thing a drunk would find himself landed with. Anything
concrete in the nature of paying freight?"
"Not as yet," said Lin reluctantly. "But don't get the wrong impression about Claude. He may appear to buy wild,
but the things he gets have value in the Web. Ships aren't frequent out there, don't forget, and we call at a lot of minor
worlds. I've known us to make a 1,000 percent profit on stuff you wouldn't look at twice on a planet like Aarn."
"All right," said Dumarest. "I'll take your word for it."
"They're good," insisted the boy. "Odd, maybe, but good. You just don't know."
Dumarest smiled. "I'm a little edgy and maybe too critical. You know them better than I do. How long before we
leave?"
The steward glanced at his wrist. "A couple of hours. Nimino will be back a good hour before then. Like to make
a little bet?"
"Such as?"
"Even money that Claude doesn't come back empty-handed. Five stergols. Is it a bet?"
"It's a bet." Dumarest looked around the cabin. "Now, maybe, you'd better leave me to check my gear."
Alone, he tore the photographs from the walls, frowning at the lighter patches they left behind. A cabinet held a
uniform and a suit of rough, protective clothing such as was worn by field loaders. Both were in stretch material,
neither were as clean as they could have been. The uniform cap was battered, the visor cracked, and the sweatband
stained and thick with grease. The late handler had not been a finicky man.
Other cabinets showed a pile of books in plain covers.
Dumarest flipped one open and listened to the soft obscenities whispering from the illustrated pages. Both voice
and moving illustrations died as he closed the book and reached for another. They were all of the same type. A stack
of recordings held cazenda music. A three-dimensional jigsaw lay in scattered pieces beside a chessboard and men.
The pieces were of lambent crystal, intricately carved and of obvious worth. The board was an electronic instrument
for the replaying of recorded games. A box held a few items of personal significance: a ring, a locket containing a curl
of hair, a certificate issued by the medical council of Octarge, a pair of dice fashioned from animal bone, scraps and
fragments of a man's entire life.
Dumarest looked further. A small compartment held a hypogun—the butt worn and the instrument almost
certainly poorly calibrated. Boxes held ampules of drugs which could be blasted by air pressure through clothing,
skin, and fat directly into the bloodstream; quicktime, slowtime, antibiotics, compounds for the relief of pain, the
bringing of sleep, and the ease of tension. A shabby case held gleaming surgical instruments, and a thick book was an
illustrated medical manual. Obviously, on this vessel, the handler was expected to double as physician.
Taking a handful of disposable tissues, Dumarest soaked them with sterilizing solution and swabbed the neck,
wrists, and crotch of the uniform and protective clothing. Taking fresh tissues he wiped the sweatband of the uniform
cap until it was free of dirt and grease.
Satisfied, he stripped off his tunic. The light from the overhead glowtube shone on the hard whiteness of his skin,
throwing thin lines of scar tissue into prominence over chest and arms. The hilt of a knife showed above the
waistband of his pants, the nine-inch blade gleaming as he threw it beside the tunic on the bed. The pants followed,
and he stood naked aside from snug shorts.
Dressed in the uniform, he took up his own things, folded them, and stuffed them into a cabinet. Carefully he
adjusted the uniform cap until the cracked visor shielded his eyes and then, after a final inspection, left the cabin and
made for the section of the ship which was his responsibility.
Like the cabin, it was as he'd expected. The banks of sterilizing ultraviolet lamps showed dark patches where
units needed replacing. The caskets in which livestock were transported showed obvious signs of lengthy disuse, and
several of the cargo restraints were inoperative. He paused beside the crates of machine patterns, checking the
temperature against the thermostat setting. There was a three-degree difference on the wrong side and he changed
the setting hoping that the cargo had not suffered damage.
Thoughtfully he made his way to the salon. Here the passengers, if any, would spend their recreational time—
which meant all of it on short journeys—drawing their ration of basic from a spigot on the wall. That, at least, was
functioning as it should and he drew a cup of the thick mixture, sipping the warm compound of glucose, protein, and
vitamins as he studied the furnishings.
"Pretty rough, aren't they?" Dumarest turned and looked at the man who had silently entered the salon. He was
middle-aged, his face thin beneath his uniform cap, his eyes startlingly direct. The insignia on collar and breast was
that of a navigator. "My name's Nimino." He held out his hand. "You're Earl Dumarest. The captain told me we had a
new handler. Welcome aboard."
His handclasp was firm, the skin dry and febrile. "Well, what do you think of the Moray?"
She was a bad ship in bad condition. Five men were too few to crew such a vessel, small though she was.
Maintenance suffered and the outward dirt was a sure sign of inner neglect. Dumarest took another sip of basic and
said, "I've seen ships in worse condition."
"In a scrapyard," agreed Nimino. "So have I. But as operating vessels in space?" He shrugged. "There could be
worse tucked away in some forgotten corner of the galaxy, but I doubt it. Certainly there are none in the Web. Each
time we commence a journey we take a gamble with death and our profit, if any, is earned with tears of blood."
"Then why stay with her?"
"Why not? If death is waiting to claim a man—what difference where he may be? And then again, my friend,
perhaps, like you, I have little choice." The navigator glanced at the cup in Dumarest's hand. "Hungry so soon?"
"No."
"The habit of a traveler then," said Nimino, smiling. "Eat while there is food available for you never can be certain
as to when you may have the opportunity to eat again. If nothing else, Earl, it tells me what you are."
Dumarest finished the contents of the cup and dropped it into the receptacle provided. "And you?"
"I am a weird, didn't Lin tell you that? I believe that there is more to the scheme of things than a man can
perceive with his limited senses. Electro-magnetic radiation for example. Can a man see infrared or ultraviolet? Tell
the presence of radio waves, of magnetism, of the ebb and flow of the energies of space without mechanical aid? Of
course not. And yet still men deny that there could be higher realms of existence than those we know. You are
interested in such things?"
"No."
"Then you also think that I am a weird?"
"I don't give a damn what you are," said Dumarest bluntly. "Just as long as you're a good navigator."
Nimino laughed. "At least you are honest, my friend. Have no fear, I know my trade. And I know the Web, which
is a thing few men can say without boasting. As long as the generators do not fail, I can take the Moray where we
want her to go. Unless fate decides otherwise," he added. "Against fate what chance has limited man?"
"In my experience those who talk of fate usually do so to provide themselves an excuse for failure," said
Dumarest. The banality of the conversation was beginning to annoy him. The navigator's place was on the bridge, for
until he gave the word the ship could not leave. "And it is wrong to rely on superior powers. Even if they existed, it
would be wrong. Wrong and foolish. I do not think you are a foolish man."
"And I do not think you are wholly what you seem." Nimino smiled again, his teeth flashing in the cavern of his
mouth, startlingly white against the rich darkness of his skin. "Certainly you are not a common traveler, and few
handlers trouble themselves with philosophical concepts. But enough of this wrangling. We are shipmates for good or
ill and we both have our duties. Until later, my friend. I anticipate many pleasant hours."
Fifty-seven minutes later they left Aarn, rising on the magic of the Erhaft field from the ground, through the
atmosphere, and up into space where their sensors quested for target stars.
Twenty-six minutes after that, Dumarest paid five stergols to the steward.
Lin had won his bet. Claude had found them a passenger.

Chapter Two
He was a round, sleek, yellow-skinned man of indeterminate age, who smiled often and spoke at length. Gems
glittered on his pudged hands and soft fabric of price clothed his rotund body. His hair was a cropped stubble on the
ball of his skull and his eyes, slanted like almonds, were as watchful as a cat's. His name was Yalung and he claimed
to be a dealer in precious stones.
Dumarest thought about him as he worked on the caskets. Carefully he checked each connection and tested each
seal, measuring the degree of chill established by the refrigeration, counting the seconds as the eddy currents
warmed the interior of the coffin-like boxes. Several times he made adjustments, knowing that a human life could
depend on his skill. Animals had a wider tolerance than men, but animals did not always fill the caskets.
Claude entered the region as Dumarest straightened from the last of the caskets.
"All finished?"
"Yes." Dumarest handed the engineer the meters he had borrowed. "I'll check the rest of the equipment later. Can
you make some more restraints for the cargo?"
"Why bother? We don't carry much and what we do won't come to any hurt."
"Can you make them?"
"Later." The engineer leaned against the curved metal of the wall and blinked his bloodshot eyes. He had been
drinking and his broad, mottled face was heavy with the red mesh of burst capillaries. "You worry too much, Earl.
Elgart never used to worry like you do."
"Maybe that's why he's dead," said Dumarest dryly.
"He died because he was a perverted swine," said Claude dispassionately. "I've no objection to a man being a
lecher, but he was worse than that. Once when we carried some animals he—well, never mind. He's dead and good
riddance. Like a drink?"
It was wine: thin, sharp with too much acid, the flavor indistinguishable. Dumarest sipped and watched as the
engineer gulped. Behind him, squatting on thick bed-plates, the generators emitted a quivering ultrasonic song of
power, the inaudible sound transmuted by the metal of the hull into a barely noticed vibration.
"Swill," said Claude as he lowered his empty glass. "Some cheap muck I bought on Aarn. They don't know how to
make wine. Now on Vine they make a wine which would wake the dead. Thick and rich and with the color of blood.
A man could live on the wine of Vine. Live and die on it and never regret wasted opportunities."
Dumarest said softly, "As you do?"
"I was there once," said the engineer as if he had not heard the interjection. "At harvest time. The girls carried in
the grapes and trod them beneath their bare feet. The juice stained their legs and thighs, red on white and olive, thick
juice on soft and tender flesh. As the day grew warmer they threw off all their clothes and rolled naked among the
fruit. It was a time of love and passion, kissing and copulating in great vats of succulent grapes, the juice spurting
and staining everyone so that all looked like creatures of nature."
Dumarest took a little more wine, waiting for the engineer to extinguish his dream.
"There was a girl," whispered Claude. "Soft and young and as white as the snows found on the hills of Candaris.
We trod the grapes together and joined bodies as we mated in the juice. For a week we loved beneath the sun and the
stars with wine flowing like water and others all around laughing and singing and laving their bodies with the juice.
The harvest on the following season must have been exceptional if what they believed was true."
"Fertility rites," said Dumarest. "I understand."
 "You understand." The engineer poured himself more of the thin wine. "I did not. I thought she loved me for
myself alone, not because she thought that a stranger would bring fresh seed to the mating, new energy to the fields.
For a week she was mine and then it was over." He gulped the wine and stared broodingly into the glass. "Often I
wonder if my grandsons tread the grapes as I did, if my granddaughters yield themselves as did she."
"You could find out," suggested Dumarest. "You could go back."
"No. That is a thing no man should ever do. The past is dead, forget it, let us instead drink to the future."
"To the future," said Dumarest, and sipped a little more wine. "Tell me about our passenger."
"Yalung?" Claude blinked as he strove to focus his attention. "He is just a man."
"How did you meet?"
"In a tavern. I was looking for business and he approached me. He had money and wanted a High passage to the
Web."
"It's just as well he didn't want to travel Low," said Dumarest. "He would never have made it."
"The caskets?" Claude shrugged. "We rarely use them; the journey between planets is too short. Even on the
longer trips Sheyan usually adjusts the price and lets any passengers ride under quicktime. The Web is compact," he
explained. "Stars are relatively close. Anyway, we don't often carry passengers."
"Let's talk about the one we have now."
"What is there to talk about? He wanted a passage and could pay for it. He approached me. What else is there to
know?"
"He approached you." Dumarest was thoughtful. "Didn't you think it strange? A man with money for a High
passage wanting to travel on a ship like this?"
Claude frowned, thinking. "No," he said after a while. "It isn't strange. Not many ships head for the Web and those
that do only go to established planets, the big worlds with money, trade, and commerce. From there shuttle vessels
take freight and passengers to the other planets. Yalung wants to roam the Web and this is the best way for him to do
it."
"So he intends to stay with us?"
"That's what he said." Claude chuckled as he looked at Dumarest. "He hasn't really any choice. I told you that
ships are few in the Web. You could be stranded on a planet for months waiting for a vessel, and then you'd have to
go where it took you. That's where we come in. Charter, special freight, speculative trading, things like that. We could
maybe touch a score of worlds before landing at one of the big termini." His smile grew wider as he saw the other's
expression. "Didn't Sheyan tell you?"
"The details? No."
"He wouldn't. He needed a handler more than he needed to teach the innocent. But it isn't so bad. We'll get along
and could even have a little fun. You'll get used to it, Earl. You might even get to like the life."
"Like you?"
Claude lost his smile as he groped for the bottle. "No, Earl, not like me. But then you don't have to be like me. No
one does."
No one, thought Dumarest as he left the engineer to his anodyne. Not Nimino who found his refuge in religion, or
Sheyan who had his command if nothing else. Not Lin who carried a headful of stars and who looked on danger as a
spice to living instead of the constant threat to existence it really was. No one needed to hit the bottle—but
sometimes it could help.
Dumarest washed and changed from the protective clothing he had worn while working on the caskets, changing
into his uniform and the cap with the cracked visor. His soft shoes were soundless on the worn flooring as he made
his way towards the bridge. At the salon he halted and looked inside. Yalung, the sole occupant, sat before a table on
which were spread a handful of variously colored crystals. He held a pair of tweezers in one pudgy hand and his eyes
were narrowed as if to increase his vision.
He didn't move. Not even when Dumarest entered the compartment and stood at his side. Still he sat like a man
of stone, not even his eyelids flickering, unconscious of the man at his side. He looked dead but he was far from that.
He was living at a reduced tempo, the magic of quicktime slowing his metabolism and time-awareness to a fraction
of normal. They had left Aarn two days ago, but to the passenger it was less than an hour.
Gently Dumarest reached out and touched the pudgy hand, gently, for the relative speed of his hand could deal a
savage blow. The skin was firm, more youthful than it seemed, the small indent vanishing as soon as he removed the
pressure.
Stooping he examined the scattered gems, noting the trapped fire smoldering within their crystalline depths, the
perfection of facets and polish. They, at least, were genuine —as was probably everything else about the passenger.
Yalung could be exactly what he claimed and his presence on the ship due to nothing more than sheer coincidence.
Dumarest straightened and left the salon, making his way to the bridge. He knocked and entered when Sheyan
growled a summons. The captain was alone, sitting in the big control chair, surrounded by instruments which did
what no ordinary man could ever do. He looked very small in the confines of the chair, the box on his lap somehow
seeming to accentuate his diminution. It was of metal, strongly chased and fitted with a combination lock. It could,
probably, be smashed open but never rifled without leaving trace. He clung to it as if finding warmth and comfort
from the decorated metal.
"You want something?"
"The caskets are now fully operational," said Dumarest. "Some minor work remains to be done on the cargo
restraints, but that is all. Aside from a complete cleaning," he added. "I can't say anything about the rest of the ship."
"That's right." Sheyan twisted his head so as to stare at his handler. "Your job is to look after the cargo, not to tell
me what needs to be done. And a little grime never killed anyone yet."
"That depends," said Dumarest, "on just where the grime is. I wouldn't care for it in an open wound, for example."
"The Moray is not an open wound."
"It isn't a very efficient ship either," said Dumarest bluntly. He looked about the control room. "Shouldn't the
navigator be on duty?"
Sheyan reared up in his chair. "I decide who shall be on duty!" he snapped. "I am the captain. If you choose to
forget it just remember what will happen if I decide you are insubordinate." He sank down again, his anger dissolving
as rapidly as it had come. "You don't understand," he said. "You're thinking of the big ships with their big crews and
the spit and polish they use to run them. The Moray isn't like that. A little dirt doesn't matter as long as the generators
aren't affected. More crew means smaller shares and they are small enough as it is. Just ride along with us as we are
and you'll be all right. Try fighting and it will get you nowhere."
Dumarest frowned, thinking of the man he had first met in the captain's office, comparing him with the man who
now sat in the control chair. Physically they were the same, but somehow there was a difference. He had deliberately
tried to ignite anger and had received, instead, a near apology. It was as if Sheyan had been cowed by something, his
spirit crushed so that he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Looking at the vision screens Dumarest could
guess what it was.
Space was immense—the distances between the stars impossible to conceive by a human brain. The figures
could be learned but they meant nothing; they were so vast as to be totally outside the limits of human
comprehension. Light took years to travel between the stars; ships could do it faster but the distances remained the
same. If anything could reduce a man's arrogance it was the cold indifference of the galaxy, the knowledge that in the
universe he was less than a minute bacteria crawling on the face of creation.
Quietly he said, "Permission to use quicktime, captain?"
"What?" Sheyan jerked, his hands convulsive as they gripped the box. "Quicktime? Yes. Yes, by all means."
"A general issue?"
"Nimino has his own. I trust him to use it with discretion. You may give it to the rest."
"As you order, captain," said Dumarest. "And yourself ?"
"No. I don't need it. That is, I don't want it." Again Sheyan's hands closed on the edges of his box. "That will be
all, handler."
Alone, the captain relaxed in his chair, trying not to grip the box, to think of what it contained. Dumarest had
annoyed him, upset him rather, but how could the man even begin to guess? Like the rest he was closed in by walls of
metal, protected, shielded from what lay without. Only Nimino could really begin to understand because, like himself,
the navigator stared with electronic eyes at the naked menace of the stars.
And they were menacing. They waited, confident in the knowledge that they must win, that they were greater
than man and anything he could do. Let his ships probe among them, land on their worlds, diminish space by the
magic of the Erhaft field, they would still conquer. They would always conquer because men were mortal and they
were not. They could afford to wait and watch and, perhaps, glow a little brighter whenever a ship died.
As the Moray would die—and he with it.
He closed his eyes, trying to find in darkness the courage he seemed to lose each time they left a world. It was
the inaction which caused it, he told himself. The necessity to do nothing but sit and wait for the one day that must
surely come. A minor flaw in one of the instruments. A break in a component. A trifling error which would be
magnified with distance until it became overwhelming. A little thing, any little thing, and he would be totally erased,
killed, wiped out—his personal universe destroyed.
Extinction.
He gasped, shuddering, jerking open his eyes to look again at the shimmering splendor of the stars which hung in
scattered profusion. Shining points, sheets, curtains and haloes of magnificent luminescence dulled, directly ahead,
by the somber black cloud which held the Web. He stared at it, hating the darkness, knowing it to be a waiting trap for
the unwary. Perhaps this time?
 "No!" Sheyan reared up in his chair, sweat beading his face as he fought his own imagination. "No!"
The sound of his own voice was a comfort and he looked around, forcing himself to check the silent machines
which filled the control room, the computers and sensors, the mechanical pilots with their programmed navigational
tapes, the telltales which gave him information about the ship itself.
Tiny lights winked back at him, red and green, blue and yellow, dull orange and flaring white. A ripple of color
and movement as vectors were checked, slight adjustments made, the currents of space ridden as a ship would ride a
turbulent sea. And space was a sea, a three-dimensional ocean of electronic wind and magnetic storm, the dead
residue of solar flares and vanished novae sweeping endlessly through the gulf like wreckage and flotsam, antimatter
and vicious gusts of killing radiation.
All met and neutralized by the silent efficiency of the machines among which he sat.
Ships don't need captains, he thought. Navigators, perhaps, and even engineers—but not captains. What could I
do if something went wrong? What could anyone do? But ships were not always in space and someone had to be in
command, to make the decisions and to give the orders and see they were carried out. A ship was more than just a
hull and engines and a mass of complex equipment. A ship was all that and more. Men still had to serve and a man
still had to be in charge.
But men were weak. Sometimes too weak and then, when alone, they began to break. Slowly, at first, but always
in one direction. And once they cracked, they could never be repaired.
Sheyan straightened, grabbing the box as it threatened to fall from his lap, snatching a handkerchief from his
pocket and wiping the sweat from his face. Two days, he thought. Only two days and already you're going under.
Make it three at least, four even, five if you can. Use quicktime like the others do and shorten the journey to a fraction
of its real time. No man should be expected to stare needlessly at the stars.
Not unless he had aid.
His fingers trembled as he turned the dial of the combination. It was a simple setting, three numbers only, and
within seconds the lid rose with a soft click. Inside the box something moved, sluggishly, then quickened to pulsing
life as it felt the warmth of his hand.
The box, empty, fell to one side as Sheyan relaxed, breathing easily, lost in a cloud of euphoric dreams.

***

"The Web," said Yalung, smiling. "A fascinating place. You must know it well."
"No," said Dumarest. "I have never been there."
"Then you are new on this ship?"
"Yes." Dumarest was telling the man nothing he probably didn't already know or could easily find out. And he
would find out. Yalung was a curious man. "Have you?"
"Once, many years ago; but it was a brief visit only and there was much that I did not see."
"In the Web," said Nimino, "there is much that no man has seen. Not even those who have lived their lives on one
of its worlds. Am I not right, Lin?"
The steward nodded, pleased at having been brought into the conversation. The four were seated at the table in
the salon, keeping the trader company as was the custom when passengers were few. All held cups of basic and a
deck of cards lay between them. Idly, Dumarest stirred them with the tip of a finger.
"Tell me about it," he said. "There seems to be much that I should know."
"About the Web?" Lin shrugged, acting older than his years. "It's just a place like any other. Stars and planets and
people who live on them. It seemed normal enough to me."
"You come from Laconis, which is near the edge," said Nimino. "And you joined us on our way out. Wait until we
get deep into the system before you talk about it being normal. The Web is a cloud of primeval dust," he explained to
Dumarest. "Within it, the stars are very close and each star has many worlds. For trading it is ideal for the journeys
are short and the needs of the people great. At least it would be ideal if conditions were as they are in normal space.
But the area within the cloud is not normal. The stars are too close. There are vicious gravitational crosscurrents,
magnetic storms of incredible violence, ionic displays, and other unpleasant phenomena. You have dealt with our
caskets and you know what eddy currents can do. Imagine them on an interstellar scale. Imagine also, the sleeting
radiation, the very warping of space which occurs in areas close to double stars and you will have some idea as to
conditions facing ships which probe too deeply into the Web."
"They are bad," said Yalung softly. "Very bad. On my last trip I heard news of two vessels which had failed to
complete their journeys. One, it was said, fell into a star. The other had been found, a mass of twisted wreckage, the
fabric having been apparently turned inside out. No one chose to guess what had really happened."
"And yet you return," said Dumarest quietly. "Why do that if the area is so dangerous?"
 "For the same reason this ship returns." Yalung's smile was bland. "For profit. I am a dealer in precious stones and
my trade is not without competition. In the Web are many worlds and on them could be gems of price. With
conditions being what they are, it should be simple for a man to buy low and later sell high."
"There are gems on Laconis," said Lin quickly. "I could introduce you to my uncle. He would give you a fair
bargain."
Again Yalung gave his bland smile. "I shall remember your offer if ever we land on the planet," he said. "But,
meaning no disrespect, your knowledge of gems can hardly be large."
"It's larger than you think. Earl, show him your ring." Lin frowned as Dumarest made no move to obey. "Please,
Earl. Show him your ring."
Slowly Dumarest lifted his left hand and rested it on the pack of cards. The overhead light caught the stone and
turned it into the likeness of an oval of freshly spilled blood. His eyes were watchful as the boy touched the ring,
fastened on the trader's face, alert to catch the slightest change of expression. Lin's foolish boasting might have an
unexpected bonus.
"A fine stone," said Yalung casually. "Fine but hardly rare. Together with the mount it would be worth, perhaps,
the cost of a short High passage."
"Think again," said Lin. "I know stones. This is worth double what you say."
"Perhaps." Yellow silk moved as the trader lifted his shoulders, the black glyphs with which it was decorated
moving like slumbering serpents. "But you forget, my young friend, I am a trader and never enhance the price."
"But I am right?"
"You are right. The ring is worth what you say, and I must congratulate you on your knowledge. And now,
perhaps, someone would care to indulge my pleasure in a game of cards?" Yalung looked from one to the other. "No?
You are tired, perhaps? I hardly think that the crew of a ship like this would have moral objections to gambling."
"No," said Lin quickly. "I—"
"Will go to bed." Dumarest was curt in his interruption. "Take a cup of basic to the engineer, another to the
captain, and then retire."
"But, Earl—"
"Do as I say." Dumarest watched as the boy drew a single cup of liquid from the spigot. "What about the
captain?"
"He doesn't need any. Am I right, Nimino?"
"That is correct." The navigator looked at Dumarest. "Sheyan takes care of himself during a flight and brooks no
interruption. Take the cup to the engineer, Lin, and then retire." He watched as the steward left the salon. "You were
hard on the boy," he said quietly. "He is young."
Dumarest agreed. "Too young to ape the man and far too young to gamble with those who would take all he
owns."
"And too young, perhaps, to call attention to a ring?" Yalung's voice was a purr. "It was bad manners, I grant, and
bad manners must be punished. But to shame the lad? It would not have hurt him to play a little. The stakes need not
have been high."
"If the stakes are low then it is not a gamble," said Nimino. "A man cannot lose what he doesn't care to keep. And
you are mistaken as to Earl's motives. Why should he object to Lin showing you his ring?"
"Did I give that impression?" Yalung spread his hands, his smile deprecating. "My apologies if I did; it was
unconscious, I assure you. But on Aarn there was talk about a man wearing a ring and another man found dead in a
closet in his room. The dead man was a known thief and the assumption is that he died in pursuit of his trade. It is a
rumor, you understand, a whisper in the taverns. You may have heard it?"
"No," said Dumarest tightly. "I did not."
"Then again I am mistaken. I thought that you were a little tender on the subject—no man likes to be associated
with murder. But, of course, the association can be nothing but coincidence. Many men wear rings."
"I wear one myself," said Nimino thrusting forward his hand. The light shone from a golden snake coiled around
his finger. "Would you care to value it, trader?"
"In terms of its true worth or its sentimental attachment?"
"Neither. In terms of its protective power." The navigator smiled as he lowered his hand. "You hesitate. Well, that
is to be expected from one who deals in money, what could you know of the value of spiritual things? Yet you haven't
the price of this ring should you want to buy it from me. It was given me by the Decal Ghengian himself and all he
touched was holy."
Yalung's eyes held a gleam of amusement as he glanced at Dumarest. "Then the ring must be very valuable," he
said gently. "For the Decal Ghengian will touch things no more."
"He has found the Way?" Nimino was excited. "He has found the realm beyond?"
 "As well as any man can find it. He is dead. Killed by a fall from the roof of his hotel in Nagash on Jacellon. Some
say that he was drunk and attempted to fly. Others that he was summoned. A few whisper that he was assassinated,
but that is rumor and rumor always lies."
"Dead." Nimino looked down at his ring and touched it with loving fingers. "Had he lived what might not that man
have accomplished. He could even have found the holy world from which all men originated."
"Now that, at least, you cannot believe," said Yalung. "It is the stuff of legend and as frail as gossamer. Forgive me
if I lose patience but I have heard such legends too often to be tolerant. The mystery planets found and lost again:
Jackpot, Bonanza, El Dorado, a dozen others. Worlds of dreams and imagination born of longing and dying hope. I
have traveled the galaxy and have never heard more than a rumor of any of them."
Dumarest looked down at his hands, then at those of the trader. Quietly he said, "Have you ever heard of Earth?"
"Earth?" Yalung's hands remained immobile. His eyes were enigmatic as Dumarest raised his head to stare into
the yellow face. "A strange name for a world. I know of Sand, an odd place of almost total desert. A species of insect
lives beneath the surface and constructs balls of natural secretions which have a slight value when ground and
polished. But Earth? No."
"And you, Nimino?"
The navigator hesitated. "There are so many worlds— how can one man know them all? The name is strange to
me, Earl, yet I cannot say there is no such place."
"How about Terra? Is that name familiar?" Dumarest shrugged as both men shook their heads. "Well, never mind.
It isn't important."
Not if a life had no value and years of searching were of no account. Not if home meant nothing to a man or a
quest had no substance. The questions had been automatic, born of the hope that someone, somewhere, would be
able to give a positive answer. It was a slim chance, but one which had to be tried. Their response was another
disappointment to add to the rest.
Dumarest picked up the deck of cards. "Well, gentlemen," he said. "Shall we play?"

Chapter Three
Dumarest stood at the head of the loading ramp and looked over the landing field at Hendris. It was small and,
aside from the Moray, deserted. An acre of gritty soil lacking the usual perimeter fence, the surface scarred and
blotched with weed. To one side a huddle of shacks stood in the shadow of a gaunt warehouse, flimsy structures
advertising their poverty. More substantial buildings rested further back in the town, a listless flag signaling the
whereabouts of a tavern. Edging the field a squat tower held the administration offices, the flat roof surmounted by
the elaborate antennae of a supra-radio.
A flash of yellow moved from the building: Yalung, probably on his way to search for precious gems. Thoughtfully
Dumarest looked at the sky. It was dark, almost indigo, the ball of the sun halfway towards the horizon. It was a dull,
angry red, the wide corona lined with sooty markings, the surface writhing as it fed on the dust. From a few parsecs it
would be invisible, all radiation absorbed by the cloud before it could escape from the Web.
"Hey there!"
Dumarest looked down. A field loader had come from behind the vessel riding an antigrav raft loaded high with
crates. He stared upwards, squinting.
"You the handler?"
"That's right."
"What happened to Elgart? I thought he was Sheyan's man."
"He was."
"Like that, eh?" The field loader shrugged. "Well, it's none of my business. You ready to take delivery?"
"Just a minute." Dumarest walked down the ramp until he stood level with the man. "When did the last ship leave
here?"
"Three days ago. Heading Inside."
"And before that?"
"Maybe two weeks. Heading Inside." The man grinned. "I know what you're after, a ship out. Well, mister, you're
not the only one. Sam Glegan at the hotel is getting fat on traders waiting to be carried out of the Web. It's been two
months since the last ship headed that way and it could be as long again until the next."
Dumarest frowned. "Where's the next terminal?"
"Thermyle? That's in the next system. You could pick up a ship bound for there in maybe a month or so. Maybe
less. They don't run much to schedule. Why the interest? You thinking of quitting the Moray?"
 "Forget it." Dumarest looked at the crates. "Are they for us?"
"That's right. And there's three times as much waiting to be hauled. Where do you want it?"
"In the hold."
"Open up the hull and I'll oblige," said the field loader. "Failing that I can't do more than dump it. My job is to
deliver it to the ship. How you get it inside is your problem." He guided the raft to the foot of the ramp and released
the grapnels. Bobbing, the vehicle rose, an open frame behind the driver's seat. "Right," he said. "It's all yours."
The crates contained agricultural implements: hoes, ax heads, saw blades, scythes, plowshares, and rakes,
together with rods and ingots of native iron. Each crate was heavier than the weight of a man. Dumarest lifted one
and let it fall with a crash on the foot of the ramp. On normal vessels the loading ramp would have been powered,
hooks and rollers carrying the cargo up to the hold where it could be stacked. On the Moray the power attachment
refused to work.
The field loader delivered the second heap of crates as Dumarest walked from the vessel. He paused at the edge
of the field looking to either side. Usually there would have been men looking for either work or passage but Hendris
was a casual world and to wait for a ship was to starve. The edge of the field was deserted and Dumarest walked on
to where the drooping flag hung over the tavern.
"Earl!" Claude shouted an invitation as he entered the long, bleak room. "Come and join me!"
The engineer sat slumped at one end of the bar, his broad, mottled face streaming with perspiration. One big
hand was clamped around a tankard of fused sand. At his side Lin hovered, an attendant shadow. A straggle of men
filled the rest of the place, most of them standing close to where Claude was sitting.
"Earl!" he shouted again. "Come and join me and my friends." His free hand thudded on the bar. "A drink for the
handler!"
Dumarest ignored the foaming tankard the bartender slapped down before him. He said, "Claude, I want you back
at the ship. The loading ramp isn't working."
"Why tell me?" The engineer emptied his tankard and reached for the one served to Dumarest. "The cargo's your
job."
"And the ramp is yours. I'm not going to sweat because a fat, drunken slob is too lazy to do his work. Now get on
your feet and get to it!"
Claude slowly rose from his stool, one big hand clenching the tankard. Thickly he said, "What did you call me?"
"A fat, drunken slob," said Lin. "I heard him."
"You stay out of this!" Dumarest didn't look at the steward. Around him he heard the scuff of boots as men
retreated.
"A fat, drunken slob," said Claude softly. "A fat—"
His bulk belied his speed. He turned, his arm a blur as he smashed the edge of the tankard down on the counter,
rising with a circle of jagged shards, thrusting them viciously at Dumarest's face. Dumarest lifted his left hand, his
palm smacking against the wrist, gripping, holding it firm— the broken tankard inches from his eyes. He could see the
savage points, the little flecks of brightness in the fused sand, and thought of what the improvised weapon could do,
what one similar to it had done on Aarn.
He twisted and, as the shattered tankard dropped to the floor, balled his right fist and struck at Claude's jaw.
"All right," he said to Lin as the engineer fell. "When he wakes up get him back to the ship." To the others standing
around he said, "You've helped him to drink his pay, now you can help him to do his work. I want six men to load the
Moray. You six. Let's get on with it."
Nimino entered the hold as Dumarest was securing the last of the cargo. He stood by the open port, his slim
figure silhouetted against the angry ball of the sun, the darkness of his skin merging with the darkness of shadow.
Teeth and eyes caught reflected light and made touches of transient brilliance, fading gleams accentuated by the
movements of his hand, the polish of his nails.
"I hear that you've been having a little trouble, Earl."
Dumarest lifted a crate and swung it into position. "Nothing that I would call trouble."
"No? Lin tells it differently. He is entranced by the manner in which you co-opted labor to move the cargo. And he
is bemused by the speed of your movements. The way in which you caught Claude's wrist. To hear him relate the
story is to believe that you moved far more quickly than is considered possible."
"Lin is young," said Dumarest.
"And the young tend to exaggerate." Nimino moved a little, resting his shoulder on the edge of the open port.
"True, but the facts remain. Have you ever undergone specialized training? I ask because the school of Jengha Dal
teaches a system by which the reflexes can be accelerated. Do you know of it?"
"No."
"Perhaps your formative years were spent on a world of excessive gravity," mused the navigator. "But no, your
physical development contradicts that supposition. As your strength contradicts the assumption that you are a
common traveler who chooses to work a passage from fear of riding Low."
Dumarest stacked the final crate and turned to look at the navigator. "Did I say that?"
"Sheyan assumed it; but, of course, he was wrong. Those who travel Low have little body fat and less strength.
The caskets enfeeble them. You are far from feeble."
"And you are too curious," said Dumarest flatly.
"Perhaps, my friend, but it is said that the path to knowledge lies through the asking of many questions. For
example, I ask myself why a man such as you should have been in such a hurry to leave Aarn. For fear of a man? A
woman? I think not and yet you chose to leave on a ship like this. Perhaps Fate was pressing at your heels, in which
case a man has no choice. But, again, why on a ship like this? Your experience must have told you what the Moray is.
A scavenger sweeping between close-set stars. Lin joined us, true, but he knew no better. Claude had no choice and
Sheyan is snared in an economic trap."
"And you?"
Nimino shrugged. "An astrologer predicted that I should find great knowledge in a cloud of dust. The Web is such
a cloud."
"And the knowledge?"
"Is still to come."
Some knowledge, perhaps, but the navigator would be learned in the ways of trading. And perhaps more. He
could easily be a sensitive, a clairvoyant able to peer into the future, or a telepath with the skill of reading minds; or
perhaps he could sense impending danger as an animal would sense the approach of a hunter. Or he could simply be
highly curious and inordinately suspicious.
"It will come," said Dumarest. "When the time is ripe. Until then it could be a good idea to concentrate on your
books."
"You dislike my curiosity?"
"I dislike anything which seems to have no purpose," said Dumarest. "And I cannot understand why you should
be interested in me."
"In the Web a man needs to know with whom he travels," said Nimino quietly. "A little you have shown of
yourself. Not much, but a little. For example I now know that you are not easily cowed. That you are accustomed to
violence. That your reflexes are amazingly fast and that you are looking for something. A planet named Earth. Well,
wherever it is you will not find it in the Web. I would venture to guess that, by mischance or the workings of fate, you
have found yourself in a blind alley. The Moray is not an easy ship to leave."
Not easy but neither was it hard; Dumarest could walk off now, but what then? Weeks and perhaps months of
waiting stuck on this barely colonized world, exposed to anyone who wanted to find him, vulnerable if they should.
He shrugged, trying to throw off the feeling which had followed him from world to world and was with him still. The
sense that someone was at his back, watching, waiting to pounce. And it was not wholly a thing of imagination.
The dead man Yalung had spoken about. He had been a thief and Dumarest had stunned and tied him fast. Later
he had found him dead and had gone immediately to the field. Luck had seemed to favor him when the handler had
been murdered in the tavern but now he wasn't so sure.
Luck—or design?
And, if the latter, why?
"You are thinking, Earl," said Nimino breaking the silence. "What about? The cargo?"
Dumarest was willing to change the subject. "It's heavy."
"And valuable, despite what you are probably thinking. We traded the machine patterns for it and the buyer must
have been satisfied to have delivered the goods so promptly." The navigator stepped deeper into the hold and kicked
one of the crates. "Iron," he said. "Many of the inner worlds lack heavy metals and some of them need the oxide in
order to provide trace-elements in the soil. We shall turn this load with profit. They are poor worlds, Earl. Starvation
planets for the most part, colonized by mischance rather than intent. Surely you have come across such worlds
before?"
Backward planets at the end of the line. Dead worlds without industry or work for transients, making it
impossible for them to gather the cost of a Low passage.
"I've seen a few," said Dumarest. "They are bad places for a traveler to find."
"No world is a good one on which to be stranded," agreed Nimino. "You must tell me about them some day. In
return I will tell you of Clothon, of Landkis and Brame. Sacred places all. Planets which have known the tread of
those closer to the Ultimate than we. Holy places."
"Each world is a holy place," said Dumarest quietly. "To those who believe it so."
"And Earth? Is that mysterious world such a place?"
 "Perhaps." Dumarest looked past the navigator to where two figures approached the ship from across the field.
"The captain and our passenger. When do we leave?"
"Before sunset."
"To where?"
Nimino's laugh was mocking. "Does it matter, my friend? To us, all worlds are much the same: places to reach and
leave with the minimum of delay. But, if you are interested, we head for Argonilla."
They were five hours on their way when the engineer sent for Dumarest. He looked up from where he sat at his
console, the winking lights of monitoring instruments throwing patches of transient color across his mottled face. On
one side of his jaw a purple bruise spread high up his cheek.
"I'm sorry, Earl," he said. "I was drunk and didn't know what I was doing. You've got to believe that."
"All right," said Dumarest. "You were drunk. I believe you. Is that what you want?"
"I want you to understand. I felt sick when Lin told me what I'd tried to do. I mean that, Earl."
"Sure you do—until the next time." Dumarest stared down at the engineer, remembering the shattered tumbler,
the stabbing points. "But if it happens again I'll kill you."
"You mean it," said Claude. "And I don't blame you. But it was the drink, not me." He blinked at the winking lights,
touches of gaudy brightness illuminating his eyes. "It gets into me sometimes. The drink, I mean. It turns sour and
then it's a sort of devil that's got to break loose. Anything can do it. One minute I'll be laughing and then, just like
that, I'll be in a killing rage. That's why I'm not on the big ships," he confessed. "I was drinking on duty, the chief
bawled me out and I smashed him up with a wrench. I didn't kill him but he was pretty bad. They gave me fifty lashes
and threw me out. They marked my papers, too, and you can't get a berth on a decent vessel without them. Not on
any ship as an engineer. Sheyan didn't seem to mind—with the little I get from my share he had no choice." He stood
up from the console and held out his hand. "Can we forget it, Earl?"
The Moray was too small a vessel to harbor bad feelings.
Slowly Dumarest took the proffered hand. "All right," he said. "But remember what I told you."
"I'll remember." Claude winced as he touched his cheek. "I've got reason not to forget. You damn near broke my
jaw."
"It hurts?"
"Like hell. Can you give me anything for it?"
"Sure," said Dumarest. "Can you come to my cabin?"
Claude glanced at his instruments. "Not just yet. Give it to Lin to bring down. I want him to see the board when
we reach supra-speed. The more experience he gets the better."
Dumarest found the steward in his cabin reading a worn copy of an engine manual and handed him the hypogun.
"This is for Claude," he said. "Take it down to him right away and give him one shot just over the bruise. Aim the
nozzle within three inches and pull the trigger. Make certain you don't hit the eyes. Understand?"
Lin nodded, dropping the book as he rose. He stooped, picked it up, and carefully placed it on his bunk. "You and
Claude all right now, Earl?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad. He's a good man, stupid when he hits the bottle but nice in a lot of other ways. Did I tell you he was
teaching me how to be an engineer?"
"You did—and you'd better get that dope to him fast. We're close to supra-speed. Bring the hypogun back to me
afterwards."
Dumarest was in his cabin when the steward returned. He sat on the edge of his bunk, a deck of cards in his
hands, the cards intermeshing with a dry rustle as he manipulated the pack. Lin watched with interest; then, as he
replaced the hypogun in its cabinet, said, "Why won't you let me join the game, Earl?"
"I told you: you'd lose."
The youngster was argumentative. "How can you be sure of that? Yalung said that the stakes needn't be high and
he keeps asking me to join in. It wouldn't hurt to let me play, sometimes."
"You've got other things to do," said Dumarest. "Studying, for one. You won't become an officer if you waste your
time and money."
"Please, Earl!"
Dumarest looked up and saw the young face, the eyes now drained of their superficial hardness and filled with
the aching desire to know, to learn, to gain precious knowledge. To become adult in the shortest possible time. Once
he had felt exactly the same: impatient with the slow passage of the years and eager to gain experience so as to catch
up. He had gained it, learning the hard way, surviving his mistakes and paying for his failures.
But how to pass on the accumulated knowledge of years?
Dumarest looked at the cards. It was a normal deck with ace, lord, lady, jester, and ten to the deuce four times
repeated in differentiating colors. Abruptly he riffled the deck and slammed the cards on the table supporting the
player.
"You want to gamble," he said. "We'll do just that. Make a bet and cut—highest wins."
"That's a kid's game." Lin was disgusted. "A matter of luck."
"You think so?" Dumarest picked up the deck and separated three cards. "How about this, then? Find the jester."
He held two cards in his right hand, one in his left. The jester was the lowest of the cards of his right. "See it?"
Lin nodded.
"Now bet." Dumarest moved his hands, the cards falling on the top of the player. "Which is the jester?"
"This one." Lin reached out to turn it over and winced as Dumarest caught his wrist. "Earl! What the hell!"
"This isn't a game," said Dumarest flatly. "Where's your money?"
Lin found coins and dropped them on the selected card.
Dumarest turned it over. "You lose. Try again."
Lin lost a second time, a third. At the eighth failure he glared at Dumarest. "You're cheating!"
"No, how can I do that? The cards are all in front of you." Dumarest picked them up and showed their faces to the
steward. "I'm outguessing you, that's all. You lack the experience to know what I'm doing. And you lack the
experience to gamble with Yalung. He'll take you for all you've got."
Lin was stubborn. "The luck could come my way."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," said Dumarest impatiently. "Not when you're playing with a professional
gambler. And there's something else." He scooped up the money Lin had lost and heaped it to one side. From the
deck of cards he dealt two, one to either side of the coins. "We're playing for the middle," he explained. "And I'm
betting one thousand that my card is higher than yours."
"A thousand!" Lin looked defeated. "I can't see you. I haven't that much money."
"So you lose." Dumarest picked up the coins. "You can't win against someone who can beat every bet you make.
Understand?"
He didn't, of course, and he wouldn't grasp the point of the demonstration until he'd learned it the hard way. But
Dumarest had done his part. Dropping the coins into Lin's hand he said to the relieved steward, "Stick to your books.
Watch the play if you like, but remember—don't gamble out of your class."
Words, he thought as he followed Lin from the cabin, and ones which made good sense. But since when have the
young ever listened to good advice? He would play and he would lose, and maybe he would learn after he had paid
the price. But he wouldn't play on this ship and certainly not with Yalung.
Dumarest thought about the passenger as he made his way along the passage towards the control room. The
yellow-faced man remained an enigma; the secret parts of his mind were bounded with layers of protection. Of only
one thing was Dumarest certain: the man was addicted to gambling; he would play long past the time when other
men would have become satiated. And he played shrewdly and well.

***

The door to the control room was unlocked. Dumarest pressed it open and stepped into a cool dimness where
machines held a life of their own and instruments shone in soft reflections. To one side Nimino straightened from
where he had stooped over a panel and raised a hand in warning.
"No noise," he said. "No sudden movement, Earl. It would be most unwise."
Dumarest followed the direction of his eyes. Slumped in the shielding confines of the big control chair, Sheyan's
head was invisible beneath a mass of pulsing gray. It fitted like a cap, leaving only the mouth and nostrils clear.
"A symbiote from Elgart," explained the navigator quietly. "In return for a little blood it provides tranquilizing
dreams. I remove it long before we are due to land."
"How long?"
"An hour. Sometimes more. What does it matter?"
A captain who was blind and deaf to any impending danger. It mattered!
"He cannot stand the sight of the stars," said Nimino, guessing Dumarest's thoughts. "And he cannot leave the
ship. He travels with fear as his constant companion. Call him a coward if you wish, but the fact remains."
"There are cures," said Dumarest. "Psychological manipulations."
"Perhaps, but not for Sheyan. His trouble cannot be cured, only accepted. For he is terrified of death and
extinction. He will not accept the truths men have discovered: that one does not lead to the other. And without that
conviction he is lost. The symbiote enables him to forget what he dare not face."
"He is mad," said Dumarest. "Insane."
"Can we really blame him? His life has been spent in the Web. How long can any man tread the edge of danger
and remain wholly sane?" Nimino lifted his arm and pointed towards the screens. "Look at it, Earl. Try to imagine
what you cannot see. The forces which are in continual imbalance as the stars fight for supremacy. That is why it is
called the Web. Channels of relative safety run between the gravitational wells of stars and planets, slender lines like
the filaments of a mass of gossamer. We have to follow them, threading our way with the aid of electronic sensors,
balancing our speed and energy against external forces. And always, at any time, that delicate balance can be upset.
Contraterrene matter exploding in a sun, a meshing of electromagnetic fields, solar flares and even the juxtaposition
of worlds. And also there is the dust. Earl, no man who has not traversed the Web can appreciate its dangers."

Chapter Four
Argonilla was a cold, bleak, inhospitable world with snow thick on the landing field and sleet carried on the wind.
Yalung took one look outside and retired to his cabin.
"There will be no stones of value here," he said positively. "And little of anything else."
Claude verified his prophecy. He came into the hold, blowing, his big frame muffled in shapeless garments. "They
had a ship three days ago," he said disgustedly. "A trader bound for Thermyle. It took every decent pelt in the place."
Dumarest turned from where he tested the cargo restraints. "Do many ships call here bound for the terminal?"
"Hell, no. It was a wanderer dropping in on speculation to pick up anything that was going. The first ship to call in
months and they beat us by three days. We would have done well."
"Trading iron for furs?"
"You're learning, Earl. This planet is short of heavy metal and we could have done a nice trade. Not now, though;
there's no point in giving the stuff away. Sheyan's trying to get us something worth carrying." Claude shrugged. "I
doubt if he'll find it."
The captain contracted for a load of hides to be brought to the ship and paid for when stowed. He left before half
had arrived in order to avoid a coming storm. From Argonilla they went to Feen where they sold the hides and sonic
recordings for cash, bought a quantity of crystallized extract of glandular secretions culled from a local life form, and
gained a passenger.
Brother Angus of the Church of Universal Brotherhood was a small, elderly man with a wizened face and balding
skull. He stood blinking in the bright light of the salon, diminutive in his robe of homespun, sandals on his bare feet,
and the traditional begging bowl of chipped plastic in his hand.
Yalung, from where he sat at the table, said, "Greetings, brother. You seek charity?"
"To give is to acquire virtue," said the monk in a musical voice. He looked at the captain. "I understand that you
are bound for Phane, brother. Is this so?"
"And if it is?"
"I beg your charity, brother, to give me a passage. I am willing to travel Low."
Sheyan frowned. In normal space monks were many, but hardly seen in the Web. The power of the Church in the
small conglomeration of stars was negligible and it was safe to refuse. He tried to soften the blow.
"Phane is a hard world, brother, with little charity. I do not think you would be welcome."
"I do not ask for welcome, brother. Merely a place on which to set a church and to ease the hearts of men. The
church," the monk added quickly, "is very small. A benediction light, some plastic sheeting and collapsible supports. I
can carry the whole thing on my back."
Sheyan's frown deepened. "I would not care to take the risk, brother. You talk of going to an inhospitable world."
Quietly the monk said, "Are there poor on Phane, brother?"
"There are poor everywhere," snapped the captain. "I am poor. Too poor to waste energy carrying unprofitable
mass. I am sorry but I must refuse. The handler will guide you from the ship."
"Take him," said Dumarest.
"Will you pay his cost of a High passage?" Sheyan glared his anger. "From your share, perhaps? The profits we're
making wouldn't even pay for his food."
"You're being foolish," insisted Dumarest. "The good will of the monks is worth having. It would be a wise
investment to carry him to Phane. And we could use the luck he might bring us," he added. "The Moray can use all
the luck it can get. Am I right, Nimino?"
"A holy man is worth more than a cargo of rotting hides," said the navigator. "Hides on which we would have
made a profit had they been left behind. Earl is right, captain. It would be wisdom for you to gain virtue at this time."
Sheyan brooded then accepted defeat. "All right, have it your way. But I warn you, the cost of his passage will be
deducted from our profits before I make the share."
Dumarest settled the monk in a cabin, carrying the collapsed bulk of the portable church from outside. Setting it
down he looked at Brother Angus, who had sat on the bunk.
"You have been long in the Web, brother?"
"Many years. It is a hard place with hard men but I hope to have brought a little comfort into their bleak lives."
The monk stretched, enjoying the warmth and relative comfort of the cabin. "You were kind to persuade your captain
to give me passage. He seems to be an aggressive man."
"He is old and worried and afraid," said Dumarest, and added, casually, "In your travels, Brother, have you seen
many cybers?"
Imperceptibly the monk stiffened. Between the Church and the Cyclan no love was lost, each regarding the other
as would cat and dog. In the wizened face his eyes were shrewd as he answered the question.
"An odd thing to ask, brother, but the answer is no. There is little in the Web to attract those who wear the scarlet
robe. No great houses or industrial combines. No ruling lords, managers, dictators, and chairmen. Most worlds have
only one settlement and to sway their destiny would not be easy. And few could afford to purchase the service of the
Cyclan. The advice of a cyber does not come cheap. You are new to the Web, brother?"
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"You have chosen a hard life with much danger and small reward."
Dumarest smiled. Few lives could be as hard and as unrewarding than that chosen by the monk. Living in poverty,
surrounded by it, alleviating it as best they could, the servants of the Universal Church were to be found wherever
men suffered most. In their portable churches they offered solace to tormented minds; the suppliants confessing their
sins beneath the hypnotic glow of the benediction light, to be relieved of guilt and to suffer subjective penance before
being given the bread of forgiveness.
And if most suppliants knelt as a prelude to obtaining the wafer of concentrate the monks did not mind. They
considered it a fair exchange for the hypnotic conditioning they installed together with the penance. The command
not to kill—the reason why Dumarest had never knelt before the glowing kaleidoscope of the benediction light.

***

At Phane they loaded synthetic fiber for Igar. From Igar to Landkis, to Oll, to Krieg: a scatter of insignificant
worlds close to suns which burned like red hot embers in the dust. The Moray questing and probing as it rode from
world to world, earning hardly enough to pay for the energy it used.
Claude brooded about it as he sat with the others, his nerves twitching with the need of alcohol. His supplies
were exhausted; Krieg had been a temperate world without taverns. "We're going to end up owing money," he said. "A
minus profit. A hell of a way for any trader to operate."
"The luck will change," said Lin. The steward had brought cups of basic from the salon. "You'll see. Nimino's
working on it right now."
"Burning incense and mumbling incantations," said Claude.
"Praying to his gods and trying to bribe them to throw us a good cargo." He gulped half his meal and sat,
scowling into the cup. A thread of vapor rose from it, the contents warmed by a heating element in the base. "How
can a man with his brains be so stupid as to believe in such rubbish? And you're as bad," he added, glaring at
Dumarest. "We should never have carried that monk. We were begging for trouble. The first rule of a trader is never
to carry anything without profit. It's bad luck to break it."
"Now who's superstitious?" Dumarest sipped at his own cup. It contained enough energy to nourish a spaceman
for a day and it was all they had been eating since entering the Web. "Luck has nothing to do with it. Sheyan moves
on too fast. He should wait until the news of the Moray's arrival has had time to spread. My guess is that we are
missing cargoes because we're gone before they can be delivered."
"No," said Claude. "It doesn't work like that. On other worlds, perhaps, but not in the Web. Cargoes are assembled
and waiting for the first ship to arrive. We've been unlucky. On Argonilla and Landkis we arrived just too late. Oll had
been stripped a week before we got there." He drank again, frowning. "Let's hope we have better luck on Candara."
Candara was an ancient world, great seas lapping a solitary land mass composed of low hills, boulders, leached
and inferior soil. Straggling vines, olives, and other cultivated crops surrounded the settlement with beasts grazing
beyond on rough foliage. The foothills were crusted with trees, shining a dull brown in the light of a somber sun.
"Candara," said Nimino as he stood beside Dumarest in the open port. "Sheol would have been a better name.
Look at it, Earl. Who do you think would ever choose to settle here?"
Dumarest could guess. The followers of a minor sect turning their backs on civilized comfort for the sake of
imagined spiritual reward. Masochists who took a delight in physical hardship. Unfortunates who had had no choice.
The dispossessed glad of any world to call their own.
"You were right the first time," said Nimino. "They are a hard people following a hard path towards the Ultimate.
They may be right, but I would not like to emulate them." He lifted an arm, pointing. "You see that building? The one
with the tower and walls of massive stone? That is their temple. I have seen the inside, a gloomy place devoid of
color, the very air depresses with thoughts of the tomb."
"Do they have wine?" Dumarest was thinking of the engineer.
"Ceremonial vintage only. Twice a year they release their emotions in a great feast. They have the best food
available and wallow in wine. There is singing and dancing and marriages take place. Fighting, too, as old scores are
paid. For three days they enjoy civilized dissipation and then, ashamed, they spend the next six months in hard work
and repentance." Nimino shook his head. "An odd way to live and yet they must find it to their liking. Never yet have
we had anyone asking for passage."
"Perhaps they can't afford it."
"Or perhaps they are afraid to step outside their own narrow world," said the navigator shrewdly. "There is a
comfort in recognized boundaries." He turned as Lin called from beyond the hold. "Sheyan is waiting for me to
accompany him to the chief elder. Why don't you join us?"
"And Claude?"
"He remains behind. The last time we were here he drank too deeply of the guest-offering. Need I say more?"
Two men waited with the captain. They were stern, middle-aged, dressed in plain garments of undyed wool; their
hair long and held by a fillet of hammered steel. Each carried a staff as tall as himself and as thick as three fingers.
Their faces were deeply scored and devoid of humor. The honor guard, thought Dumarest, or the escort to restrict
the contaminating influence of the visitors. He fell into step behind the captain as they led the way towards a squat
building built of stone and roofed with shells.
Inside was a long table, benches, and a rack to hold clothing. All were roughly made of wood; the marks of the
tools clearly visible. The floor was of tamped dirt polished until it shone like lambent glass. As they entered, the chief
elder rose from the head of the table. He could have been the father of the guards.
"I am Herkam, the chief elder," he intoned. "I bid you welcome."
"I am Sheyan, captain of the Moray. These men are of my crew." Sheyan gestured, naming them. "I thank you for
your welcome. Your hospitality will not be abused."
It was a ritual and belonged to the setting. An event to break the monotony and to add to the prestige of the chief
elder. Dumarest sat when bidden and shared in the guest-offering of cakes and wine. The cakes were small, made of
rough-ground flour with a nutty consistency and surprisingly sweet. The wine was better than he had anticipated.
"The law of hospitality," whispered Nimino at his side. "Now we cannot be injured or detained."
The formalities dispensed with, the business then commenced. Prepared skins of giant fish, soft and with a scaled
gleam, ornaments of carven bone, unusual shells, giant crystals which sang when struck, and vials of oil which
formed the base of costly perfume began to pile on the table. They were samples from the stocks held in the
warehouse. Sheyan's hands quivered a little as he inspected them.
"The goods are of fine quality," he admitted. "I have seen better, but these are good. Yet, as good as they are, the
market for such things is small. Have you nothing else?"
Necklets of amber, pieces of stone striated with luminous color, fronds of dried weed which gave off aromatic
perfumes when burned joined the other goods on the table.
Dumarest watched as the captain examined them. Already he knew what really interested the man, the vials of
costly oil, his other actions were to cover his real object which was to obtain the oils at the lowest possible price. But
he was too transparent. Either the run of bad luck had affected his nerves or his eagerness had numbed his caution.
"You have seen what we have to offer," said the chief elder. Sunken in the seams of his harsh face his eyes never left
the captain's. "What have you to offer in exchange?"
"Iron," said Sheyan. "Implements to work the soil."
"Our religion forbids us to use the things of the Evil One," said Herkam sternly. "We have tools of wood and shell
and stone. Nature's free gifts to us, her children. These things we can make at any time."
Dumarest said, "And fishhooks?"
The shrewd eyes flickered as Herkam looked down the table. "You have such things?"
"Of many sizes," said Dumarest, ignoring the captain's glare. "Together with fine chains and gaffs of steel."
"We may see them?"
"Tomorrow." Dumarest didn't look at the captain. "Now, if we have your leave to depart, we will begin unstacking
our cargo."
Sheyan remained silent while within earshot of the guards, but once back in the privacy of the Moray, he
exploded.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? I gave you leave to come and watch—not to take over. You've ruined a
good trade. A ship could land at any time and snatch it from under our noses."
 "A ship carrying fishhooks?"
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Everything." Dumarest was curt. "I suggest that you use your mouth less and your eyes more. This is a world
almost wholly composed of ocean. You saw those skins and sea products. How do you think they catch such big
fish?"
"With nets," said Nimino. "And spears. I've seen them."
"Nets that are easy to break and hard to mend. With spears made of wood and stone and shell. You heard the
chief elder. How strong do you think a spear like that is against what must live in the ocean?" Dumarest looked from
one to the other. "You don't know," he said. "You've never had to fish for your food. I have and, believe me, there's
nothing quite so hard to make as a strong fishhook if you can't use metal. Chains, too, in order to prevent the catch
from biting through the line. And gaffs so that you can hook it aboard. Supply what I promised and you'll have no
trouble getting your oil."
Sheyan bridled. "How did you know that was what I wanted?"
"I knew," said Dumarest. "And Herkam knew also. If you take my advice you'll ask for everything else but the oil.
Set the price of the hooks ridiculously high in terms of skins and amber, weed and crystals; a thousand times its own
weight. The chains and gaffs a little less, they can do without those if they have to. But they can't do without the
hooks."
"He makes sense, captain," said Nimino. "Don't forget, Earl is a gambler, he knows how to bluff."
"How to lie, you mean," snapped Sheyan. "How can we trade what we haven't got?"
"We'll get it," said Dumarest. "We'll make it. There are tools in the engine room and laser torches to cut and fuse
and use as a forge. And we have rods of iron as well as the rest of the stuff. With five of us working full time we'll be
able to make what we need."
"By tomorrow?" Regretfully Nimino shook his head. "It's a good plan, Earl, but we can't do it in the time. We
haven't the experience and we'll be slow. We simply haven't the time to both learn and manufacture."
"Yes we have," said Dumarest. "We'll use slowtime."

***

Herkam slowly lifted the length of chain and let it fall, link by link, to the surface of the table. It was well-made:
half-inch circles linked and welded tight. The gaffs were rougher, adapted from hoes cut and shaped and sharpened
into curved tines. The hooks were cruder still, the unpolished metal showing signs of tools and tempering, but they
were viciously barbed with an eye for the leader and filed to a needle point.
"These items are of worth," said the chief elder slowly. "Our young men die too often while fishing the waters,
falling prey to the beasts that live in the ocean; yet our land is poor and we need the meat of the sea. Even so I
cannot take them. All night I have wrestled in prayer, seeking guidance from the All Powerful, and counsel from the
vaults of the dead; they remained silent yet I know what must be done. We cannot use the fabrications of the Evil
One."
"The iron used was that received from the skies," said Sheyan quickly. Primed by Dumarest he was ready to bluff,
by Nimino ready to lie and to turn the religion of the elder to his own ends. "As such surely it is a natural thing? As
natural as stone and wood and shell. Meteors, by their nature, cannot be from the domain of the Evil One."
Herkam nodded, willing to be convinced, and Dumarest gained the impression that he had raised the objection
merely in order to lower the price.
"You make a point, captain. One which has to be gravely considered. Let us do so over a glass of wine."
Was the old man delaying, perhaps hoping for the arrival of another trader? Dumarest doubted it. The last time
the Moray had called it had carried biological fertilizers, wool, strains of mutated yeast, seeds and artifacts of iron-
hard wood. All natural things according to the dogma of the Candarians. Sheyan had never guessed that his load of
iron might prove worthless.
Dumarest swallowed his wine, feeling the rich liquid ease some of the fatigue which ached his bones. He looked
at his hands, bruised and discolored with pressure and strain. Slowtime was a dangerous drug to use on a wakeful
man. It accelerated the metabolism and slowed normal time to a fortieth of its normal passing. A man so drugged
would move forty times as fast, do forty times as much. But care had to be taken. Flesh and bone could not stand the
shattering impact of a normal blow. The touch had to be gentle, the movements under constant control. He had the
knack and so did Nimino. They had used the drug while the others did the rough work. Moving, gulping down pints of
basic to replenish lost energy, sleeping to wake and eat and work and eat again.
Always eating to ward off starvation, getting hurt and bruised, doing the labor of forty times their number.
Dumarest blinked and drank a little more wine. Later he would sleep and restore the strength he had expended.
Now he wanted to follow the progress of the trading.
It was going well. Sheyan, recovered from his initial over-eagerness, confident that he now had what the chief
elder wanted, was pressing a hard bargain.
"The weed is bulky," he said. "My hold would barely take the worth of a dozen hooks. The skins are better and the
crystals even more so, yet still they have bulk and my hold is small."
"And the oil?" Herkam pushed forward a container. It was of baked clay sealed with wax. "This would take but
little room."
"True." Deliberately Sheyan broke the seal and poured some of the contents into the hollow of his palm. He
rubbed his hands, smelled, frowned, smelled again. "An extract from a fish?"
"From the giant clams which live deep in the water. They have a gland which can be milked. From the oil can be
made a costly perfume."
Nimino smiled and whispered, "Do you think Sheyan is overacting, Earl? Maybe you'd better end the bargain
before he talks us all out of a profit."
"He's doing well." Dumarest reached out and helped himself to more wine. The container was a gourd bright with
inset shells and had probably taken some woman a year to make. "This is no time to interfere."
Sheyan slammed his hand hard on the table. "Done! The oil, the crystals, some amber and skins in the ratio
agreed on. In return we give the hooks chains and gaffs. Can we load immediately?"
"First we must drink to seal the bargain." The haggling done the chief elder could afford to relax a little. "You find
our wine palatable?"
"It is a rare vintage." Sheyan, too, had relaxed. He had driven a hard bargain and had cause to be satisfied. "A
veritable gift of nature."
"And, as such, not to be swilled as the food of swine," said the chief elder sternly. "Mother Nature has given us
the grape to be used for the comfort of guests and the libation of sacrifice." He sipped at his glass. "And now, captain,
there is a service I must ask you to perform."
Sheyan narrowed his eyes. "And that is?"
"A matter of dissension which needs to be settled."
"A trial?"
"That and perhaps more. I beg your indulgence for this imposition on a guest, but the matter must be settled
immediately. You will form a tribunal?"
"Of course." Sheyan gestured towards Dumarest and Nimino. "These two officers will accompany me. When will
you need us?"
"Two hours after sunset, captain. I shall send men to escort you to the meeting house."
"So late?" The captain's voice echoed his displeasure. "I could be loaded and ready to leave in an hour. Time is
money to a trader."
"Two hours after sunset," repeated the chief elder firmly. "It will be dark and the workers will be in from the fields
and the sea. You may load, captain, everything but the oil. That we shall deliver to you after the trial."

Chapter Five
Night came with a thin wind gusting from the sea, a mist of cloud hiding the stars and intensifying the darkness.
Men with torches came to escort the tribunal, their faces hard and solemn in the guttering light. Nimino's voice was
low as he walked beside Dumarest, both men three paces behind the captain.
"We get this from time to time. As traders we're considered to be impartial and when a hard decision has to be
made we are asked to give it. That way no one has any reason to hold a grudge. A lot of these worlds have a tribal
culture or large families locked in a struggle for power. A vendetta would ruin them and most are too proud or too
wary to submit to the judgment of other residents." Nimino stumbled as his foot caught an obstruction and he
grabbed at Dumarest's arm to save himself from falling. "I just hope that we don't have to execute anyone."
The meeting house was a long, low-roofed structure built of logs caulked with clay, lit by flaring torches, and
hung with a clutter of various trophies. Benches accommodated the audience, the sour reek of their bodies rising to
blend with the resinous smell of the torches, the odor of damp soil.
Dumarest studied them as he took his seat on the raised platform occupying one end of the hall. They wore
either rough jerkins and trousers made of treated fish skins or somber garments of wool. The fishers and farmers, he
decided; but aside from their clothes they seemed all cast from the same mold. Like the elderly guards, their faces
were set in fanatical lines as if to laugh was to commit a sin. Hair was long and held back with fillets of skin or
leather; those of hammered steel being obviously a badge of authority. There were no young women present but a
double row of matrons, shapeless in voluminous dresses, sat at the extreme rear.
Nimino leaned towards Dumarest and said quietly, "Look at their eyes, Earl. Have you ever seen such an
expression before?"
It was the blood-lust glare inherent to mobs and to those anticipating blood and pain. He had seen it a hundred
times in the eyes of watchers clustered around a ring where men fought with ten-inch blades. At his side Sheyan
moved restlessly on the hard wooden chair.
"Why the delay?" he said to the chief elder. "We are assembled, where is the prisoner?"
There was a stir at the far end of the hall. A dozen men, guards, hard-faced and no longer young, marched
forward with someone in their midst. They halted before the raised platform and stepped back, their staves swinging
horizontal before them to form a barrier. Isolated in the clear space before the platform, a girl looked coolly at the
tribunal.
"By God," she said. "Men. Real men at last!"
"Silence!" Herkam's voice was harsh with anger. "There will be no blasphemy. Guards! If the woman Lallia speaks
so again you will strike her down!"
Nimino drew in his breath with an audible hiss. "By the sacred mantras of the Dedla Vhal," he said. "That is a
woman!"
She was tall, with a mane of lustrous black hair which swept from a high forehead and rested on her left shoulder.
Beneath a rough dress of undyed wool the curves of her body strained under the fabric. Her skin was white, arms and
feet bare, the long column of her throat unadorned. The long-lashed eyes were bold, challenging, and the full lips held
a wealth of sensuous passion.
Herkam looked at Sheyan, at the others of the tribunal.
"This is the one on whom you must pass judgment," he said. "She came to us several months ago from a ship
which called here. We gave her the guest offering of food and wine and accepted the stranger within our gates. In
return she has sowed dissension, turning brother against brother, mocking our sacred ways and filling the young men
with thoughts of evil. We gave her work among the women and she dazzled their minds with tales of orgies, dancing,
fine raiment, and decadent living. We put her to work alone and then had to set guards to keep the young men away
from the enticement of her body."
"A moment." Sheyan lifted his hand. "What is the charge against her?"
"That of witchcraft! Of consorting with the Evil One!"
"The evidence?"
It was as Dumarest expected; a list of petty incidents inconsequential in themselves, but in this inbred, neurotic
community, swollen to grotesque proportions. A woman had pricked her thumb while cleaning fish skins, the resultant
infection was wholly due to the accused's evil eye. A young man had died while fishing—a spell must have been laid
on his spear so that it broke at a critical time. Crops had withered after she had walked among them. A baby had
sickened after she had spoken to it.
Dumarest looked at the chief elder during the interminable list of complaints and accusations. Herkam was no
fool and must know the real value of what was being said. Lallia was guilty of arousing nothing more than jealously
and resentment among the women, desire and frustration among the men. And yet, in such a community, such
emotions were dangerous. He began to understand why the case had been given to outsiders to judge.
"This is a bad one, Earl." Nimino's voice was barely a whisper. "We're dealing with fanaticism and aberrated fears
—an ugly combination."
It was more than that. Dumarest leaned back, watching the faces of the girl, the men and women seated on the
benches. Herkam was playing a shrewd game of politics and playing it well. There would be factions for and against
the girl. Young men of high family would be enamored of her beauty, each snarling like a dog over a favored bone,
each determined that if he could not win the prize then it should fall to no other. The women would be banded in a
common determination to bring her down. Herkam would be trying to both maintain the peace and his own
authority.
And shortly would come the time of festival when the wine flowed and old scores were settled. A time of
unleashed passion and explosive violence. In such an atmosphere the girl would be a match to tinder and, no matter
what happened, the chief elder would be held to blame.
Dumarest leaned forward as the accusations ceased and said to Sheyan. "Let us hear from the girl herself."
"There's no need," the captain was sharp. "She'd deny everything, what else would you expect?"
"He's right, Earl." Nimino joined the low conversation. "We're not dealing with justice here. The girl is innocent,
of course, but we daren't say so. They wouldn't accept it. They want her to be found guilty and destroyed. Herkam
wants that, too, but he doesn't want her blood on his hands." The navigator frowned, thinking. "We could take her with
us but I doubt if they would let her go. They have to be proved right and they want to see her suffer."
 "We could execute her," said Sheyan. "At least that would be quick."
"No," said Dumarest.
"What else?" The captain's face was bunched, knotted with anger. "Do you want her to be burned? Or have you
got some crazy idea of rescuing her? If you have forget it. We're three against an entire community and we wouldn't
even get out of this hall. And we'd lose the oil," he added. "Unless we play this Herkam's way he won't release it."
"The oil," said Dumarest tightly. "Is that all you're thinking about?"
"I'm thinking of the ship, the crew, your share and mine. Do you think I intend to throw away the best trade I've
ever made for the sake of some stupid slut? Look at her!" Sheyan gestured to where Lallia stood, waiting. "A cheap
harlot who got herself dumped. Well, to hell with her! I'm no wet nurse to aid the fallen. She's got herself into a mess
and she can't expect us to lose our profit to get her out. I say we return a verdict of guilty."
"No," said Dumarest again. "She's innocent and we all know it."
"What's that got to do with it?" Sheyan looked at his hands, they were trembling. "Don't push it, handler," he said
harshly. "I don't like doing this but it has to be done. We won't get that oil unless we act smart—and I intend getting
that oil. A majority vote will do it. Nimino?"
The navigator hesitated. "She is very beautiful. To destroy such beauty would be a crime."
"Are you turning soft on me?"
"No, captain, but there could be another way. Do you object to taking her with us?"
"As long as we get the oil—no."
"And you, Earl? Will you help?"
Dumarest was wary. "What have you got in mind?"
"A trick," said Nimino. "An appeal to their religious convictions. It is the only chance the woman has."
The hall fell silent as Nimino rose to his feet, soft whispers dying to be replaced by a straining expectancy. In the
guttering torchlight eyes gleamed savage, feral: the eyes of animals rather than those of men. From where he stood to
one side, the chief elder stepped towards the tribunal.
"Have you reached your verdict?"
"We have." The navigator's voice rolled with the power of an incantation. "It is the verdict of us all."
"And that is?"
Deliberately Nimino took his time before answering, letting the silence lengthen to obtain dramatic effect. He was
a good actor, thought Dumarest, and was putting to use the things he had learned from attending numerous religious
ceremonies. Casually he glanced at the woman. Lallia stood, tense, white teeth gnawing at her lower lip. Her eyes, no
longer bold, held a shadow of worry. The tribunal had taken too long, there had been too much discussion, and she
was cynical in her knowledge of the ways of men. Dumarest caught the slight tension of muscles beneath the fabric
of her dress, the tensing of thighs and stomach, the unconscious reaction of a person who readied herself for
struggle or flight.
But there was nowhere to run and she would not have to fight.
"Your verdict?" Herkam's nerve had snapped and he spoke to break the tension. "What is your decision?"
"That the woman face trial by combat!"
It was totally unexpected. The chief elder's face went blank as he tried to grasp the implications and Nimino
spoke again, quickly, before he could protest.
"We have traveled many worlds and have seen the manifestations of the All Powerful in many guises. And, too,
we have seen the malicious designs of the Evil One. Who can gauge the extent of his cunning? Who can deny that
they are proof against his insidious evil? This woman has been accused of witchcraft and it may well be that she is
guilty. If so then she must be put to death for it is an abomination that such as she be allowed to live. But if she has
been wrongly accused, what then?"
"She is a witch!"
"Kill her!"
"Slay the thing of evil!"
The voices poured from where the double row of matrons sat at the rear of the hall. Others, less coherent, came
from the assembled men. Several sprang to their feet, arms waving, feet stamping the dirt of the floor.
"Hold!" The chief elder signaled to the guards and heavy staves lifted and fell as they beat the young men back
into their places. "There will be silence in this place. We deal with a human life and that is not a thing to be treated
without due solemnity." He turned to where Nimino stood. "Explain."
"The charge of witchcraft is one easy to make and hard to refute," continued the navigator. "It could be that the
All Powerful has reached forth to place the truth on the lips of those who accuse—or it could be that the Evil One
seeks to rend the hearts of those same accusers by causing them to bear false witness. If that should be the case, and
if the accused should die because of it, then woe to the people of Candara." His voice deepened, echoed with rolling
thunder. "They shall die and perish to be blown away by the wind. Their crops shall fail and their cattle abort and the
beasts of the sea shall withhold their meat. Demons shall come to torment the night with ceaseless dreams and all
shall perish to become as dust in the wind. For the All Powerful will not extend the wing of protection to those who
are seduced by the Evil One. There will be no peace, no comfort, brother shall turn against brother and man shall turn
against wife. All, all will be totally lost and pass as if they had never been. This I prophesy!"
Herkam frowned; he had no liking for anyone but himself making such prophecies, especially not visiting traders.
And things were not going as he had planned. He had expected a quick verdict of guilty in which case the woman
could have been disposed of and the incident forgotten.
He said sharply, "We know full well the might of the All Powerful. What does your verdict imply?"
Nimino smiled, white teeth flashing in the torchlight. "The woman denies being a witch," he said. "We have
decided that the matter be judged by a Higher Power. If her champion falls then she is proven guilty. If not, then she
must be allowed to depart in peace."
The thing had its possibilities. The chief elder pondered them, conscious of the watchful eyes in the hall, the air
of anticipation. A fight would provide the needed spectacle, the necessary blood and, in the remote event of the
woman's champion winning, he would be able to castigate those who had made the accusations. In either case he
would be rid of the troublemaker. But it would be best if the woman did not win.
He said, "Who is the woman's champion?"
Dumarest rose. "I am."
Herkam felt a glow of inner satisfaction. A trader. One who, by the nature of his employment, must of necessity
lack the strength of a manual worker.
"I bow to your verdict," he said sonorously. And then, to the guards, said, "Find Gilliam and bring him here."
The man was an atavar, a monster, a mutated freak spawned from radiation-distorted genes. Seven feet tall, his
shoulders and arms heavy with ridged and knotted muscle, his legs as thick and as strong as the boles of gnarled
trees, he lumbered from the rear of the hall and stood blinking in the cleared space before the platform. Matted hair
fell to just above his deep-set eyes. Bare feet, callused and scarred, toed the ground. His hands clenched as a voice
rumbled from the depths of his chest.
"You want Gilliam, chief elder?"
"I want you to fight." Herkam pointed towards Dumarest. "This is the man."
"To kill?"
"To kill." Herkam gestured at the guards. "Take him and prepare him for battle."
"Earl, I'm sorry." Nimino sucked in his breath. "I didn't know. I thought they would use one of the guards. You're
fast and could have taken any of them without trouble. Who would have guessed they had a monster like that?"
"Win or lose I want that oil." Sheyan's face was furrowed with worry. "If you fall, Dumarest, I'm sorry; but it will
be just too bad. There's nothing we can do to help you. You go and the girl goes with you."
Dumarest looked to where she stood, the full lips bloodless now, her eyes like those of a trapped beast. The
hands at her sides were clenched, the knuckles showing white beneath the skin. She turned and caught his eyes, her
own following him as he stepped from the platform and moved towards her.
"Mister," she said flatly, "I thank you for what you're trying to do, but you haven't got a chance. That freak can't be
stopped."
"You want me to pull out?"
"No." Her voice was resonant, musical beneath the harshness of strain. "This way I've got a slim chance," she
admitted. "The other way I've got none at all. These crazy people want my blood and if you quit they'll get it." She
shivered a little. "Look at them! Animals! And Gilliam's the worst. He's an idiot, solid bone and muscle with the
intelligence of a five-year-old. They use him to haul up the boats and do all the heavy stuff. Sometimes he goes
insane and then they have to catch him in nets and tie him down. As a reward they let him slaughter the cattle. He
thinks it's fun."
Dumarest looked to where men clustered around the giant. They were stripping him, coating him with oil,
fastening a loincloth of leather around his hips. Dwarfed by his stature the chief elder stood to one side, hands lifted,
lips moving as he called a blessing down on the champion of the people.
Nimino came to stand beside the girl and Dumarest.
"You'd better get ready, Earl," he said, his voice reflecting his worry. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Fetch him a laser," said Lallia. "That or a score of men to help him out."
The navigator ignored the comment. "Well, Earl?"
"No." Dumarest flexed his toes in his shoes, his shoulders beneath the material of his uniform. The plastic was
firm and would give some protection against the claws of his opponent. "Do we fight bare-handed?"
A guard came forward and handed him a stave. It was a plain length of wood, six feet long and two inches thick;
both ends were bound with leather. Nimino stepped back, pulling the girl with him as Gilliam moved to the center of
the open space.
"I kill," he said. And rushed forward.
Dumarest ducked and felt the wind brush his hair, the drone of the staff's passing sounding like a deep-toned bee.
Immediately he sprang aside as Gilliam, turning with amazing speed, again lashed out with the staff. He held it in one
great hand, wielding it as a boy would a stick, lashing with the full power of his arms and shoulders at the darting
figure in the cleared space.
"Good luck, Earl!" called Nimino.
"Kill him, Earl!" said the girl.
Dumarest ignored the encouragement as he warily darted from the attacks of his opponent. He held his own staff
horizontal before him, each hand a third of the way from either end, ready to parry or strike as the opportunity
presented itself. The weapon was clumsy, awkward to handle, needing much practice before a man could become
proficient in its use. Had Gilliam used it properly Dumarest knew that he would already be dead.
He ducked again, darted to one side, sprang back as a vicious downswing caused the air to strike his eyeballs. It
was useless to attempt to tire his opponent, those great muscles would house inexhaustible energy and, too, they
protected the bone beneath. Letting trained reflexes govern his evading movements Dumarest studied the weak
points against which he must aim his attack: the groin, joints, eyes, and throat. The groin presented too small a target
and was protected by the swell of thighs and the ridged muscle of the belly. A successful attack could win the contest
but the chances were against it being successful. The deep-set eyes were set with ridges of overhanging bone; the
spade of the chin lowered over the vulnerable throat. The elbows were awkward to get at.
Only one thing was really in his favor: the limited intelligence of the giant. Gilliam had been given a staff and told
to kill his opponent. He tried to do it with the staff alone instead of adding the weapon to his natural armory. Also he
was using it as a saber—and any man armed with a quarterstaff could beat a swordsman.
If he were skilled with its use.
If the swordsman had normal strength.
Again the giant swung his staff through the air. Dumarest ducked, straightened, and saw the length of wood
sweeping in a backhand slash towards his skull. Desperately he threw up his own staff, the wood meeting with a
vicious crack, the force of the interrupted blow knocking his own weapon hard against the side of his head. Dazed,
Dumarest fell to the ground, rolling frantically as the staff whined down towards him, the end gouging deep as he
sprang to his feet.
"Kill!" gloated the giant. "I kill!"
Dumarest tensed as the giant reared back, the staff lifted high. His hands shifted as he altered his grip on his own
weapon. Should Gilliam sweep his staff downwards in a cutting blow then he must spring to one side and slam the
end of his own pole directly into one of the eyes. If he should try a sidewise swing then he must duck and strike
before the giant could recover his balance.
Air droned as the staff swept towards him.
Dumarest crouched, straightened, and struck at the side of the giant's face, the end of his staff smashing against
the prominent ridge of bone protecting the eye. Immediately Gilliam turned, staff whining in a backhand blow.
Dumarest sprang from it, throwing himself behind the giant's back, poising himself with the staff held by the end in
both hands, the tip well beyond his shoulder. As the giant, baffled, turned again to find his elusive opponent,
Dumarest sprang forward, the staff a blur as he sent the length of wood hard against the exposed kneecap. There was
a dull crack of yielding bone and Gilliam staggered, his face distorting in pain.
"Hurt," he mumbled. "Hurt!"
Dumarest struck again, viciously, using the full strength of back and shoulders. Again the staff cracked against
the broken kneecap. As it did he threw himself backward in a complete somersault, landing just beyond the reach of
the giant's staff.
Gilliam sprang after him. Sprang and fell as his shattered knee refused to carry his enormous weight. As he
crashed to the ground Dumarest leaped forward, staff lifted high above his head, smashing it down at the base of the
muscular neck. Twice he struck. At the third blow the staff cracked and fell apart. Chest heaving, the broken end of
the staff held sword-fashion in his right hand, Dumarest stepped towards the fallen giant.
Nimino caught his arm as he went to stab the splintered end into the corded throat.
"That's enough, Earl! Earl, damn you, that's enough! You've won!"
Dumarest drew air deep into his lungs and looked at the shattered staff in his hand. "He's dead?"
"Stone cold. You snapped his neck."
"Good." Dumarest lifted a hand and touched a wetness on his head. One of the giant's wild blows must have torn
his scalp. He looked at the blood on his hand. How close had death been then? Quietly he said, "So I've won. Now get
us out of here. All of us. The girl as well."
"And the oil," said Sheyan as he joined the group. "Don't forget the oil."

Chapter Six
"Pearls," said Yalung. He tilted his cupped hand, the salon light filling his palm with nacreous beauty. "They are
fine but…" Regretfully he shook his head. "On every world there are seas and in every sea there are bivalves. They
are very pretty, my dear, but I'm afraid of very little value."
"These are special," said Lallia. "And you know it."
She sat on the edge of the table, long bare legs swinging beneath the hem of an iridescent dress made of finely
tanned fish skin. Three hours from Candara, bathed, her lustrous black hair piled in thick coils above her head, she
had doubled her beauty.
And her boldness, thought Dumarest. He sat beside her, facing the dealer in precious stones, feeling the ache of
fatigue gnaw at his bones. The fight had drained the last of his strength.
"They are special," admitted Yalung after a moment. "To you, no doubt, they are very special. To others, my dear,
they are merely pearls. How did you get them from their owners?"
Lallia smiled. "I own them. They were given to me by love-sick fools. I hid them in a place only my lover shall
find." Her hand reached out, the slim fingers running through Dumarest's hair.
"And the dress?" Yalung was curious.
"I wore it beneath that stinking woolen thing they made me put on. The men weren't allowed to touch me and the
old biddies were satisfied as long as I didn't dazzle their men. Men!" She snorted her contempt. "Blind fools who lived
in terror of imagined perils to come. The old ones were the worst, coming to me with the excuse they wanted to save
me from eternal damnation. When that didn't work they tried to buy what they wanted. I took what they gave and
laughed in their faces. The fools!"
"You were the fool," said Dumarest flatly. "Didn't you even think of the dangers you ran?"
"I thought a ship would come," she admitted. "I hoped every day that a trader would call. When it did I didn't
even see it. They had me locked away in the dark. God, you'll never know how relieved I was to see some real men
again!"
Again she reached out to caress Dumarest's hair.
"Real men," she murmured. "And one of them a very real man indeed. Tell me, lover, am I to your liking?"
"He fought for you," said Yalung. "He could have died for you. Would a man do that for someone he cared nothing
about?"
"I want him to say it," she said and then, as Dumarest remained silent, "well, perhaps later. What will you give for
the pearls, dealer? And don't think I'm some ignorant fool who doesn't know their real worth."
"I will give you the cost of a High passage," said Yalung. "More I cannot give."
"Then forget it." Reaching out she took the pearls from the yellow palm. "The captain will give me more than that.
More than you think, perhaps." She smiled at Dumarest, her face radiant. "Can you guess, lover, at what I mean?"
Again Dumarest remained silent. Yalung said, "Tell me, girl, how did you come to be on Candara?"
"I wanted to travel the Web so I entered into a ship-marriage with an engineer. I didn't know that he rode a
commune ship and he didn't tell me until we were well on our way. They share everything they own and I refused to
be shared. So, when we hit Candara, they kicked me out." She laughed, remembering. "They didn't do any trade,
though. I told the chief man that they practiced abominable rites and he believed me. So they went off empty-
handed."
Dumarest looked at the long length of her naked thigh. "And before that?"
"You're interested, lover?" Her teeth were white against the red of her mouth. "Before that I worked in a carnival.
Reading palms, that sort of thing. And before that I—"
"You read palms?" Yalung interrupted, his smile bland. "Surely not."
"I don't lie, dealer. Give me your paw and I'll tell you things." She reached out for the yellow hand as Yalung
snatched it away. "No? Scared, maybe?"
"Cautious," he said, smiling. "Why don't you read the hand of our friend here?"
"Why not?" Lallia again ran her fingers through Dumarest's hair. They were gentle, caressing. "Give me your hand,
Earl." She studied it, brooding, the tips of her slender fingers tracing lines, hesitating from time to time, the touch as
gentle as the impact of butterflies. "A strange hand," she murmured. "One not easy to read. There is a sense of power
and a mystery hard to unravel. You have lived close to violence for a long time now, lover. You have traveled far and
will travel further. You have loved and lost, and you will love again. And you have a great enemy." She sucked in her
breath. "Earl! I see danger!"
"A carnival trick!" He jerked his hand away with sudden irritation. "Shall I read your palm?" He caught her hand
and, without looking at the mesh of lines, said, "You have ambition. You have dreams and are never long content. You
have known many men and many worlds and there are those who have reason to hate your name. You are greedy
and selfish and will come to a bad end. Is that enough or do you want more?"
"You—"
He caught her wrist as she swung her hand at his cheek.
"Don't, you're hurting me!" Her eyes widened as she looked into his face. "Earl! Don't look at me like that! Don't
make me feel so unclean!"
He dropped her hand, fighting his sudden, inexplicable anger. Who was he to judge? Like himself she was a
traveler making out as best she could. And if she used her woman's wiles to get her way, was that any different to him
using his natural speed and acquired skill? Was it worse to hurt a man's pride than to gash his body with blades?
"I'm sorry, Lallia," he said. "I'm tired and spoke without thinking. Please forget it."
"I'm sorry too, Earl. Sorry that we didn't meet years ago. Things could have been so different if we had." She
dropped her right hand to his left, squeezed, her fingers tight against his ring. "Earl!"
"What is it?" He stared into her face. It was pale, beaded with perspiration, suddenly haggard with lines of strain.
"Lallia!"
"Death," she muttered. "And pain. So much pain. And a hopeless longing. Oh, such a hopeless longing!"
And then, abruptly, she collapsed, falling to lie sprawled on the table, naked arms and legs white against the
iridescence of her dress, the dingy plastic of the surface.
Nimino rubbed the side of his chin with one slender finger and looked thoughtfully down at the girl on the bunk.
"A sensitive," he said wonderingly. "Who would have suspected it?"
"Are you sure?" Dumarest had carried the girl into his cabin and now stood beside the navigator.
"I'm sure. She has all the characteristic symptoms of one who has suffered a severe psychic shock. I have seen it
many times before." Nimino leaned forward and lifted one eyelid exposing the white ball of the eye. "You see? And
feel the skin, cold and clammy when it should be warm and dry. The pulse, too—there can be no mistake."
Dumarest stared curiously at the girl. She lay at full length, the mass of her hair, which had become unbound, a
midnight halo around the paleness of her face. The long curves of arms and legs were filled with the clean lines of
developed muscle covered with scanty fat. The breasts were full and proud, the stomach flat, the hips melting into
rounded buttocks. A courtesan, he thought, the typical body of a woman of pleasure, all warmth and smoothness and
femininity.
And yet—a sensitive?
He had met them before, the sports of mutated genes, the products of intense inbreeding. Always they had paid
for their talent. Sometimes with physical weakness or irregular development of body or mind. But always they had
paid. Lallia?
"You said that she claimed to be able to read palms," mused Nimino. "Not a clairvoyant then, not even a telepath
as we understand the term, neither would have allowed themselves to fall into the position in which we found her. But
she could have some barely suspected ability. Barely suspected by herself, I mean. How accurate was the reading?"
Dumarest looked up from the girl. "It was nothing," he said flatly. "A jumble of nonsense. I could do as well
myself."
"Perhaps she was not really trying," said the navigator shrewdly. "She is a girl who has learned the value of
caution. And she is beautiful," he added. "Not often have I seen a woman of such loveliness. You have won a
remarkable prize, my friend."
"Won?"
"But, of course, Earl. To the victor the spoils. Both of you must surely be aware of that." Nimino smiled and then
grew serious. "Tell me exactly what happened just before she collapsed."
"We were talking," said Dumarest. "She dropped her hand to mine and touched my ring. That's when it
happened."
"Your ring?"
Dumarest lifted his left hand. "This."
"I see." Nimino brooded as he examined the stone. "I ask no questions, my friend, but I will venture a statement.
This ring has high emotional significance. To you and perhaps to the one who owned it before. Am I correct?"
"Yes," said Dumarest shortly.
"Then I think I understand what could have happened to Lallia. She is a sensitive of undeveloped and probably
unsuspected power. There is an ability possessed by some by which they are able to tell the past of any object they
may touch. It is almost as if they had a vision in which time unrolls before their awareness. I put it crudely, but you
understand what I mean. And if the object has a strong emotional charge then the vision can become overpowering. I
suggest that is what happened in the salon. She was excited, emotionally sensitive, and she touched your ring. It was
as if she had received a sudden electrical discharge through the brain."
"And now?"
"Nothing, my friend." Nimino gripped Dumarest's shoulder. "She will sleep a little and wake as good as before.
Her talent is untrained and undemanding and, as I said, probably she is not even aware of it other than the ability to
read palms and tell fortunes. For time runs in both directions and such a one could have a limited awareness of
events to come. Events appertaining to the object held, I mean. She is not a clairvoyant—as we both have reason to
know."
Nimino dropped his hand as he moved towards the door of the cabin. "Let her wake and find you here, Earl. And,
if you are afraid of demons, I know seven effective rites of exorcism. But I think the one she would appreciate most
can only be performed by you."
Alone, Dumarest sat beside the bunk and closed his eyes as weariness assailed both mind and body. Demons, he
thought, remembering Nimino's offer and suggestion. An old word for old troubles. The demons of hopelessness and
hunger, of hate and the lust for revenge. The demons of ambition and greed, envy and desire. And the worst demon
of all, perhaps, the cold, aching void of loneliness. A demon which could only be exorcised by love.
"Earl."
He opened his eyes. Lallia was awake, lying with her eyes on his face, the long length of her body relaxed, a thick
coil of hair shadowing one side of her face. Her arms lifted as he stooped over her, white restraints pulling him down,
holding him against the yielding softness of her body while her lips, soft and avid, found his own.
"Earl, my darling!" she whispered. "Earl!"
He could do nothing but sink into a warm and comforting sea.
They slept and woke to drink cups of basic and slept again in the warm cocoon of the cabin, lulled by the soft
vibration of the Erhaft field as it sent the Moray arrowing to a distant world. Dumarest moved uneasily in his sleep,
haunting dreams bringing him a montage of faces and places, of violence and blood, of hope and and
disappointment.
Finally he woke, refreshed, stretching his body and opening his eyes. Lallia stood at the side of the bunk, smiling,
vapor rising from the cup in her hand.
"You're awake," she said. "Good. Now drink this."
It was basic but with an unusual flavor. He sipped appreciatively before emptying the container.
"I was a cook once," she said. "There's no need for basic to taste like wet mud. A few drops of flavoring can make
all the difference."
He smiled. "And the flavor?"
"A few drops of the captain's precious oil. I raided the hold," she admitted. "That was after I'd fixed my passage
with the navigator. He said that he could talk for the big boss. Can he?"
Dumarest nodded, Nimino handled details while the captain dreamed under the influence of his symbiote. "You
didn't have to pay for passage," he commented. "That was a part of the deal."
"I know that, Earl." She sat beside him, serious, her eyes soft with emotion. "But that was only to the next planet
of call. I want to stay with the ship, with you, so I arranged to ride all the way." She leaned towards him, the perfume
of her body a clean scent of femininity. "We're married, Earl. A ship-marriage but married just the same." Her hand
found his own, tightened. "You object?"
"No," said Dumarest. "I don't object."
"It will last as long as you stay on the Moray" she said. "As long as you want it to. A month, a year, ten years, a
week, even; it doesn't matter. A marriage is good only as long as both partners want it to last. And I want it to last,
Earl. I want it to last a long, long time."
She meant it, he decided, and found nothing objectionable about her or the idea. Lallia was all woman, a soft,
yielding assembly of curves and tender flesh; but she was more than a sensuous animal designed to give pleasure.
She was a creature who had learned to survive, a fit mate for a lonely traveler, a woman who could tend a wound and
live on scraps as well as wear fine gowns and dine with nobility.
Someone, perhaps, with whom to make a home.
He looked at her, reluctant to give up his dream of finding Earth, yet knowing that reality was preferable to a
romantic quest. And yet need the dream be wholly discarded? Two could search as easily as one and it would be
good not to have to travel alone.
"Earth?" She pondered the question, white teeth biting at her lower lip. "No, Earl, I've never heard of it. A planet,
you say?"
"An old world, the surface scarred and torn by ancient wars, yet the interior holds a strange life. I was born there.
I'm trying to get back."
She frowned. "But if you left the place you must know where it is. How to get back. Surely you have the
coordinates?"
"No, Lallia, I haven't."
"But—"
"I was very young when I left," he interrupted. "I stowed away on a ship, frightened and desperate and knowing
no better. The captain was an old man and treated me better than I deserved. He could have evicted me into space;
instead he allowed me to join his crew under an oath of secrecy. That was a long time ago now and he is safely dead.
I moved on, always heading deeper into the galaxy, moving from world to world towards the Center. And Earth has
become less than a legend. The charts do not show it. No one has ever heard of it. The very name has become
meaningless."
"It must be a very long way away," she said quietly. "You must have traveled for a long time, Earl, my darling. So
long that your home planet has become lost among the stars. And you want to find it again. But why? What is so
special about the place you ran away from that you must find it again?"
Dumarest looked down at his hands and then back to meet the level gaze of the woman. "A man must have some
reason for living," he said. "And Earth is my home."
"Home is where you make it, the place where you want to be." Her hand fell to his arm, pressed. "Mine is with
you, Earl. It would be nice if you felt the same way about me."
He said, quietly, "Perhaps I do."
"Darling!"
He felt the soft touch of her hair as she pressed against him, the smooth roundness of her cheek, the warmth of
her full, red lips. Her hand rose, caressing his hair, his face, running over his shoulder and down his left arm, the
fingers pressing, moving on. He heard the sharp intake of her breath as she touched his ring.
"Lallia?"
"I'm all right, Earl." She kissed him again then moved away, eyes curious as she looked at the gem on his hand.
"When I touched that ring I felt the strangest sensation. It was as if I heard someone crying, sobbing as if their heart
would break. Where did you get it, Earl?"
"It was a gift."
"From a woman?"
He smiled at the sharpness of her voice. "It came from a woman," he admitted. "She is gone now."
"Dead?"
He nodded and she smiled, coming close to him again, a female animal purring her satisfaction.
"I'm glad she's dead, Earl. I don't want to share you with anyone. I think I'd kill any woman who tried to take you from
me. I know I'd kill anyone who hurt you. I love you, my darling, always remember that."
Dumarest closed his arms around her as she again pressed close. She was a creature of emotion, as honest as her
temperament allowed, with the fiercely possessive nature of a primitive. But was that so very bad? She would be true
to him according to her fashion and who could do more than that? And she was his wife, married to him according to
Web trader custom, jealous of her rights.
"Earl?" Lallia stirred within the circle of his arms.
"What is it?"
"Nimino said that we're calling at Tyrann next. Have you ever been there?"
"No."
"That's good." She purred, moving even closer, snuggling against him. "Neither have I. We can explore it
together."
Tyrann was a world of wind and scouring dust, of heat and eroded soil, a dying planet exploited for rare metals
by men who looked with envious eyes at the beauty of the girl. A merchant, bolder than the rest, offered to buy her
for the price of five High passages, doubling the offer when Dumarest refused.
Lallia was thoughtful as he escorted her back to the Moray. "You should have sold me, Earl. I could have sneaked
out later and left the fool with nothing."
"A man like that is no fool," said Dumarest curtly. "And I am not a seller of women."
For the rest of their stay he kept Lallia within the confines of the ship while Sheyan negotiated a load of freight
and Claude, happy in a tavern, stocked up on supplies.
From Tyrann they went to Dreen, where they delivered their freight and sold the fish skins. From Dreen to
Ophan, where they left the oil and singing crystals, buying manufactured electronic components, capsules of
medicine, and gaining three passengers: dour, silent men who refused to gamble despite Lallia's blandishments.
The passengers and medicine were left behind on Frone as they plunged deeper into the Web. With them rode a
dozen passengers bound for Joy.

***

"I will take," said Yalung slowly, "one card."

Dumarest dealt him the required card, relaxing a little as he threw in his own hand. The game was poker, the
stakes running high, and they had been playing for twelve hours straight. He watched as Yalung bet, raised, was
called, and raked in another pot. The dealer in precious stones had been a steady winner throughout the session.
One of the players rose, shaking his head.
"That's enough for me," he said. "Deal me out. I know when I'm outclassed."
Dumarest scooped up the cards and shuffled, his eyes searching the faces of those who remained at the table. A
miner, an engineer, a raddled woman who smelled of acrid spice, a seller of chemical dreams, and Yalung, who sat to
his right. In the light their faces were taut masks of inner concentration.
"The pot is ten," said Dumarest and, as chips were thrust forward, began to deal. "Openers are a pair of jesters or
better."
The miner passed, the engineer also, the woman opened for ten. The seller of dreams stayed and Yalung raised
the bet to twenty. Dumarest took a quick look at his cards. A lord, a lady, two eights and a three.
"Dealer stays."
The miner dropped out and the engineer stayed, which meant that he had either passed on an opening hand or
hoped to improve. The woman stayed as did the seller of dreams.
"Discards."
Dumarest watched the players as he poised the deck, not their faces, they were schooled to display only desired
emotion, but their hands which told more than their owners guessed. The engineer flipped his cards, moving one
from one end of the fan to the others. Adding it to others of the same value? Arranging a sequence?
"I'll take three."
He held a pair then, probably of low value because he hadn't opened. Dumarest dealt and turned to the woman.
"Two," she said.
She had opened and must have at least a pair of jesters. A two-card draw meant that she might have three of a
kind or was holding onto an odd card, hoping to make two pairs or more, or, more likely, in order to bluff. She hadn't
raised Yalung's increase—unlikely if her hand had been strong.
Beside her sat the seller of dreams. Envir had a thin, intent face, which told nothing, and hands which told little
more. He moved a pair of cards, hesitated, then threw out his discards.
"I'll take two," he said.
Like the woman he could have either a pair or three of a kind. He could also be hoping to complete a flush or a
straight, in which case he was fighting high odds.
"One," said Yalung.
He had not fiddled with his cards, his hands, like his face, unrevealing. He could have four to a flush or a straight,
two pairs, three of a kind and an odd card, or even four of a kind.
Dumarest threw out his own discards. "Dealer takes three."
He let them lie, watching the hands of the others, the tiny, betraying tensions of their knuckles as they saw what
they had drawn.
"Twenty," said the woman. It was a safe, normal opening bet. Envir raised it.
"Make that fifty."
Yalung pushed chips into the pot. "I'll raise that fifty more."
Dumarest looked at his cards. He had drawn another eight and a pair of ladies. A full house.
"Dealer raises that by fifty."
The engineer hesitated, scowling, then threw in his hand. The woman stayed. Envir cleared his throat.
"Well, now, this promises to be fun. I'll just meet that last raise—and lift it another two hundred."
"That's two hundred and fifty to stay," mused Yalung. "I'll raise by another hundred."
Dumarest looked at the pot. It held over a thousand. If he raised it would give him a chance to raise again later—
but both Envir and Yalung had seemed confident. The woman, he guessed, would drop out. Envir might stay, in which
case the pot would go to the one with the best hand.
"Dealer stays," said Dumarest.
He thought he saw a shadow of disappointment cross Yalung's face, then turned his attention to the others. The
woman, as he had guessed, threw in her cards, displaying the pair of jesters on which she had opened. Envir hesitated
then made his decision.
 "I'll raise a hundred."
"One hundred?" Yalung leaned forward, counting the chips in the pot. "There is just over seventeen hundred
there," he mused. "According to the rules I am allowed to raise to the full extent of the pot. So I will do that. I meet
your raise, my friend, and add another fifteen hundred." He smiled at Dumarest. "It will now cost the dealer sixteen
hundred to stay. An interesting situation, is it not?"
"No," said Dumarest flatly. "I cannot stay. I haven't the money."
"But surely you have items of worth?" Yalung looked at Dumarest's hand. "That ring, for example. Shall we say a
thousand?"
It was a tempting proposition. Envir had drawn two cards and could be pushing his luck with a straight or flush,
both of which he could beat. Yalung could be bluffing, using his money to buy the pot, also maybe holding a flush or
straight. But, against that, Dumarest could only gain to one for his money if Envir dropped out and, if he raised, he
would be unable to stay.
"Dealer drops out," said Dumarest, and threw in his cards.
He heard the quick intake of breath from those who stood around the table, Lallia among the watchers, Lin at her
side.
Envir sucked in his cheeks and slowly counted his chips. "Damn it," he said. "Damn all the luck. Well, to hell with
it. I think you're bluffing." He pushed forward a pile of chips. "I'll see you!"
Yalung slowly put three tens on the table. "Is that enough?"
"Like hell it is!" The seller of dreams glowed his excitement. "I've got a flush. That means I win."
"Not quite." Yalung put down the rest of his cards. An ace and another ten. "Four tens. The pot is mine, I think?"
Envir cursed in his disappointment.

Chapter Seven
Joy was at carnival.
Streamers of colored smoke hung in the air, luminous in the dying light, and from all sides rose the sound of
music and gaiety. Tents, booths, collapsible shops, the open rings of combat and the closed enclaves of sensory
titivation, jugglers, tumblers, contortionists, men who promised eternal happiness, and harpies who roved, hard-eyed
and falsely charming, offering pleasure to those who had come to join in the fun.
"We could do well here," said Lallia as she stood beside Dumarest at the head of the ramp. "When it gets really
dark I could get to work. Drunken fools won't object to a woman's caress and they'll be too bemused to guard their
pockets. With you to take care of any trouble we could clean up."
"No," said Dumarest.
"Why not?" Her tone was mocking. "Morals, lover?"
"Sense. The risk is too great for the reward."
"We need money," she insisted. "Your share is hardly enough to buy me some new clothes. Can you think of a
better way to get it, Earl?"
He ignored the question, looking instead at the ships littering the field. Mostly they were old, battered, traders like
the Moray, but a few were new and one was big. A vessel strange to the Web and one which could be heading
Outside. The woman at his side he walked towards it, climbing the ramp to the open port. Shadows moved within the
dim interior and a man, neat in his uniform, eyes and face hard, stepped before him.
"You want something?"
"A berth if it's going."
"You from the Moray?"
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"Then forget it," said the man. "There's no berth going especially to anyone from that hulk." He glanced at Lallia.
"Your woman?"
"His wife," said Lallia. "What have you got against the Moray?"
"Personally, nothing," admitted the man. "But her reputation stinks. If you'll take my advice you'll forget to
mention her. Say you're from the Argos or the Deltara—both of those left just before the carnival."
"I'll remember that," said Dumarest. "If you haven't got a berth then how about traveling Low?"
"That might be possible." The man hesitated. "Look, I can't give you a definite answer until the captain tells me
what space we'll have available. You'd better come back later—we're not due out for a couple of days yet but as far as
I know if you can pay you'll get passage. Fair enough?"
"Thanks," said Dumarest. "I'll be seeing you."
 He was thoughtful as he walked towards the edge of the field. The other ships would be similar, with only a single
man in charge or locked while their crews went about their business or pleasure. Lallia touched his arm.
"Did you mean that, Earl? About leaving, I mean?"
"Yes."
"And me?"
She was worried, he could tell it by the way she clung to his arm, the expression in her eyes. "You'll come with
me," he promised. "The Web is no place for a woman to be stranded."
Her smile was his reward. "Thank you, lover. Now let's go and get ourselves some fun."
They passed from the field into a welter of noise, confusion, and frantic activity punctuated by shouts, shrieks,
and bellowing laughter. A procession weaved down the street, monstrous heads bobbing in fabricated distortion,
voices echoing from the diminutive bodies.
A troupe of zingart dancers spun and stamped, froth bubbling their lips, naked bodies scarred with symbolic
designs. Their hair was fuzzed into gigantic balls, nose and ears pierced with skewers, bells around wrists, neck, and
ankles. Two dwarfs scuttled beside them, collecting boxes rattling as they thrust them before the watchers.
The zingart dancers were followed by a dozen flagellants, chanting as they each lashed the other with spiked
whips. The flagellants passed and a host of women rotated bellies and breasts as they clustered around a tall, bearded
anchorite. After them came a cluster of masked and decorated figures, some with whips hanging from their wrists,
others with tufts of spiked fur.
Something exploded high above and the darkening sky shone brilliant with a gush of luminous stars.
Dumarest followed Lallia as she pushed her way through the crowd. The lustrous mane of her hair reflected the
colorful embers above, their dying light illuminating her long legs as they flashed beneath the hem of her iridescent
dress. A masked reveler, one of a group of the local nobility, caught her arm as she passed.
"Come, my sweeting," he purred. "Such tender flesh should not pass uncaressed." He dropped both hands to her
shoulders, forcing the material from her rounded breasts, his head dipping as he pressed his lips against her body.
Dumarest paused, watching, his muscles tense. Lallia did not seem to object to the rough treatment. She laughed
and pressed herself closer to the gaudy finery the man wore. And then suddenly he cried out and thrust her away.
"Bitch! You she-devil! I'll teach you to hurt your betters!"
His hand bent, caught the whip dangling from his wrist, raised it high to slash across her face. He cried out again
as Dumarest caught the raised hand, his fingers closing hard against yielding bone.
"You are excited, my lord," said Dumarest coldly. "I think it best that you take a little rest."
Abruptly he pushed, catching the man off-balance, thrusting him to sprawl in the road among the feet of dancing
monstrosities. He rolled, trying to avoid the kicks of enlarged feet, soiling his finery with dirt and liquid filth.
Dumarest caught Lallia by the arm and urged her from the scene of the incident.
Laughing she held up a purse. "You see, lover, how easy it is? That fool was too intent on what he wanted to miss
this. When I had it I hit him where it hurts. Shall we do it again?"
"No."
"But, lover, we need the stake. Why miss the chance?"
"He wasn't alone," said Dumarest. "And you are rather unmistakable. When he misses his money he will come
looking and his friends with him. I don't think they will be very gentle if they find you."
Lallia shrugged. "So?"
"So we find you something else to wear." Dumarest looked at the purse in her hand. "And you can pay for it."
The merchant was an old man with a stoop so pronounced that it gave him the appearance of a tall, thin bird of
prey; an impression heightened by his hooked nose and balding head. He fingered Lallia's dress and sucked in his
cheeks. "It is good," he admitted. "Fine and unusual material, but the customers for such are few. I am far from the
field and must depend on local trade. It could lie for months and then, perhaps, I would have to sell it at a fraction of
its worth."
"That's all I'm asking," said Lallia. She had taken charge of the transaction as soon as she had entered the shop.
"One of your gowns, a coat, some other things. You should make a fat profit."
"My dear, you are a shrewd woman but you know little of local conditions. At carnival everyone goes mad, but
normally a woman would be stoned for wearing a thing like this. However…"
Dumarest turned away as the haggling progressed. Outside, in the narrow street beyond the shop, the throb and
hum of carnival was very faint. The sky had darkened rapidly and a few stars shone in competition with the
uprushing pyrotechnics. Two men wearing the unmistakable uniform of guards entered the street and loped past the
shop. They seemed to be looking for someone and Dumarest could guess who it was.
"Hurry," he said turning to where the pair stood over a heap of clothing. "Take a gown, Lallia, something to cover
your legs. And something else to cover your hair. Fancy dress will do."
 The merchant looked up, his eyes shrewd. "And the dress she is wearing?"
"I'll continue to wear it," said Lallia firmly. She probed into the stolen purse for coins. "How much do I owe?"
"For the carnival costume, fifteen coryms." The man held out his hand as Lallia frowned at the coins. "Those
seven-sided pieces are of five coryms each. Three will settle the bill." He nodded as she dropped the coins into his
palm. "You may change at the rear, my dear. There will be no extra charge."
She returned wearing a long robe which touched the ground, sleeves falling past the tips of her fingers and a high
headdress which completely covered her hair and gave an oval look to her face. The merchant handed her a mask.
"With this on your face, my dear, no one will recognize you."
"Should I worry if they do?" Lallia caught his hand and stared into the palm. "I read hands," she said quietly. "For
five coryms I will read yours."
The merchant tugged at his hand. "Please, I have no time for such nonsense."
"Nonsense?" Lallia shook her head. "You be the judge. In your hand I see daughters of whom you are ashamed
and sons who have caused you much grief, a third—" She frowned. "The third is the source of much heartbreak."
"Arnobalm," the merchant said quietly. "He has been ill since his youth. A virus disease for which there is no
known cure. At least it is not known in the Web. Unless it is checked he will die within a season."
"But you have hope?" Lallia twisted the aged palm. "I read that you have much hope."
"It is all that is left. The expense is high but what is money when compared to life? And his faith is strong.
Perhaps, on Shrine, he will be able to recover from the thing which saps at his life." The merchant pulled free his hand.
"You have seen the ship, perhaps? With it rides the prayers and hopes of a hundred parents, a thousand relatives." He
saw their expressions. "You do not know of Shrine?"
Dumarest shook his head.
"But you are of space, that I can tell by your uniform. Is it possible that the miracle planet is a stranger to you?"
"I come from Outside," said Dumarest. "The woman also. Traders."
"And traders are not interested in miracles, only in profits." The merchant sighed. "I understand. You are long on
Joy?"
"A few hours."
"And you will leave with the carnival," said the merchant. "You space traders! Always on the move, never
stopping, never putting down roots. But you have chosen a good time. There is much to see on Joy when the carnival
is here. Exhibitions, a zoo, places of instruction." A shadow crossed his face. "And other things… but I will not spoil
your pleasure." He bowed and ushered them towards the door.
Outside Lallia drew a deep breath. "He robbed us," she said. "You know that, I suppose. Why didn't you let me try
to get some of it back?"
"By telling him lies?"
"What I read in his palm was true."
"And something he already knew." Dumarest took her arm. "Now empty that purse and get rid of it somewhere.
And don't worry about the old man having robbed you. You bought more than a costume, you paid for his silence, he
could have called the guards."
"And lost his profit." Lallia shrugged. "All right, Earl, you're the boss. Now for God's sake, let's get a drink."
They found a tavern, bright with tinsel, glowing with luminous paint and throbbing with interior noise and
laughter. Claude came lurching through the door as they approached. The engineer's face was blotched, his eyes
glazed, the front of his uniform stained with wine. He swayed and recovered his balance with a visible effort. Wine
gurgled from the bottle he held in his hand, drenching his chin and adding to the wetness on his chest.
"Earl!" He gestured with the bottle. "My old friend! Have a drink."
Dumarest took the bottle and held it to his closed lips. "Thanks."
"And you?" The engineer almost fell again as he leaned to stare at Lallia. "Who are you?"
She raised her mask and reached for the bottle. "Who do you think, you drunken idiot? Do you imagine I'd let Earl
loose with another woman?"
"Not you!" He roared with laughter as she drank and returned the bottle. Waving it he turned and yelled at the
tavern. "Make way for the most beautiful woman in space! A real woman! And you know what? She belongs to the
Moray!"
Lin came through the door as the engineer staggered away. The steward was anxious as he stared after his
mentor.
"He's gone crazy, Earl. You'd think he hadn't touched a drink for years the way he's going on. What can I do?"
"Nothing," said Dumarest. "Forget him."
Lin was firm. "I can't do that, Earl. He's my friend."
"And a man should be loyal to his friends," agreed Dumarest. "But he should pick his friends. Claude's a drunk
and there's nothing you can do about it. At any moment he could go kill-crazy and you could be on the receiving end.
A man like that is dangerous. Why don't you forget him and enjoy yourself ?"
"I couldn't," said the steward simply. "Not if I know he needs me. Tell me what to do, Earl?"
"Follow him. Pick him up if he falls down. Try to see that he doesn't get robbed and, when he passes out, get help
to carry him back to the ship."
A friend, thought Dumarest as Lin moved away. Someone the engineer didn't deserve and didn't appreciate. And
Claude? A father image to the boy, a surrogate parent who taught and held a tarnished glory. Only Lin wouldn't
believe that it was tarnished. He would put his trust in his hero and maybe it would break his heart when realization
finally came.
"A nice boy." Lallia's voice was low. "It would be wonderful to have a son like that, Earl."
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"Perhaps, one day, we shall." Her hand tightened on his arm. "When we settle down, Earl. When we find a place
we can call home." Her grip tightened even more. "And soon, Earl. Soon."
Soon, before it was too late—if it was not too late already.
Inside the tavern was filled with men and laughing girls; the men, mostly spacers, somber in their uniforms
against the carnival dress worn by residents and visitors. Girls swung between the crowded benches carrying great
jugs of wine and beer, trays of cakes and pastries, fried meats wrapped in crisp batter, fish which had been gilded in
gold and silver and glowing red. Dumarest bought a bottle of wine, a handful of cakes, and two of the fish, carrying
them to a table surrounded by a medley of uniforms.
"Those you can keep," said Lallia, pushing aside the fish. "I've had enough seafood to last the rest of my life." She
bit into one of the cakes as Dumarest poured the wine, swallowing as she picked up the glass. "Here's health!"
They drank. The wine was dark, full-bodied, easy to throat and stomach. Dumarest savored it as he picked up one
of the fish. The flesh was white and delicately sweet. Around them talk hummed like a swarm of bees.
"—told him the load would go bad without… fifteen, I said, and not one less… the Giesha didn't show at
rendezvous so we took… tried to sell us some stuff which any fool would have known… that drunken idiot from the
Moray?"
Dumarest looked up as he sipped his wine, his attention caught by the name of the trader. A broad back was
talking to a high forehead.
"I saw him," said the high forehead. "Rolling all over the place. No man can drink like that and remain sharp. He's
only got to let the generators get point oh, oh five out of phase and you know what happens then."
"Curtains," said the broad back. "Disorientation and, in the Web, that's bad."
"That's final!" The high forehead was emphatic. "Say, did you hear about the Quand? I met a man on…"
Lallia smiled at Dumarest as he turned, lowering his glass. "We don't have to worry, Earl. We won't be on the
Moray when Claude finally sends her to destruction."
"No," he said, thinking of Lin, the burning desire of the boy to learn, to emulate his friend. Suddenly the wine
tasted sour. "Let's go and look at the town."
The main street led to an area thronged with sideshows. A man called as they passed. "This way, lord and lady,
sense the thrills of the condemned. Full sensory tapes of those who have met death by burning, hanging, poisoning,
and dismemberment. Not to be bettered in the entire Web!"
Another, "Two more wanted for the love-raffle! Come and share in erotic delights!"
Another, "Trained symbiotes from Phadar! Exotic thrills for an ounce of blood!"
A painted crone tittered as they passed her booth gaudy with mystic signs. "Read your future, dearie? Find out if
the fine young man means what he says."
"He means it, mother," said Lallia hanging to Dumarest's arm. "I'll see to that."
A fire-eater blew long streamers of brilliance. A girl writhed to the monotonous pounding of a drum. A squat,
amorphous creature snarled and rattled heavy chains. From before a billowing tent a woman called in a voice of
trained allurement:
"You there, master! Care to fight for your lady? Ten-inch blades and first blood the winner. A prize for all
contestants and, if you win, fifty coryms and the choice of five willing wantons."
Lallia was curt. "Go to hell, you painted bitch!"
The woman, a blonde, curvaceous of body, smiled with a lifting of her full, red lips. "What's the matter, honey?
Can't stand the competition? Or are you afraid good-looking will get himself hurt?"
"Make it five hundred and he'll fight to the death!"
The woman blinked. "Say, do you mean that? If you do a match can be arranged. How about coming up here to
discuss the deal?"
"Forget it," snapped Dumarest.
 "Why, Earl?" Lallia looked up into his face as he pulled her away from the tent. "I've seen you fight, remember?
The pugs they've got in there wouldn't stand a chance against your speed. And we could use five hundred coryms."
"I'll fight if I have to," he said curtly. "But I don't do it for fun. And it wouldn't be a fair combat. The opponent
would be helped all along the line. Lights fixed to dazzle, attention-catchers, even a gimmicked blade. I've even
known them to use a gas-spray to slow a man down."
"You've worked in the circuits," she said slowly. "You didn't tell me that, Earl."
"There's a lot I didn't tell you."
"But you could win," she insisted. "You know that."
He halted and looked into her eyes. "Listen, girl, there's no such thing as a certainty. Every time a man fights he
gambles his life. So far I've won but that doesn't mean that I can't lose. It could be this time, in that tent, is that what
you want?"
"You know it isn't, Earl."
"Then forget it." Gently he lifted his hands and dropped them on her shoulders, squeezing before turning away.
"Let's look at the rest of the carnival."
A crowd thronged around a table on which a man manipulated cards. Dumarest won thirty coryms by finding the
jester, spent half a corym on a mass of sticky sweetmeat for Lallia and paused before a booth. Young men were
practicing their skill by throwing knives at a target. The leather-lunged operator saw the couple and called an
invitation.
"A corym for six blades, my lord. A prize for getting them all in the center."
Dumarest paid his coin and hefted the knives. They were badly balanced, crudely fashioned, and showed marks
of wear. But they had a point and that was enough. His arm rose, the hand moving forward, the knife a blur as it left
his fingers. The thud as it hit the target was repeated five more times.
"You win, my lord!" The operator looked anxious. "A set of six entitles you to anything on display."
Lallia chose a doll, a pretty thing with long, silken hair and clothes of finely spun fabric.
"You wish to play again, my lord?" The operator smiled his relief as Dumarest shook his head. "It can be done,"
he bawled as the pair moved away. "You have seen it! Roll up and test your skill!"
"So you can throw knives, Earl," said Lallia as they walked past the glittering booths. "What else don't I know
about you? Never mind," she said, not waiting for an answer. "I'll find out. I've a lifetime to do it in. Right, lover?"
He looked at her, tall, beautiful, the doll cradled in her arms, and felt a sudden wave of tenderness. It would be
good to find somewhere to settle down, to build a home, and to find immortality in children. Good enough, perhaps,
to eliminate his need to search for a forgotten world.
"Look!" Lallia pointed to where an arched opening stood before them. "Freaks and interstellar zoo," she read.
"Can we go in, Earl?"
A man stepped forward as they passed into the area beyond the arch. He was old with a sunken face and eyes
which held a burning intensity.
"My lord and lady," he said. "I beg of your charity. For the love of all you hold sacred help the pilgrims to Shrine."
Lallia looked around. "Pilgrims?"
"Those within, my lady." The man gestured towards the opening of a tent. "The animals are beyond, but the
others need no cage."
"The freaks?" Lallia frowned. "I thought you said they were pilgrims."
"They are both, my lady. The journey is long and costly so they display their infirmities in order to raise funds. It
is not a pleasant thing to do but what is pride against necessity?"
The interior of the tent was dim with a pale green lighting which threw no shadows and yet was gentle to the
eyes. A score or more of figures sat or sprawled against the walls on heaped piles of rags. Many appeared to be
asleep. All were grotesquely deformed.
"Medical science cannot aid them." The man had accompanied Lallia and Dumarest into the tent. "They are
transplant immune, or they are so distorted that nothing can be done. There are others who suffer less visible
infirmity, those with strange diseases and stranger internal growths, but these are not on display."
"And all are bound for Shrine?" asked Dumarest.
"That is so, my lord. There, if their faith is strong, they will be cured. The weak shall rise and walk, the crippled
stand straight and tall, the deformed be relieved of their afflictions." He held out his collecting bowl. "Of your charity,
my lord. I beg it in their name." He stared as Dumarest poured coins into the bowl. "My lord! Our thanks for your
generosity. May good fortune attend you."
Outside Lallia said, "You're crazy, Earl. That or soft. Why did you give him so much?"
"You've been stranded," said Dumarest quietly. "You know what it's like. But you had your health and strength.
Can you imagine what it must be like for those poor devils?"
 "You're right, Earl, I'm sorry." She bit her lip and then, brightening, said, "Well, it's done and good luck to them.
Let's go and look at the animals."
They were a poor collection, beasts from a dozen worlds, furred, clawed, tailed, and armored; most were
offshoots of the animals men had taken with them, a few native to local planets. A scaled thing chittered and
threshed its wings. A legged snake crawled, eyes like jewels, jaws agape to show a darting tongue. A thing of tendrils
and wire-like hair swung in a tight ball from the top of its cage. The air was thick with a dozen odors.
A straggle of revelers hung around the cages, a small group standing before one containing a furred, manlike
creature, laughing as they tormented it with their whips and the thrusts of long canes. Dumarest looked towards
them, past them, narrowing his eyes as he caught a flash of yellow. Yalung? The figure was the same but he had only
caught a glimpse—and yellow and black were common colors during a festival.
Lallia shrugged when he mentioned it. "The dealer? No, I didn't see him, but if he's here what of it? I guess he has
to relax sometime, like the rest of us."
She wandered off, intent on the animals, leaving Dumarest behind. He stood, barely interested in the exhibition,
waiting until the girl had slaked her curiosity. He watched as she moved towards the cage holding the tormented
beast. A man laughed as she protested, and he deliberately thrust again with his cane. The beast stirred, smashing at
the stick and tearing it from the man's grasp. Incensed he struck at it with his whip.
"Don't!" Lallia caught at his arm.
"Get away from me, you bitch!"
He pushed, sending the woman sprawling, lifting his whip to strike again. A tuft of fur and blood sprang from the
point of impact. The beast roared and flung itself against the bars. Abruptly the entire front of the cage swung open
with a grate of yielding metal.
"Lallia!" Dumarest was running as the animal sprang from the cage, one swipe of its paw sending its tormentor
hurtling to one side with a crushed skull. "Lallia!"
She moved, crouching on the ground, eyes terrified as she looked at the beast advancing towards her. It was a
mutated sport, five feet tall with the body of a gorilla and the fangs, teeth, and muzzle of a bear. As she rose it snarled
and jumped towards her.
Dumarest met it in midair.
It was like hitting a wall, a compact mass of bone and sinew three times the weight of a man. He felt himself fall,
the sour reek of the thing's breath harsh in his nostrils, and rolled desperately to avoid the raking claws. They rose
together, the beast lightning fast, and Dumarest knew that to run would be suicide. He sprang forward before the
creature could wholly regain its balance, ramming the top of his skull under the lower jaw, wedging his boots between
the hind legs and locking his arms around the furred barrel of the chest.
He strained, muscles cracking as he tried to break the animal's spine. His body was an arched bow, head and feet
pressing hard into throat and groin. The teeth couldn't hurt him, the claws on the hind legs couldn't reach him but he
could do nothing about the vicious claws on the forepaws. He felt them rip at his shoulders and back, tearing the
plastic of his uniform and ripping into the flesh beneath.
Again he heaved, the breath choking in his lungs, face turned to avoid the smothering mat of fur. It was as if he
pulled against a mountain. He tensed, straightening so as to press the creature's head back so that it looked at the sky.
It snarled and tore at his sides as he strained against the rigid back, knowing that his only chance was to break neck
or spine.
He felt something yield and the beast whimpered, a small sound deep in its chest. Gritting his teeth, Dumarest
summoned the last of his strength.
"Yalung!" He heard Lallia's shout above the roar of blood in his ears. "Good God's sake, hurry!"
The beast whimpered again, yielding even more and then, suddenly, convulsed with an explosion of energy
which sent Dumarest staggering to one side, to fall and rise fighting for breath, shaking his head to clear the mist from
his eyes.
He saw the animal lying dead, Yalung standing over it with a rod of iron in his hands, the end of the improvised
spear thick with blood.
"Earl!" Lallia ran towards him, eyes enormous in the pallor of her face. "My God, Earl, your back!"
He straightened, feeling the burn of multiple lacerations, and looking down saw that his sides and legs were
drenched with blood. More blood made a puddle on the ground. The claws of the beast had ripped wide and deep.
And, suddenly, there was pain.

Chapter Eight
 Lallia said, "I'm sorry, Earl. I had no choice. There was nothing else to do but get you back to the Moray."
Dumarest looked at her from where he lay on the bunk. She was wearing the iridescent dress and the thick coils
of her midnight hair hung loose about her shoulders. The light gleamed from the naked flesh of her arms, the long
curves of her thighs.
"You had a choice," he said quietly. "You could have taken me to a local doctor."
"Yes," she admitted. "I could but I didn't think of it. You were in a hell of a mess, passing out with weakness and
pain, and Yalung seemed to know just what to do. He washed you down and shot you full of dope and antibiotics. At
first I thought of moving you before it was too late but Sheyan left early. The rest you know."
A time of pain interspersed with gulps of basic, the sting of antiseptics, the discomfort of changed dressings. Of
drug-induced sleep and the sparing magic of slowtime. Dumarest sat upright and looked at his naked body, seeing the
thin lines of scar tissue on his sides. There would be more on his back and shoulders: newly healed wounds which
would eventually harden.
"A local doctor could have got me fit within two days," he said. "Using slowtime and intravenous feeding. But it
would have cost money. Did you think of that?"
Lallia met his eyes. "At first, no, but I did later. All right, Earl, so I begrudged the cost. It would have taken all we
had and I didn't fancy us being stranded on Joy. And what's the difference? So we didn't quit the Moray, but there will
be another chance later."
Dumarest rose and looked down at the woman. He saw the pallor of fatigue, the lines of weariness marring her
beauty. She could have left him. She could have let him die. Instead she had sat beside him in constant attendance.
"You're tired," he said. "Lie down and get some rest."
"I'm all right, Earl."
"Do it." He stooped and lifted her from the chair. "I don't want you losing your beauty."
"As long as you want me, Earl." She clung to him. "Any way you want," she whispered. "But just keep wanting."
He smiled and pressed her to the bunk. Turning he opened the lockers. His uniform had been ruined and he had
the choice of wearing the protective clothing or those he had worn before joining the ship. He chose his own, slipping
into the gray plastic, the material comforting in its protection. Had he worn it on Joy the claws of the beast would
never have penetrated the wire mesh buried in the material. The knife fell as he adjusted the tunic and he thrust it
into his boot.
"That's better." Lallia looked at him as he stood beside the bunk. "You never did look quite at home in that
handler's uniform."
"Go to sleep," he said, closing the lockers. Turning off the light he stepped from the cabin.
Yalung looked up from the table as Dumarest entered the salon, watching as he drew a cup of basic, refilling it
twice more before setting it down.
"You were hungry," said the dealer. "A healthy sign. You are fully recovered?"
"Yes." Dumarest looked at the yellow face, the enigmatic eyes. "I must thank you for coming to my aid with that
spear. And again for looking after me."
"The woman did that." A scatter of gems lay on the surface of the table, tiny lights winking from their facets. "She
tended you as if you were her child. My own part was small. If I could offer advice I would suggest that you conserve
your strength. The wounds were stubborn to heal. The claws of the beast must have carried a mutated infection.
Once I despaired for your life." His hand touched the gems. "I gathered from the woman that you intended to leave us
at Joy."
"I'd thought of it."
"A man needs money in the Web. It may help if I bought your ring. A thousand as offered."
Dumarest shook his head.
"Of course," mused Yalung, "if it has an interesting history I could offer more. The value of such things is
enhanced by an attendant story. If you would care to tell me of its origins, how you obtained it, details like that I
could, perhaps, offer fifteen hundred."
"The ring is not for sale," said Dumarest shortly. "Again I give you my thanks for your attentions."
Yalung bowed. "Perhaps you will accommodate me in a hand of cards?"
"Later," said Dumarest, and left the salon.
Outside, in the passage, he hesitated, then made his way towards Nimino's cabin. The navigator smiled as he
entered.
"Earl, my friend, you are fit and well. Truly my appeals have been answered. Laugh if you wish but the beliefs of
millions cannot be ignored. I have burned sweet scents to Shume, the goddess of healing, on your behalf and she has
answered my pleas."
"This?" Dumarest glanced to where a metal bowl held a smoldering substance and painted symbols lay in careful
arrangement around a globe of crystal in which drifted colored motes.
Nimino shook his head, abruptly solemn. "No, my friend, this is not for you. For many hours now I have been
troubled by a sense of impending doom. It is as if, somewhere, a storm was pending but I do not know where or
when it will break. I am disturbed and ill at ease. You sense nothing?"
"No," said Dumarest.
"Nor Lallia?"
"She is asleep."
"Then I am alone." Nimino shivered, a sudden convulsion of his nerves. "I hope it is nothing, but once, when I felt
like this, a city was lost in an unexpected eruption. The Kharma Ball warned that I should leave."
Dumarest knelt and looked at the crystal ball, his hands resting on the floor to either side. The colored motes
were, he guessed, fragments of organic life drifting in a supporting medium. Their purpose he couldn't imagine but he
assumed they would be affected by vibration or sonic impulses.
Vibration?
He tensed, concentrating on the tips of his fingers. Rising he placed them against the metal bulkhead. The faint
quiver of the Erhaft field was easily felt.
"Nimino," he said quietly. "Check the field." He waited until the navigator had placed his slender fingers on the
metal and then said, "Can you feel it?"
"Yes, Earl." Nimino's eyes grew wide, pools of glistening brilliance in the darkness of his face. "So this is what I
sensed!"
The quivering pulse of the heart of the ship. The tiny vibration which was the only discernible sign of its correct
working.
A vibration which was not as it should be.
Dumarest heard Lin's voice as they ran towards the engine room.
"Claude! I tell you the dials are showing red! You've got to do something!"
"Shut your mouth!" The engineer's voice was a raging bellow. "Are you trying to tell me my job? You, a snotty-
nosed lad still wet behind the ears?"
"But, Claude!" The steward was desperate. "The manual says that when the panel looks like that the generators
are getting out of phase. For God's sake, put down that bottle and do something. Do you want to wreck the ship?"
Dumarest heard a shout, the crash of something shattering, the fall of something heavy. Claude glared from
behind his console as he and the navigator burst into the room.
"Get out!" he said. "The pair of you. I don't want anyone in my engine room."
Quietly Nimino said, "Earl, he's drunk. Look at his eyes."
Claude was more than drunk. The devil inside had broken loose in a gust of savage violence. Dumarest looked at
the limp body lying on the floor. Lin lay in a puddle of liquid, the smashed remnants of a bottle lying beside his head.
A trickle of blood ran from beneath his hair. It ceased as he watched. The steward would never now realize his
ambition. He would never join the big ships and see the worlds outside the Web. His friend, his father-surrogate, had
seen to that.
Dumarest took three steps towards where the engineer stood by his console.
"You killed him," he said coldly. "You killed the boy."
"Stay away from me!" Metal shone as Claude lifted his hand. A wrench was gripped in the big fingers. "Come any
closer and I'll crack your skull."
"Like you did to Lin?" Dumarest stooped, anger a cold fire in his brain, his fingers reaching for the knife in his
boot.
Nimino caught his arm. "No, Earl. He's our engineer. We need him."
"We don't need him," said Dumarest. "He's a drunken, useless fool. He must have seen that the generators were
getting out of phase but couldn't do anything about it. So he started to drink in order to forget. He kept on drinking.
Now he's crazy."
"You—"
The wrench swept up and forward, light glinting on the spinning metal as it left the big hand, the heavy thing
aimed directly at Dumarest's head. He ducked, straightening as the engineer sprang towards him, tasting blood as a
big fist slammed into his mouth. The blow rocked him backwards and, before he could recover, Claude had gripped
him by the throat.
"Crazy, am I? A drunken, stupid fool. Well, handler, this is where it ends. I'm going to kill you."
His hands tightened, constricting clamps of flesh and bone. Above the twin ridges of his arms Dumarest could
see his face, the broad, mottled surface contorted with insane rage. That rage gave the engineer immense strength.
He picked up Dumarest and slammed him back against the edge of the console, the metal rim digging cruelly into his
spine, sending waves of agony from the barely healed wounds.
"Claude!" Nimino sprang forward, tugging at the engineer's arms. "Don't! Let him go, he—"
A vicious jerk of an elbow sent the navigator staggering to one side. Dumarest lifted both his hands and thrust
them between the rigid forearms. He pressed, forcing his own arms between those of the engineer, thumbs reaching
for the eyes. Claude snarled and jerked back his head.
Dumarest snatched back his hands and lifted them to the fingers clamped around his throat. He couldn't breathe
and lacked strength, but his brain worked with icy calm. Trapped as he was against the edge of the console he could
neither reach his knife or use his feet or knees. Maniacal rage had turned the engineer's arms into rods of steel and it
was impossible to reach his eyes. But he could reach the fingers.
He gripped each of the smallest and pulled. It was like pulling at a steel restraint. Darkness began to edge his
vision and a raw agony grew within his lungs. He pulled again, ignoring the pain of his back and sides as the new scar
tissue yielded beneath the strain. The little fingers lifted and he wrapped his hands around them jerking with the last
of his strength.
Bone snapped. Claude cried out, an animal sound of hurt and pain, snatching free his hands and stepping
backwards. Nimino rose like a shadow behind him, the wrench a flashing arc in his hand. The sound of its impact was
that of a squashing melon.
"Earl, are you all right?"
Dumarest nodded, massaging his throat. Another ten seconds and he would have used feet and hands to smash
down the engineer but Nimino hadn't given him the time. Now he stood, looking at the wrench, the slumped figure
lying in a pool of blood.
"He's dead," he said dully. "I killed him. Earl, I killed him!"
"He was insane. You had no choice."
"There is always a choice." The wrench fell from the navigator's hand. "I have taken a life," he said. "That means I
have to return to the beginning and commence again the long and painful climb towards the Ultimate. It would have
been better for me had I allowed you to use your knife."
"He would still have been dead," said Dumarest. He was impatient with the navigator's brooding introspection, his
concern with a problematical afterlife. "The only difference is that I would have intended to kill him. You did not. He
must have had a thin skull."
"Fate," said Nimino thoughtfully. "Who can fight against it? It was my destiny to kill a man." He looked at the
console, at the mass of signal lights brightly red. "As it is our destiny to die. Claude has, perhaps, cheated us. He had
an easy ending."
Dumarest was curt. "Explain."
"The generators are out of phase, my friend. The error is increasing. When it reaches a certain point the forces
we have utilized to move us at supralight speeds will tear us apart."
"Couldn't we land before that happens?" asked Dumarest. "Turn off the generators to conserve their effective
life?"
"Can we fight against our destiny?"
"We can fight." Dumarest looked down at his hands, they were clenched, the knuckles showing white. "We have to
fight. The alternative is to die." He looked at the navigator. "It's up to you," he said. "You and the captain. There's
nothing I can do."
"You can pray," said Nimino softly. "You can always do that."
Lallia stirred as Dumarest entered the cabin, lifting her arms as he turned on the light. "Earl, my darling. How did
you know I wanted you?"
He made no comment, standing watching her, cups of basic in his hands. Sleep had washed the lines of fatigue
from her face, lessened the heavy pallor, so that lying in the aureole of her hair she looked very young and very
helpless. He stooped and set down the cups, feeling her arms close around him, the warm scent of her breath against
his cheek.
"Come to me, lover. Come to me now."
"You'd better drink this," he said. "I want you to swallow as much basic as you can hold."
"Aren't I fat enough for you, lover?" She lost her smile as she saw his face. "Earl! Something's wrong! What is it?"
"We're going to crash," he said flatly. "And I think it will be soon."
"Crash?"
"The generators are failing. Sheyan did all he could but it wasn't enough. Now he's trying to get us down all in one
piece."
He looked at the woman and thought of the captain, of Sheyan's innate fear as he had been woken from the
comfort of his symbiote, his steely acceptance of what had to be done. The generators had defeated him, now he was
in the control room, slumped in his big chair, doing what the mechanisms around him could no longer do.
For they worked by rigid patterns governed by the steady progress of the ship. That progress was no longer
steady, random forces increasing the velocity by multiplying factors, the gravity fields of close-set suns affecting the
vessel in unexpected ways. Like a blind man threading a needle through a mass of electrified wire Sheyan was
guiding the Moray through destructive energies. Their lives depended on his skill.
"I've spoken to Yalung," said Dumarest. "He knows what to do. Now I want you to do it. Eat as much as you can—
food may be hard to find after we land. Wear as much as you can; the landing may be rough and we may have to
leave the ship fast. Stay in this cabin and fasten the restraints. And pray," he added, remembering Nimino's advice.
"For all we know it could help."
"Paraphysical forces working on an unaccepted plane of energy," she said evenly. "But, if we don't accept it, how
can it affect us?"
"An apple may not accept the concept of gravity," he said. "But it falls just the same."
Lallia took a cup of basic, drank and looked thoughtfully into the empty container. "Prayer," she said. "I've done
enough of it in the past. When I was a girl I prayed all the time for someone to take me away from the farm. Do you
know what it's like working on a farm? We had no machines so I had to be up well before dawn and didn't get to bed
until long after dark. The best I could hope for was for some man to marry me and take me back to his place and
there work me to death. Well, that didn't happen. A young aristo saw me while out hunting and liked the way I was
built. I played up to him and he enjoyed his new toy. By the time he had tired of me I was safe off the farm." She
looked at Dumarest. "Safe but in trouble. Rochis isn't a gentle world and an unprotected woman is anyone's sport. Do
I have to tell you what happened then?"
Dumarest took the empty cup from her hand. "You don't have to tell me anything. The past doesn't matter."
"No," she said, and drew a deep breath. "Let's just say that I've knocked around. Anyway, I moved on the first ship
I could get. I guess I've been moving ever since. Moving and looking for a thing called happiness. It isn't easy to find."
Dumarest handed her another cup of basic. "Drink this."
"I'll drink it." Her eyes were bright as she searched his face. "Earl! Do you know what I'm trying to say?"
"Drink your basic."
"To hell with it!" She slammed the cup down and circled him with her arms. "I'm telling you that I love you. That
I've never known what love was before. That I can die happy knowing that we are together."
Dumarest lifted his hand and stroked the rich mass of her hair. He knew what she wanted him to say. "I love you,
Lallia."
"You mean that?" Her arms tightened, pressed him close. "You really mean it?"
"I mean it."
"Then I've found it," she said. "Happiness, I mean. Earl, you'll never regret it. I'll be all the woman you could ever
want. I'll—" She broke off as the ship gave a sudden lurch. "Earl?"
"It's nothing," he said quickly. "Opposed energies, perhaps, or the touch of atmosphere. Hurry now, do as I told
you."
He left the cabin as the ship jerked again, the fabric shrilling as if the Moray was in actual, physical pain.

Chapter Nine
They landed badly, hitting a range of low hills, bouncing over rock and scree, tearing a broad swathe through
snow-laden trees before coming to a halt at the bottom of a shallow ravine. From the plateau beyond Nimino looked
back at the column of smoke which marked the funeral pyre of the Moray.
"My books," he said. "My holy objects and sacred charms. Gone, all of them."
"They served their purpose," said Dumarest. "At least you are still alive." He glanced to where Yalung and the
woman stood, shapeless in bundled garments, ankle-deep in azure snow. "We are alive," he corrected. "Your prayers
and supplications must have been effective."
But not for the ship and not for its captain. Sheyan was dead, his blood and flesh mingled with the metal of the
crushed vessel, charring now beneath the searing heat of released energies.
Yalung stirred, stamping his feet in the freezing snow. "Where are we?" he demanded. "What is the name of this
world?"
"Shrine."
Dumarest looked at the navigator, remembering those he had seen at the carnival. "Then there is a settlement
here. Ships and men to aid us."
Nimino shook his head. "No settlement, Earl. Shrine is a peculiar world. It is a place which is regarded by many as
being holy. They come here hoping for a miracle to cure their deformities and many have their hopes realized. There
is a sacred place protected by strange guardians. Ships call and leave but there is no town and no commerce."
Lallia said, "How do you know all this?"
"I was here once, many years ago, soon after I entered the Web. Often I suggested to Sheyan that he use the
Moray as a pilgrim vessel but always he refused. The vessel was too small, the cost of conversion too high; a larger
crew would have been needed together with medical personnel." Nimino looked to where the column of smoke
climbed into the violet sky. "Well, he is here now and will stay here. The manipulations of fate often contain a strange
irony."
"You helped him plot the course," said Dumarest. "What happened towards the end? Did he try to land near the
settlement?"
"I told you, my friend, there is no settlement." The navigator beat his hands together, vapor pluming from his
mouth. "And I left him long before we hit the atmosphere. But he would have tried to land us close to the field. He
was a good captain," he added. "But for him we would still be in space, drifting wreckage or fused metal, we could
even have fallen into a sun. He gave us life."
Dumarest looked at the sky, the surrounding terrain. The feeling of impotent helplessness of the past few hours
was over now that he was back among familiar dangers. Cold and hunger and the peril of beasts. The need to survive
and to escape from their present situation.
He glanced at the sky again. The sun was small, a ball of flaring orange rimmed with the inevitable corona,
hanging low in a bowl of violet. The ground towards the hills was thick with snow, the soft carpeting broken by
shrubs and mounded trees. Turning he looked towards the plateau. The snow continued, broken in the far distance by
unfamiliar trees. They were tall and bulbous, set wide apart and each ringed with a circle of darkness. Beyond them
the air held a peculiar shimmer.
Lallia shivered as a rising wind blew azure flecks into her face. "Earl, I'm cold."
Dumarest ignored the comment. To Nimino he said, "You were here before. What is the weather like? How low
does the temperature fall?"
"I was at the sacred place," said the navigator. "Not out in the wilds. There the temperature is that of blood."
Warm air rising to meet upper layers of frigid cold would produce such a shimmer as lay beyond the trees. And
Sheyan would have tried to put them down close. It was possible and yet, how in this wilderness could a place be so
warm?
The wind strengthened a little, a flurry of snow streaming from the hills like azure smoke from a fire thick with
ash.
"We had best find shelter," said Yalung. "The sun is setting and the cold will increase." He looked at the column of
smoke, bent now, a ragged plume marring the sky. "The trees, perhaps?"
The shimmer lay beyond, it was the right direction.
"Yes," said Dumarest. "The trees."
They were further than he had guessed. In the clear air distance was hard to judge and it was growing dark by the
time they reached the vicinity of the unfamiliar growths. He paused as they neared them, looking up at the soaring
trees, alert for signs of aerial life. He saw nothing. Only the bulbous trunks spiked with a multitude of bristle-like
protuberances. Leaves, he thought, or branches, or protective spines like those on a cactus. The dark rings beneath
them were areas clear of snow, a thick, springy grass showing a dull brown in the fading light.
"Please, Earl." Lallia was shaking with the cold, the thick mane of her hair coated with azure flecks borne by the
wind. "Can't we find somewhere to stay, build a fire, perhaps?"
"We could get behind a tree," suggested Yalung. The dealer's voice was even, he did not appear to feel the cold.
"At least it would protect us from the wind."
Dumarest hesitated, caution prickling his nerves. There was a stillness about the forest he did not like. There
should have been underbrush, birds, small animals, perhaps. There should have been the feel of life instead of the
eerie stillness as if a giant animal were holding its breath and crouching ready to spring.
"A fire," said Nimino. He blew on his hands, his dark skin puckered with the cold. "Always man has found comfort
in the leaping dance of a flame. I will gather wood while you select a place to rest." He was gone before Dumarest
could object, his figure small against the bole of a soaring giant.
He jerked as something exploded.
It was a short, harsh sound like the vicious crack of a whip. Nimino stumbled and fell to roll on the dark mat of
the grass. Dumarest caught Lallia as she went to run towards him.
"Wait!"
"But, Earl, he tripped and fell. He could be hurt."
"He didn't trip." Dumarest narrowed his eyes as he examined the tree. "If he did he will rise. Yalung, that
explosion, did you hear it?"
"It sounded like the snapping of a branch," said the dealer slowly. "I think it came from the tree."
It came again as they watched, the hard, snapping sound accompanied by the flash of something dark which hit
the ground close to where Nimino rolled in pain. Dumarest shouted towards the navigator.
"Don't move! Stay as you are!"
He ran forward as he shouted, head lowered, shoulders high. The cracking explosion came again as he reached
the edge of the dark area and he sprang aside as a dozen shafts spined the place where he had been. More explosions
echoed from the trees as he stopped, picked up the navigator and, cradling him in his arms, ran from the vicinity of
the tree.
Something slammed into his back, his legs and arms, the impact accompanied by more vicious crackings. They
ceased as he rejoined the others.
"The tree," said Yalung. "It fired spines at you. I saw the puffs against the bole."
"Earl!" said Lallia. "You were hit!"
Hit but not harmed, the spines had failed to penetrate the mesh buried within the plastic of his clothing. Nimino
hadn't been as lucky. A half-dozen spines had hit his torso, finger-thick and covered with pointed scales. Dumarest
touched one and felt the sting of poison. Even if they hadn't hit a vital part the navigator was as good as dead.
A defense mechanism, he thought. The trees protecting themselves or using the fired spines to bring down game
so as to nourish their roots.
"Earl!" Nimino writhed in his agony, sweat beading his face. "Earl!"
"It's all right," said Dumarest. He lifted his right hand and rested the fingers on the navigator's throat. A pressure
on the carotids and the man would pass quickly into unconsciousness and painless death.
"No!" Nimino twisted, one hand rising to knock away the fingers. "Not that, Earl. I want to see it coming. Meet it
face to face."
He coughed and wiped his mouth, looking at the red bright against the darkness of his hand.
"It burns," he said. "God, how it burns!" His hand reached for Dumarest's, found it, tightened. "Earl, do you think
I'll have to pay for Claude? Start again at the very beginning? It's such a long, hard climb, Earl. So long. Will I ever
reach the Ultimate?"
"Yes," said Dumarest quietly. "You're going to it now. You won't have to pay for Claude. You killed him in order to
save my life."
"Yes," said Nimino. He coughed again, blood staining his lips and chin. "Earl, I lied to you. About Earth. I said I
didn't know anything about it. I lied."
"You know where it is?" Dumarest stooped close to the dying man, his eyes intent. "How I can find it?"
"Not where it is. But in the old books, the religious works, they talk of it." Nimino's voice faded, became a liquid
gurgling. "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth," he said. "The Earth, Earl! And there is more. In the
Rhamda Veda it says: 'From terror did the people fly and they did scatter themselves in the heavens.' Terror, Earl, or
Terra? I have thought much about it since you joined the Moray." He coughed again and his voice became clearer.
"Find the Original People, Earl. They hold secret knowledge and legends born in ancient days. The Original People."
"A sect?" Dumarest gripped the hand within his own. "What are they, Nimino? A religious sect?"
"Yes, Earl. They will tell you of the Dog Star and the Plow, the magic signs of the zodiac. Where you can see
them that is where you will find Earth. They—" The navigator broke off, his eyes widening as he stared past
Dumarest. "You!" he gasped. "But how—"
Dumarest turned. Behind him was nothing but a mist of swirling snow, azure flecks caught and spun in the wind,
ghostly against the darkening sky. He looked back. Nimino's eyes were still open, still holding an expression of
incredulity, but the blood no longer seeped from his parted lips. As he watched a thin patina of azure snow began to
cover the dead face.
Gently he closed the staring eyes.
"He's gone?" Lallia was a dim bulk at his side as he rose to his feet. "Earl, is he dead?"
"He was talking," said Yalung. "What did he say?"
"Nothing of importance," said Dumarest. "He was rambling."
"I thought he might have told us how to get through the trees." The dealer sounded irritable. "He was here once
before."
"And saw nothing," reminded Dumarest. "And he could know nothing of the trees or he would not have run
towards them." He looked at the sky, the shadowed glades. "We'll have to try and go around them. Perhaps there is a
path."
For two days they walked beside the forest, slaking their thirst on snow and sleeping huddled together for
warmth. At dawn on the third day Dumarest announced his decision.
 "As far as I can tell these trees completely surround the place we have to reach. Therefore we have to go through
them."
"And end like the navigator?" Yalung looked at the unbroken ranks of trees.
"There could be a way." Dumarest pointed. "See? The grass areas around the trees do not completely meet. I
have been watching and all are the same. My guess is that the grass is a form of symbiote. The trees kill game and
the grass devours it, in turn feeding the tree and at the same time acting as a sort of trigger mechanism for the
spines." He picked up a small boulder. "Watch!"
Explosions cracked the air as the mass of stone fell among the grass of one of the areas. A dozen shafts
splintered on the target.
"Now watch this." Again Dumarest threw a large stone, this time on the narrow strip of snow between two of the
trees. Nothing happened.
"I see what you mean," said Lallia. "But suppose it gets dark before we pass through the forest?"
"We sleep and continue the next day."
"And if that isn't enough?"
"We have no choice," said Yalung before Dumarest could answer. "Here we shall freeze or starve. Already we are
weakening." He turned his round, yellow face away from the wind. "If you lead I shall follow."
It was like treading an intricate maze. No path was straight and all followed circles so that to progress a mile they
had to walk four. And, always, Dumarest was conscious of the danger of getting lost.
His guides were the sun and the strange shimmer in the air beyond the trees. The sun moved across the sky but
the shimmer did not and, fortunately, the trees were wide-spaced enough to allow fairly good vision. Even so the
going was hard. The eerie silence of the forest began to play on their nerves and moving shadows gave the
impression of watchful menace.
The wind fell and the snow vanished. Night caught them and they took turns to sleep, one watching while the
others sprawled in the narrow margin of safety. With the dawn came a raging thirst adding to the weakness caused by
cold and lack of food. The cold could be combated by exertion, but the thirst could not. Twice Yalung called a sharp
warning as Lallia staggered and almost left the path. The third time Dumarest halted and looked into the strained
lines of her face.
"I'm sorry, Earl," she said. "I couldn't help it. It's got so that I seem to be walking in a dream." She looked around,
shuddering. "It's so damn quiet. If only something would make a noise. And," she added with feeling, "if only there
was something to drink."
"Stay here." Dumarest turned and walked on to the next area of grass. Dropping he reached out with his boot and
scraped it towards him. As he tore at the grass explosions blasted the air and shafts rained towards him. His boots
were strong and, like his pants, resisted penetration. Picking up the clump of grass he returned to the others. "Chew
on this," he said. "It might help."
Dubiously Lallia took the tangled vegetation. It was a mass of thick, juicy strands, the ends seeping where it had
broken away. Sight of the liquid inflamed her thirst and she thrust some of the grass into her mouth, chewing and
swallowing, sap staining her lips as she helped herself to more.
"It's good," she said. "Have some."
Yalung said, quietly, "Thank you, no. I can continue for a while yet."
"Earl?"
"Later, maybe. Now stick to the path and don't start daydreaming."
They reached the edge of the forest as the sun kissed the horizon, long shadows streaming from the ranked trees
and hiding the terrain so that they were clear long before they realized it. Now they walked on close-cropped grass
dotted with low bushes, bearing flame-colored berries and thorned leaves. A tiny lake yielded water of crystal clarity,
cold but more delicious than wine. Later Dumarest managed to kill a small animal, spearing it with his knife at thirty
feet, cleaning the beast and jointing it, using the fur to wipe the blade.
Chewing on the raw gobbets of meat they walked on to where the shimmer hung against the blossoming stars.
They were few and Dumarest looked at them with a strange nostalgia. So had the stars looked from Earth when
he had been very young. Not the shimmer and glare so common in and close to the Center, but a scatter of burning
points separated by wide expanses of darkness. They had formed patterns, those stars, and the broad swath of the
galactic lens had traced a shining path across the heavens. But they had been scattered by distance and not, as the
stars in the Web, by the cloud of shielding dust.
"Look," said Yalung softly. "A ship."
It fell wreathed in the misty blue of its field, a tiny mote incredibly far, falling as a meteor to a point beyond the
horizon. Landing at the sacred place which, so Nimino had said, was protected by strange guardians. The trees?
Dumarest didn't think so. They were guardians of a kind but not the ones the navigator had meant.
 He paused as a thin trilling stirred the air, the ghostly echoes of a crystal chime, sounding high and shrill and far
away.
A sweet and soulful sound, unbearably poignant, arousing memories better left undisturbed.
"Earl!" Lallia came close to him and caught his arm. "Earl, what was that?"
It came again as she fell silent, thin, hurtfully pure. A third time and then the night settled into unbroken silence.
"A signal," said Yalung thoughtfully. "It must have sounded when the ship landed. A summons, perhaps?" He
sucked in his breath with an audible hiss. "Look! The sky!"
Ahead, where the shimmer had disturbed the cold beauty of the stars, leaped a vibrant cone of coruscating
brilliance. It lasted for perhaps half a minute and then, as abruptly as it had come, was gone.
The ship left at dawn. Lallia watched as it rose, tiny in the distance, the blue mist of its field almost lost against
the brightening sky. Her face was haggard as she looked at Dumarest.
"Earl! We're too late! It's gone!"
"There will be others," he said. "Ships must come here all the time."
"They come," agreed Yalung. "But will they take any who ask for passage? Will they be allowed to? This is a
strange world."
He halted, brooding as he studied the sky. They had been walking for hours, using the stars as a guide, avoiding
the thorned bushes more by instinct than actual sight. They had found no more lakes and there had been no more
game.
"How much further do you think we have to go?"
"A long way," said Dumarest. The ship had been small, their progress of the night had been negligible, the faint
shimmer in the sky seemed no closer. "A week, perhaps, even longer, but we'll get there in the end."
"If we can stay alive that long." Fatigue had made the woman sharp. "There's something crazy about this place.
We've been walking for miles and seem no closer now than we did at the start. Maybe we'll never get closer. We could
be moving in a giant circle."
"No," said Dumarest. "Not that."
"Then why are we so far? We—" She broke off and then said, wonderingly. "Look, Earl. Birds."
"The first we have seen," said Yalung quietly. "But —are they birds?"
They came from the direction in which they were heading, winged motes against the sky, wheeling and circling
before swooping down at the travelers. There was something odd about them. Dumarest watched as they came, eyes
like jewels and feathers rustling like metal, wide wings throwing shadows on the ground. They were big, their wings
extended fully twenty feet, their bodies as long as the height of a man. Their beaks were glinting spears and their
clawed feet stretched as if to engulf barrels. From halfway down their bodies stretched limbs ending in long,
prehensile finger-like claws. Three of them landed just ahead, the rest circling watchfully above.
The guardians?
Dumarest studied them as they stood, wings folded, apparently waiting. Mutated biological mechanisms, he
thought, fed on a diet heavy in metallic oxides and silicon. That would account for the rasping of the feathers, the
sparkling gleam of bone and scale. Multilimbed creatures produced in order to fly, to walk, to grip and tear. Or
perhaps they were a natural sport of this peculiar world. It didn't matter. To resist them would be suicide.
"They are barring our path," said Yalung. "A warning?"
"We can't turn back!" Lallia's voice held near-hysteria. "Earl, we can't turn back!"
Dumarest looked at the other winged shapes circling overhead. Reinforcements, perhaps, if they should somehow
manage to overcome the three ahead. With lasers they could have killed them all but they had no weapons aside from
his knife. And, even if they could have destroyed the birds, would that end their danger?
Slowly he walked forward to stand before the three silent images. They were like statues of burnished metal and
shining crystal, the idols of some ancient temple, utterly remote from human comprehension. The light of the rising
sun shone redly from their eyes, beyond them the enigmatic shimmer quivered in the silent air.
Dumarest said, "We are survivors of a wrecked vessel. We wish to go to the field, there to obtain passage from
this world."
A voice, cold, emotionless, echoed wordlessly in his mind, in the minds of them all.
"It is understood. Do not resist."
Wings lifted, flexed as they beat the air, the rustle of feathers a tintinnabulation. Lallia gasped as she was picked
from the ground, hair flying as she turned in the grip of prehensile fingers. Yalung was next, his yellow face impassive
as he was carried away. Dumarest followed, feeling the firm grip on his body, the sighing rush of air past his face.
Around the three the other birds formed an escort as they first climbed then leveled in whispering flight.
Far below the ground swept past like an unrolling carpet.
The bushed plain, dotted with tiny lakes few and far between. A circle of spine-bearing trees, a swampy morass
succulent with livid grasses steaming with oozing mud, a rearing mound of stone surrounding a mass of scree and
then, finally, a thick growth of timber at the side of which rested the unmistakable expanse of a landing field.
It swelled as they plummeted towards it, the bare ground torn and scarred from the impact of tremendous
energies, tiny figures working to level the surface. Dumarest looked at them as the ground hit his feet and the bird
which had carried him winged away. They were simple creatures with wide jaws and spadelike forepaws, clawed feet
and a flat tail. Where they passed freshly turned soil rested flat and smooth behind them.
He lifted his eyes. The perimeter fence was high and stronger than any he had previously seen. A mesh of thick
bars fifty feet high, so close that it was almost a solid wall. A single gate broke it where it faced the expanse of timber
beyond.
As Dumarest watched it opened and a figure passed through.
"God!" Lallia's voice was a whisper at his side. "Earl, what is it?"
"A guardian." Yalung had no doubt. "One of those the navigator mentioned. It can be nothing else."
From the tip of the cowl to the hem of the trailing robe the figure was twelve feet tall, incredibly broad, the figure
bulking beneath the muffling robe of glinting metallic fiber. The face was shadow in which transient gleams of
variegated color flashed and died in winking splendor. The hands, if the creature had hands, were hidden in wide
sleeves. There were no signs of feet or locomotive appendages.
Dumarest had the impression that the thing was entirely unhuman. That the robe was worn for concealment and
that the figure bulking beneath was completely alien.
Again the cold, emotionless voice echoed wordlessly in his mind.
"You have come to the Place. You are welcome"
"Thank you," said Dumarest quickly before the others could answer. "We had misfortune. Our vessel crashed on
some hills far from here. It was kind of you to send your servants to give us aid."
The birds could be nothing else. They shared the alienness of the tall figure but they could not be the masters.
Nothing could be the master of the enigmatic being which stood before them. It was wrapped in an aura of power
almost as tangible as the metallic robe covering its body.
Yalung stirred and said, "We require little. Some food and water while we wait for the arrival of a ship to carry us
from this world."
Lallia added, "And somewhere to bathe. Is that possible?"
Colored sparkles flashed and died in the shadow of the cowl.
"In the Place all things are possible. Ask and you shall be given."
The figure turned and glided towards the open gate, the mystery of the area beyond. Dumarest followed, the
others just behind.
He stepped into a cathedral.

Chapter Ten
It was a place of mystery and awe-inspiring majesty, the still air hanging like incense, tiny motes of dust glinting
in the shadowed sunlight like tiny candles set before incredible altars. Dumarest felt Yalung bump into him, heard
Lallia's low voice at his side.
"Earl," she said. "It's beautiful!"
A wide avenue stretched before them, floored with soft, close-cropped grass and flanked by the slender boles of
soaring trees. They reared like columns, a tuft of branches high overhead fanning to meet and form a natural arch
through which streamed the ruby light of the sun. Ahead, shadowed in the distance, more columns sprang from the
tended soil, circling a clearing about an indistinguishable structure, a boulder, perhaps, an outcrop of natural stone
wreathed and hung with living garlands.
Down the avenue, diminished in the distance, the tall figure of the strange Guardian, seemed to flicker and then
to abruptly vanish.
Slowly Dumarest walked down the avenue.
It was the pilgrim's way, he guessed, the path which those seeking the miracle of healing followed as they made
their way to the holy place. There would be attendants to carry those unable to walk, others to help those who could
barely stand, a motley thronging of deformity and pain each united by a common hope. But now there was nothing
but the three of them, the quiet susurration of their footsteps on the springy grass, the sound of their breathing.
And it was warm, the temperature that of living blood.
"Earl." Lallia turned to him, her face beaded with perspiration. "I can't stand this heat. I've got to get rid of these
clothes."
 They stripped at one side of the avenue, shedding the extra, bulky garments they had worn on leaving the ship
and then, the woman in her iridescent dress, Yalung in his yellow and black, Dumarest in his neutral gray, continued
down the path between the trees.
How many had preceded them, thought Dumarest. How long had these trees grown, shaped by careful tending,
planted and culled, bred and trained? How many ships had dropped from the skies with their loads of misery and
hope? The place reeked of sanctity, of devotion and supplication. The trees had absorbed the emotions of the
incalculable number of pilgrims who had visited Shrine and followed the guardian into the holy place. Holy because
they had made it so? Or holy because here, in this spot, something beyond the physical experience of men had
stopped and left its mark?
Faith, he thought. Here, surely, if a man had faith miracles could happen.
"Earl, look!"
Lallia's whisper was loud in the brooding stillness. She had advanced a little and now stood at the edge of the
clearing in which stood the mysterious object. It was no clearer than it had been when seen from far down the
avenue. The woman stood beside a heap of something beneath a wide awning of natural growth. A chapel made by
leafy branches.
It was brimming with articles of price.
Fine fabric, precious metal, cunning fabrications of metal and wood and blazing ceramics. The glint of gems and
gold and the crystal perfection of faceted glass. All intermingled with less rare objects, a cloak, a cane, a visored
helm, the leather of belts and the scaled skins of serpents, sacks of spices and seed and pleasing aromatics. The roll
of charts, maps, paintings of a hundred different schools.
"Votive offerings," said Yalung softly. "Things given in appreciation and gratitude. A fortune beyond the dreams of
avarice on any of a million worlds."
And there were more. The chapels surrounded the clearing and all contained a heap of similar items. Lallia
paused, looking at a scatter of ancient books.
She touched one and her face stiffened with psychic shock.
"Earl!" she whispered. "It's so old, old! There is hope and a terrible fear and—and—"
He caught her as she slumped, the book falling from her hand. It fell open and he had a glimpse of strange
figures, of lines and tabulated numerations, of diagrams and vaguely familiar symbols.
Yalung picked it up, closed it, returned it to the heap. Quietly he said, "How is the girl?"
"I'm all right." Lallia straightened from Dumarest's arms and shook her head as if to clear it of mist. "It was just
that —Earl, the book is so old!"
An ancient book. A stellar almanac, perhaps. A pre-Center-orientated navigational manual. In this place anything
was possible.
He reached for it, arresting his hand as a familiar voice echoed in his mind.
"Come."
Dumarest looked up. The strange guardian stood to one side. Watching? It was hard to tell if the figure had a face
or eyes at all but the enigmatic flickering in the shadow of the cowl gave the impression of senses more finely tuned
than those owned by ordinary men.
"The Place awaits. Go to it. Place your hands on it. This is the rule."
"The guardian means that object in the middle of the clearing," said Yalung. He sounded dubious. "I am not sure
that we should do as he directs."
"Have we any choice?" Lallia smiled. "And I want a bath. Remember what was promised? Ask and you will be
given. Anyway, what have we to lose?"
Life, thought Dumarest. Sanity, our health, perhaps. Who can tell?
But he followed her across the clearing.
The mound was high, larger than he had at first supposed, a vine-draped mass protruding from the neatly kept
grass. A special grass, he thought, to withstand the weight of the thousands who must come here. As the mound had
to be something special also. A strangely-shaped fragment of stone, perhaps, a meteor even, a thing to which had
become attached a tremendous superstition. Or did naked belief make its own holiness? Could faith convert
inanimate matter into a healing being?
Nimino could have answered, but the navigator was dead. Coughing out his life in order to fulfill a prophecy that
he would achieve great knowledge in a cloud of dust. The Web was such a cloud and what greater knowledge could
come to a man than that of what happened after death?
Dumarest shook his head, annoyed at his own introspection, wondering what had sent his thoughts on such a
path. The influence of the place, he thought. The mystery and enchantment of it. The brooding majesty and
overwhelming sense of sanctity. There was magic in the air, perhaps the emanations of the trees, the invisible vapors
released by the grass, subtle drugs to fog the senses and open wide the vistas of the mind. But that again was sheer
speculation.
He concentrated on the mound.
There was an oddity about it as there had been about the birds, as there was about the guardian. A peculiar sense
of alienness as if it did not belong to this world and never had. Dumarest narrowed his eyes, tilting his head so as to
sharpen his vision, probing beneath the obvious to seek the underlying truth. It probably was simply a mound but
there was an oddity here, a peculiar something there, a slight distortion just above the line of sight. And then,
suddenly, as if he were looking at an optical illusion in which one image was hidden within another, details grew clear.
The mound was no heap of vine-covered stone.
It was the wreckage of a manufactured artifact.
He blinked but there was no mistake. Warped and crushed as it was, misshapen and unfamiliar, he could still
make out the angles and curves of vanes, the ridges of corrugations, plates and sheets of metal all overlaid with
grime and a patina of soil from which grew shielding vines.
Or were they, too, disguised? Cables, perhaps, flexible conduits, pipes which had burst like entrails from the body
of the artifact?
Dumarest heard the sharp intake of Yalung's breath and wondered if the dealer in precious stones had also
penetrated the illusion. And Lallia? He glanced at her, noting the smoothness of her face, the rapt expression in her
eyes. She looked like a little girl as she stood before the mound, a child basking in the promise of comfort and warmth
and security. She had once prayed, he remembered, and all who pray must have some belief in a higher power. Did
she imagine that she stood before the abode of such a being?
"Lallia," he called softly. "Wait."
She halted and turned, smiling, the full richness of her lips red against the whiteness of her skin. "Why, Earl?"
"It would be wise to wait," said Yalung. "If the guardian will allow it." He glanced to where the tall figure stood at
the edge of the clearing, as immobile as a statue. "The mound is not quite what it seems."
"Does it matter?" She shrugged, suddenly impatient. "What's the matter with you two? It's only a gesture. We
aren't sick or ill and if they can come here and touch it without harm what have we to fear? Anyway I'm curious to
see whether or not I get my bath."
She held out her hands, again smiling.
"Come on, Earl. Come on the pair of you. Let's touch it together."
For a moment Dumarest hesitated, then reached for her hand. After all, what could there be to fear?
Together the three of them rested their hands on the fabric of the Place.
Nothing, thought Dumarest. He felt the touch of harshness beneath his palms, saw the grain of dirt and soil
before his eyes. A patina built over how long? Centuries, certainly, thousands of years, perhaps, wind-blown dust,
rain, the slow, relentless attrition of the years. But why hadn't the metal beneath the dirt yielded to the impact of
time?
And who had originally built it?
And why?
He heard the soft movement of Yalung's body as the man shifted his feet. Lallia was breathing quietly, hands and
cheek pressed against the mound, eyes closed as if she were making a secret wish. Entering into the spirit of the
thing, perhaps. Acting as if she were a genuine pilgrim seeking a miracle. And, if one came, just what would the effect
be?
Dumarest thought he knew. Faith healing was nothing unusual. Many had the gift and could heal with a touch, it
was merely another facet of the paraphysical sciences revealed in the talents of various sensitives. In effect they were
simply catalysts directing the body to repair itself from the blueprint inherent in every molecule of D.N.A. If a
machine could be developed to do the same thing then every city would have its Shrine. Its holy spot. Its Place.
He smiled and closed his eyes, willing to play the game to the full, trying to feel as a genuine pilgrim would feel.
If he had been sick or crippled he would have concentrated on his infirmity.
Instead he could only think of Earth.
Earth, the planet which had become lost to him, the need to find which had become an aching obsession. Could a
man be whole without a home? And could a man who was not whole be considered other than as a cripple?
Deformities were not always of the flesh and bone. And what was loss but a deformity of the mind?
A moment of peculiar, subconscious strain and then abruptly, Dumarest saw a picture in his mind.
It was shining with bright splendor, a flattened disc with vaguely spiral arms, a pattern composed of a myriad of
glowing points, hazes, somber patches of ebon and traces of luminous cloud. Instinctively he knew what it was. The
galactic lens as seen from above and to one side.
In it one tiny fleck shone with blazing ruby fire.
 It was well from the Center, lying in a distant arm of the spiral, a lonely place among few and scattered stars but
he knew exactly what it was.
Home.
The planet for which he had been searching for too long. The world which had given him birth. Earth.
And he knew now almost exactly where to look for it.
Almost, for the galaxy was vast and the stars innumerable and no one brain can hold the complexity of an island
universe. But the sector was there, the approximate position, the direction from the Center. It would be enough.
Dumarest jerked as the picture vanished, an eerie tension of his nerves, a something in his brain as if fingers of
mist had drawn themselves across the naked cortex and with the touch had taken something of himself. Opening his
eyes he stared at the material before him. It looked exactly the same, but as he watched he saw a fragile glow of light,
a vague sparkle of quickly vanished luminescence.
To one side Yalung groaned, falling to sit upright blinking and shaking his head.
"Strange," he said thickly. "So strange. And I feel now no discomfort. My thirst has gone, my hunger. But how?"
Dumarest frowned, flexing his back and shoulders. The nagging discomfort of his barely healed wounds had
totally vanished and he too felt neither hunger or thirst. Lallia?
She lay sprawled on the grass, hands touching the mound, her face a strained mask of torment. As Dumarest
watched, it contorted and writhed, adopting a snarling mask of hideous aspect. Then it relaxed to reveal the familiar
planes and contours.
"Lallia!" He knelt at her side, touching her skin, the pulse in her throat. Her muscles were like iron.
"No!" she screamed as he tried to pull her hands from the mound. "No!" and then, quieter, "Dear God, how long,
how old!"
Yalung rose, a yellow shadow to kneel at her far side. "She is ill," he said. "A fit perhaps?"
It was no fit, not unless psychic shock could be called that. Too late Dumarest remembered her wild talent, the
ability to remember the past of any object she touched. The ancient book should have warned him but he had been
engrossed in the possibility that it could help in his search. He had not thought of the possibility that the mound
could hold a similar danger. Not even when he had recognized it as an artifact.
And now it was too late for regret.
"Earl!" She writhed again, sensing an agonizing past, the dusty span of painful years. "Three suns," she whispered.
"A fault in the engines. Suspended animation and millennia of travel. Such darkness and chill and then the dust and
the wakening. Too late. The crash and the waiting, the endless waiting." She twisted and moaned, midnight hair
wreathed on the grass. "It's alive, Earl. Still alive. Waiting and hoping. Such forlorn longing, Earl!"
She stiffened, and from the very pores of her skin seeped a lambent effulgence, a mist of luminescence which
flowed down her arms to the material of the ancient wreck and, as it finally separated from her body, she sighed and
totally relaxed.
"Is she dead?" Yalung's face was a yellow mask in the shadows.
Dumarest examined her body, heart pounding with the fear of what he might find. Relieved he sat back and
looked at the other man.
"Not dead," he said. "Exhausted by tremendous psychic shock. You understand?"
"Yes," said Yalung. "I understand."
"All of it?" Dumarest glanced at the mound. "It is a wrecked spaceship. It came from God alone knows where, but
I will guess that it was never made in our galaxy. And, somehow, something within it is still alive."
Crippled, perhaps, hurt, but still aware. For unguessed millennia it had lain within the vessel tended only by the
repair mechanisms the ship had contained—and by the enigmatic guardians if there were more than one? It was
possible, they could have bred the birds and the protoplasmic machines which tended the field and the Place itself. Or
perhaps they were extensions of the entity within the ship, prosthetic devices governed by its intelligence. Who could
begin to guess at the mental structure of an alien race?
And, by means of her talent, Lallia had contacted it. She had sent a part of her mentality back down through the
ages, barely understanding, capable only of feeling the terrible shock and despair, the age-long time it had traversed
the endless dark, the indescribable alienness of its emotions as it waited and waited for years without end.
For rescue, perhaps? For death? For someone to come who would know and understand?
Dumarest looked at the mound and then back at the girl. She was not dead and that was the important thing. She
would lie in a coma for a while and then wake as she had back on the Moray, alive and sane and well. They would still
have a future.
Stooping he lifted her in his arms.
"Where are you taking her?" Yalung glanced around the clearing then down the length of the avenue to the gate
and high fence at the end. "Perhaps close to the landing field would be best. Anywhere away from this mound which
seems to have distressed her."
Away from the ancient vessel, the enigmatic guardian who stood, still immobile, dancing flickers gleaming from
the shadow of its cowl. Away from the brooding stillness of the Place, the psychic influences which seemed to
pervade the very grass and trees.
Dumarest began to walk down the wide avenue.
He staggered and frowned. The girl was not that heavy and he felt strong enough. Strong but suddenly weary as
if he had suffered some tremendous strain and fatigue was the natural aftermath. Yalung tripped and almost fell,
shaking his head as he recovered his balance.
"I am fatigued," he said. "Filled with the desire to sleep. At the end of the avenue, perhaps? There is open space
between the trees."
He led the way, falling to sprawl on the grass as Dumarest gently set down the body of the girl. For a long
moment he stared at her, drinking in the smooth beauty of her face, the lustrous waterfall of her hair. She stirred a
little sighing like a child in a pleasant dream, full lips parted to breathe his name.
"Earl, my darling. I love you so very much."
He moved a coil of hair from her cheek and arranged her limbs so as to avoid later cramps then, barely able to
keep open his eyes, lay down beside her on the soft and yielding turf.
He fell asleep immediately, falling into a dreamless, timeless oblivion.
When he woke Lallia was dead.

Chapter Eleven
She looked very small and helpless as she lay on the grass. She rested on her side, the long curves of her thighs
white beneath the hem of her dress, the dark tresses of her hair covering cheek and throat. One arm was lifted, the
palm close to her mouth, the other rested in her lap. She looked as if she would wake at a touch, a word, springing to
her feet, red lips smiling, warm flesh pulsing with the desire of life, but he had tried both word and touch and she was
dead. "She could not have survived the psychic shock she received at the mound," said Yalung quietly. He stood
beside Dumarest looking down at the kneeling man, the dead body of the girl. "It is unfortunate but it would appear
to be the case."
"No," said Dumarest. "It wasn't that."
"How can you be sure?"
"I'm sure."
She had spoken his name, rising up from the deathlike coma of shock to drift into normal sleep, yielding to the
strange fatigue which had gripped them all. Dumarest looked at the grass, the trees, lifting his face to search the
soaring arch high above, the fading light of the sun. If she had died because of subtle emanations then why not all?
The guardians, perhaps? But then, again, why kill the girl and not those with her? And how had she died? He could
see no mark or injury, no fleck of blood from a minute puncture which would have betrayed the injection of poison
from sting or needle.
Reaching out he caught the rounded chin and turned the dead face towards the sky. He stooped, bending his face
close to the skin, moving so as to see it against the light. Faint against the marbled whiteness he could see the
smudge of bruises against nostrils and mouth.
Rising he looked at Yalung. "You," he said. "You murdered her."
"You wrong me." Yalung raised his hands in denial. His eyes were wary in the yellow mask of his face. "Why do
you say that? You have no proof."
"She was smothered to death by a hand which closed her nostrils and covered her mouth." Dumarest fought to
control his rising anger. "I did not do it. We are the only humans in the vicinity. You must have woken earlier than I
did and you killed the woman. But why? What harm had she done you?"
"None," admitted Yalung. He moved a step nearer to Dumarest, yellow and black rippling as he moved his arms,
extending the broad spades of his hands. "But alive she was an inconvenience."
"You admit it?"
"But, of course. What point is there in denying the obvious?"
Dumarest moved, stooping, his hand flashing to the hilt of the knife in his boot, lifting the pointed, razor-edged
steel. Sunlight gleamed from the blade as he swept it back and then forward, the point aimed at the other man's
stomach.
Yalung sprang forward and to one side, his left hand dropping to grasp the knife-wrist; twisting, his right hand
jerking free the steel. As Dumarest struck at his throat he moved again, stepping to avoid the blow, the stiffened
fingers of his left hand stabbing like blunted spears.
Dumarest staggered, fighting a red tide of agony, his right arm numbed and paralyzed.
"You are fast," said Yalung. "Very fast. But not fast enough to one who has trained on Kha." He looked at the knife
and tossed it casually to one side. Dumarest watched its flight.
"You? A Kha'tung fighter?"
"You know of us?" Yalung's smile was a facial distortion without real meaning. "Can you imagine what it is like?
For twenty years I trained on a high-gravity planet with pain as the constant reward for laggard reflexes. You should
be proud that I was chosen. No lesser man would have been able to overcome you so easily."
He was confident but with justification. Fighting the pain of impacted nerves Dumarest studied the figure in
yellow and black. The round plumpness wasn't the fat he had assumed but a thick layer of trained and hardened
muscle. The broad hands, soft as they appeared, could smash timber and brick, stab deep into vital organs. A
Kha'tung fighter was a deadly machine.
Dumarest said, "Why?"
"You are curious," said Yalung. "Well, we have time to spare until a ship arrives." He stepped close and stared into
Dumarest's eyes. "Sit," he ordered, and pushed.
The blow was the thrust of an iron ram. Dumarest fell backwards, staggering, falling to roll on the soft grass.
Awkwardly he sat upright, his left hand massaging his right arm. A random shaft of light caught the gem on his finger
and turned it into ruby flame.
"The past," said Yalung. "Let us throw our minds back into time." He sat crossed legged, facing Dumarest at a safe
distance of a dozen feet, his back towards the dead body of the girl. "Let us talk of names. Of Solis, of Brasque, of
Kalin. I am sure that you remember Kalin."
"I remember."
"An unusual woman," said Yalung. "Most unusual. But let us start with Brasque. You never met him because he
died before you reached Solis, but before he died he gave his sister the gift of life. Real life in a warm and healthy
body. That secret he stole from the laboratory of the Cyclan. It must be returned."
Dumarest sat, patiently waiting, his left hand continuing its massage.
"The secret was that of an artificial symbiote named an affinity twin. It consists of fifteen units and the reversal
of one unit makes it either subjective or dominant. Injected into the bloodstream it nestles in the rear of the cortex,
meshes with the thalamus and takes control of the central nervous system. I need hardly tell you what that means."
The intelligence of a crippled body given active life in a healthy host. The ability of one brain to completely
dominate another. Dumarest had good reason to know what it meant.
"No," he said. "You don't have to tell me."
"The path Brasque took has been followed and all possibilities of his passing the secret to others eliminated. The
probability that he delivered the secret to his sister on Solis is one of the order of 99 percent—practical certainty.
Investigations have proved that the secret is not on that planet so, logically, it must be elsewhere. Do you agree?"
"You talk like a cyber," said Dumarest. "A thing of flesh and blood, a machine, a creature devoid of the capability
of emotion."
Yalung's eyes glittered in the round blandness of his face. "You think you insult me," he said. "Let me assure you
that to be called a cyber is far from that. To belong to the Cyclan is not easy. To wear the scarlet robe is to be clad in
honor."
Did the voice hold pride? Pride was an emotion and no cyber could feel anything other than pleasure in mental
achievement. An operation on the sensory nerves leading to the brain removed all pain, hurt, anger, love, the
pleasure to be found in food and wine, the caresses of women.
Dumarest eased himself a little, moving on the grass. "I follow your argument and admit your point."
"The rest is simple, a matter of extrapolating from known data. You were on Solis at the time. You were close to
the sister of Brasque. You were given the gift of a ring. The probability of the ring holding the secret is in the order of
90 percent."
"And you killed Lallia for that?" Dumarest glanced towards the dead girl, then at the squatting figure before him.
"I have the ring. Why not kill me and take it?"
"Because that would be illogical," said Yalung. "Too much time has passed. You could have learned the secret or
have changed the ring. To kill you would have been to lose a source of information for all time." He paused, eyes
watchful. "The secret is a matter of the correct sequence of the molecular units composing the chain. There are
fifteen units. Their nature is known. All that remains is to discover the order in which they must be united. But the
task is not easy. If it were possible to test one combination every second it would take over four thousand years to
test them all. And there are reasons why the Cyclan cannot wait. Good reasons. But now they need wait no longer."
"The ring is just what it seems," said Dumarest. "It contains no secret."
 "I think that you lie. Twice I offered to buy it from you and each time you refused to sell. The price was high for
such a bauble and your refusal convinced me that you were aware of its true worth." Yalung glanced once behind him
as if sensing the presence of some entity, but the avenue and the space between the trees was deserted. "I should
have had you safe on Aarn. I killed the thief who tried to rob you in the hotel. Normally the police would have
arrested you and the ring would have come into my possession while you would have been kept safely in prison. But
you were too quick. I could do nothing but follow you into the Web. Once in, I had no choice but to continue as I had
begun."
An accident, thought Dumarest. The unpredictable workings of destiny. A primitive sense of danger and the
quick grasping of an opportunity. Who could have predicted that one man would kill another at that exact place and
time? Or that he would have been given the dead man's job?
Quietly he said, "And now?"
"You are my patient. A poor fool touched in the brain who is not responsible for what he says and what he does. I
shall take passage on the next ship for us both and you will be drugged and bound for the entire journey. I have the
means to charter the vessel if that will be necessary." Yalung slapped his belt. "My pouch of precious stones. Genuine
jewels of high value. Ten times their worth will be mine when I have delivered you to the Cyclan."
Dumarest lifted his left hand from his right arm and looked at the ring. The impacted nerves had recovered a little
but the arm still felt numb, was still unreliable. He raised his right hand and began to fumble with the ring.
"You want this," he said. "You had better take it."
His fingers were too awkward. He lifted the ring and held it between his teeth, pulling until it slipped free. It fell
and he scrabbled for it, easing himself back over the grass. Picking it up with his right hand he held it so that it caught
the light.
"If this contains such a valuable secret then perhaps you are selling it too cheap?"
"The bargain is satisfactory."
"We could make much more than you hope to gain. I know what the affinity twin can do. Together we could
dominate a dozen worlds."
"And live for how long?" Yalung gestured his contempt. "You underestimate the power of the Cyclan. Should I try
to play them false my death would be certain."
"All men die," said Dumarest flatly. "And all women." He glanced once at the body of the girl. "But not often does
a man get such an opportunity as now lies within your grasp. You want money and power? I give it to you."
He threw the ring.
It spun high in the air, glittering, a thick band of gold holding a flat, ruby like stone. Yalung snatched at it as he
would a fly, missed, and automatically turned to follow its flight.
Dumarest flung himself at the knife.
It lay where it had fallen, where Yalung had casually tossed it, the spot to which Dumarest had rolled after the
Kha'tung fighter had pushed him. He reached it, scooped it up, sprang to his feet as Yalung realized his error.
"You fool," he said, already on his feet. "Do you think to beat me with that toy?"
Toy or not, the knife was the only advantage Dumarest had. He held it in his left hand, not trusting his right,
holding it ready to throw. Yalung sneered at his indecision.
"Throw it," he invited. "Or use it to stab at me as you did before. Hurry and let us dispense with this farce. You are
defeated before you can begin."
He crouched, thick arms folded over the massive muscles of his chest and stomach, complete protection to vital
organs against a thrown blade. His chin lowered to shield his throat and his slanted eyes were watchful.
Dumarest studied him, knowing that he had only the one chance and that he had to make it count. He raised his
hand and swept it forward in quick pretense. Yalung skipped backwards, hands lifting to beat aside the thrown knife,
grunting as he recognized the feint.
A second time he took the same evasive action. The third his backward skip carried him to where the dead girl
lay on the grass. His foot hit the obstruction and he staggered, off-balance and exposing his throat.
The knife ripped into the flesh below his ear.
It was a shallow cut but it was enough. Blood fountained in a scarlet stream, raining on the yellow and black, the
grass, the body of the dead girl. Yalung clapped his hand to the wound, the fingers immediately turning red, more red
spurting from the severed artery. He stooped, snatched up the knife, and threw it all in one quick movement. The
point slammed against Dumarest's chest, tearing through the plastic to be halted by the protective mesh beneath.
"Armored!" Yalung swayed, already weak from the loss of blood. "I should have aimed for the face." He slumped
to his knees and fell sideways, but he was not yet dead.
Dumarest walked to where he lay. A gleam of gold gave the position of the ring. He picked it up and slipped it on
his finger, watched all the time by the slanted almonds of Yalung's eyes.
 "The ring," he said, and raised himself on one elbow. "The secret, what—" He broke off as a thin, shrilling note
echoed over the trees, the entire region. It was sweet, high and painful in its keening poignancy. "Look!" Yalung reared
upwards to rest on his heels. "The ring!"
On the flat surface of the stone shone fifteen points of brilliance.
"A sonic trigger," gasped the Kha'tung fighter. "The correct sequence of the affinity twin. And you didn't know.
You didn't know!" He fell, lips twisted in an ironic smile. "All I had to do was to kill you and take the ring. I had a
dozen opportunities but I used none of them. I even saved you from the beast on Joy. I thought you were valuable,
that you would have known that—"
He died as a second chime rang through the air. The summons to the guardians which announced the coming of
a vessel to the Place.
The handler was an old man with silvered hair and lines meshed thickly on his face. He stood at the foot of the
ramp, his eyes misted with gentleness.
"This job doesn't pay much," he said. "But it has its compensations."
"The pilgrims?" Dumarest looked at the column filing down the avenue. Their progress was slow, those who could
not walk being carried by those barely able to hobble. Leading them was the enigmatic figure of a guardian. Others
stood between the sparing trees. Watching? Counting? It was impossible to know.
"I was one of them once," said the handler. "Twenty years ago. I had a malignancy of the blood impossible to
cure. Shrine was my last hope." He breathed deeply, inflating his chest. "I was cured," he said quietly. "It seems to me
that I owe something to all those seeking health."
"It's a nice thought," said Dumarest.
"You crashed, you say?"
"That's right."
"You were lucky," said the handler. "And did you—?"
"Yes," said Dumarest quickly. "I visited the Place. And," he added slowly. "I think I gained what I had been
lacking."
Gained and lost, both within the span of hours. From where he stood Dumarest could see the spot where they
had slept, where Lallia had been murdered and where Yalung had died. The bodies were gone, lifted away by the
birds to be disposed of somewhere, perhaps fed to the spine-trees. As others would be disposed of, those who would
die, as some must die, at the center of the clearing.
He looked again down the avenue. The dying sun threw a ruby light in the natural arch, a dim, mysterious,
luminescence in which the slowly moving band of pilgrims appeared to be walking through water, marching into the
gate of another world. A concentration of pain and suffering, of desperation and hopefulness. Did the entity within
the wrecked vessel live on such Paraphysical emanations? Did it need the psychic energy of those who came to rest
their hands on the mound? Giving, perhaps as a by-product, something in return?
"They go," mused the handler. "They crawl and skip and drag themselves down to the Place. And when they
come back, those that do, they march like men. They fall into the ship and sleep solid for ten, twelve hours.
Sometimes longer. And when they wake you can see paradise in their eyes."
"A good feeling," said Dumarest.
"The best." The handler sucked in his breath as a cone of coruscating brilliance leaped from the surrounding
area. "It won't be long now."
His face was livid in the glow. Dumarest turned, looking at the radiance, wondering what it could be. The
discharge of natural energies? A waste product of the alien entity? Or was it, perhaps, the visible by-product of a
supralight message aimed at some distant galaxy?
"They'll be coming back soon," said the handler. "And we'll take them home."
"And me?" Dumarest looked at the man. "You can give me passage?"
"If you can pay."
"To outside the Web?"
"To Thermyle; you can get an outward-bound ship from there." The handler hesitated. "We won't be going direct
and you know the system. But if you're short of money you can ride Low."
"I've got money," said Dumarest.
He had Yalung's pouch of precious gems and they would carry him to where he wanted to go. To a flaring red
point on a pictured galaxy or as near as he could get to the sector in which it was held. It would be a long journey and
there would be too much time to remember what might have been. Of a girl with lustrous black tresses, the pressure
of her arms, the promise of her body, the future they would now never share.
"That's all right then," said the handler. "Just you?"
"Yes."
 "Then you're alone?"
"Yes," said Dumarest bleakly. "I'm alone."

TECHNOS

Chapter One
At night the streets of Clovis were twisting threads of shadowed mystery faced by high walls and shuttered
windows, looping and curving as they followed the dictates of some ancient plan. The city itself was a place of
brooding silence broken only by the sough of the wind from the plains beyond, the discordant chiming of prayer bells
suspended from the peaked and gabled roofs. Pale lanterns hung like ghostly stars, their ineffectual light augmented
by the haze from the landing field and the great floodlights of the workings to the north where men and machines
tore into the planetary crust for the wealth buried deep; all was reflected from the lowering clouds in a dim and
artificial moonlight.
Dumarest paused as he reached an intersection, eyes watchful as he studied the streets curving to either side.
They appeared deserted but that meant little; men could be lurking in the black mouths of doorways, the shadowed
alleys, ready to leap out and kill any who passed. He would not be the first to be found robbed and murdered in the
light of the rising sun.
Cautiously, keeping to the middle of the road, he headed down one of the streets, his boots making soft padding
noises as he trod the cobbled way. It was late; an entrepreneur had brought in a troupe of dancing girls, little things of
graceful movement, doll-like in ornate costumes, their hands fluttering in symbolic gestures as they pirouetted to the
beat of gong and drum, and entranced by their charming innocence he had lingered to see the final performance.
Now he was beginning to regret his self-indulgence. Clovis was an old city steeped in ancient tradition, resentful of
the new activity which threatened its brooding introspection.
And, in the winding maze of streets, it was all too easy to get lost.
Dumarest reached the end of the street, turned left and was twenty yards from the corner when he heard the
pound of running feet coming from behind. Immediately he sprang to one side, turning, pressing his back against a
wall, his right hand dipping to lift the nine-inch blade from where it nestled in his boot. A vagrant beam caught the
polished steel, shining from the razor edge and the needle point, the betraying gleam vanishing as, recognizing the
man who loped towards him, he sheathed the knife.
"Lemain!"
"What—" The man staggered to a halt his face ghastly in the dim light. He was stooped, one hand clamped to his
side, the fingers thick with oozing blood. His eyes widened as Dumarest stepped toward him. "Earl! Thank God it's
you! I thought—" He broke off, head turned to where other racing footsteps broke the silence. "The guards! They're
after me, Earl. They'll get me, too. You'd best keep out of the way."
"Forget it," said Dumarest. He caught hold of the other's free arm and swung it over his shoulders. Half carrying,
half dragging the injured man he ran down the street. The dark mouth of an alley gaped to one side, and he turned
down it as the approaching footsteps grew louder. The alley was a trap, a blank wall closing the far end. Dumarest
turned and ran back as lights shone at the mouth of the alley. The fingers of his free hand scraped the wall, felt the
wood of a door, and he thrust himself against it. The panel was locked. He thrust again and felt something yield with
a dull snapping of wood. The door swung inward and he almost fell into darkness. Supporting the weight of the
injured man, he closed the panel and leaned against it as boots echoed from the cobbles beyond.
Light blossomed from somewhere, "Who is that? What do you want?"
"Be quiet!" Dumarest turned and saw a woman sitting upright on a bed, a candle guttering in her hand.
"It's all right," he said quickly. "We mean you no harm. Just be silent."
She rose and came toward him. Her feet were bare, the nails gilded, her height almost that of his own. Her hair
was curled, gilded, as were her fingernails, in the sign of her profession. From beneath a thin robe of yellow silk her
breasts moved in succulent attraction. At each step a long, curved thigh gleamed in inviting nudity. Her lips were very
red and very full; moist and full of promise.
"You're late," she whispered, "But I'm always ready for business. What's the matter with your friend? Is he drunk?"
"Silence!" Dumarest reached out and dropped his hand on the candle, killing the dancing flame. From beyond the
door came the sound of harsh voices.
 "Well, he isn't here. Damned if I can see how a man can run like that with the burn we gave him."
"He's tough," said a second voice. "And scared. A scared man can do a lot of surprising things. He must have run
faster than we thought. He isn't here, anyway. I guess we'd better call it a night."
The rasp of their boots grew faint as they moved away.
"Earl!" Lemain stirred in the grip of the supporting arm. "Earl, I—"
His voice died as Dumarest clamped his hand over his mouth. Silk rustled as the woman moved in the darkness,
the scent of her perfume heavy in the air.
"They've gone now," she said. "May I relight the candle?"
"No," said Dumarest. "And make no sound."
For ten minutes he waited, standing immobile against the door, the weight of the injured man dragging at his
arm. The silence felt thick and heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of garments, the ragged breathing of Lemain.
And then, from outside, boots rang against the cobbles.
"It's a bust," said a harsh voice disgustedly. "If he'd holed up in here he would have come out by now. I guess he
must have given us the slip somehow."
"It doesn't matter." The second guard was philosophical. "He didn't get away with anything so there's nothing to
cry about. And with that burn we gave him he can't get far. We'll check with the field and see if he made it as far as
there. If not, we'll say that he's dead. We lose the bonus but save ourselves a lot of work. Agreed?"
"Sure," said his companion. "Who's going to worry about a crumb like that anyway."
The sound of their boots grew faint as, genuinely this time, they moved away; the scrape of leather on stone
merged with and drowned in the chimes of prayer bells from high above.

***

Lemain was dying. Dumarest could see it as he stared at the man in the light of the relit candle. The dancing
flame threw shadows over the prominent bones of his cheeks and temples, accentuating the shadowed sockets of his
eyes, the thin bloodlessness of his lips. Beads of sweat dewed his forehead, and the muscles of his jaw were knotted
in pain.
"Earl," he whispered. "I tried something stupid. I got paid off at the workings. You quit, but I got fired. I was
desperate for a stake and went to Fu Kung's. I hoped to win but I lost. I guess I went a little crazy then. He keeps his
money in a safe in a rear office behind the tables and I tried to take some. Not all of it, just enough to buy a High
passage back home. His guards caught me before I could get anything. They shot me but I got away. The rest you
know." He coughed and inhaled, the sharp hiss of indrawn breath betraying his agony. "God, Earl! It hurts! It hurts!"
The woman said, "What's the matter with him? Is he sick?"
"He's hurt." Dumarest looked at the room. It was typical of its kind. A large, double bed filled one corner, the
mattress piled high with soft fabrics. A table, chairs, a wardrobe, a large cabinet holding both food and implements for
cooking, a curtained stall containing a shower, a washbasin, toilet facilities, the usual furnishings.
"Get a sheet," he ordered. "Clear the table and spread it over. Get another for use as a bandage. Hurry!"
"You'll pay?" Her voice was soft with trained intonations; an instrument of pleasure for the ear, but there was steel
beneath the softness. "He's been hurt, and those men outside were guards. If he's on the run I could get into trouble."
"There'll be no trouble," said Dumarest. "And we can pay."
He lifted Lemain as the woman cleared the table and spread wide a purple sheet, placed the limp figure on the
flat surface, stepped back to ease the ache in his arm and shoulder before he stooped to inspect the wound. It was
bad. Blood welled from a seared opening as he pulled the clamping hand away, the black of char clearly ran deep in
the intestine. The laser had hit hard and strong. How the man had been able to run at all was a mystery.
"Earl!" Lemain writhed in pain. "God, Earl, do something!"
"Give him wine," said Dumarest to the woman. "Spirits if you have any. And where is that other sheet?"
He bound it tightly around the injured man as she fed him sips of brandy, compressing it over the wound in an
effort to staunch the blood. It was a hopeless gesture. With immediate medical attention the man might have stood a
chance; now he had none at all.
"Earl?" Lemain pushed aside the woman's hand. The brandy had given him momentary strength, bringing a false
flush to his pallid cheeks. "How bad is it, Earl?"
"Bad."
"I'm dying?"
"Yes," said Dumarest emotionlessly. Lemain was not a boy, and a man should be told when to ready himself for
the final adventure. "Are you in pain?"
"Not now," said Lemain. "Not as I was. It seems to have eased a little." He turned his head, the dancing
candlelight giving his face the somber appearance of a skull. "So much to do," he whispered. "And now there's no
time to do it. If only the cards had fallen right I—" He broke off, his smile a rictus of approaching death. "Listen, Earl,
will you do something for me?"
"What is it?"
"A wise man," said Lemain. "You don't promise until you know what it is I ask. But it isn't much, Earl. I just want
you to carry a message for me. To my brother on Loame. Tell him that there is no answer on Shem, Delph and Clovis.
Will you do that?"
"Couldn't I send it?"
"No, Earl, there are reasons why it must be kept private. That is why I want you to carry it. To Loame, Earl.
Doesn't the name interest you? It's like the one we talked about. Earth. The planet you want to find. There is a man
on Loame who might be able to tell you exactly where it is."
Dumarest leaned forward, his face intent in the fitful illumination. "His name?"
"Delmayer, Earl. Grower Delmayer. He owns a big place and he is a collector of antiquities. Go to him, Earl. Talk
to him. I promise nothing but I'm sure he can help."
Dumarest hesitated. Another wasted journey? Another disappointment? Earth, he was positive, lay somewhere in
this region of the galaxy, yet the exact coordinates remained a mystery. To be so close and still be so uncertain was a
nagging irritation.
"Please, Earl." Lemain's hand lifted, gripped his own. "I'm dying and we both know it. You're leaving anyway so
why not head for Loame? Carry my message and maybe you'll help to save a world."
Exaggeration? Dying men saw things from a distorted viewpoint but there was no denying the urgency in his
voice, the appeal in his eyes. And why not? One planet was as good as another, and it was barely possible that the
man Delmayer possessed valuable information.
"All right," said Dumarest. "I'll carry your message."
"God bless you, Earl." The hand fell from his own, fumbled at a pocket. "The address… in here… my brother's a
good man… help." Lemain swallowed and said clearly: "You won't regret this, I'm sure of it."
"He's dying," said the woman suddenly. "Does he want anything? A monk, perhaps?" She stepped forward, the
candle in her hand. "There's a small church at the edge of the landing field. I can get you one if you want."
"No," said Dumarest. "There isn't time."
"There could be. I'll run all the way."
And return with what? A monk of the Universal Church with his hypnotic skill to ease the mind and body of the
dying or a pair of guards eager to earn a reward? Self-preservation dictated that she return with the latter. It was a
risk Dumarest dared not take.
"No," he said again.
Gold shimmered as she looked at him, the candlelight bright in the gilded tresses of her hair, more gold flashing
from her nails, matching the gleam in her eyes. "You're hard," she said. "By God, you're hard. And you call yourself his
friend?"
"I did," said Dumarest quietly. He looked at Lemain. While they had argued the man had died. Reaching out, he
closed the staring eyes. "But not now. A dead man has no need of friends."
"He's gone?" She sighed and put down the candle. "Well, what do we do now?"
"We wait," said Dumarest, "Until the dawn."

***

Waiting, they talked. Her name was Zillia and she was a professional woman of pleasure, her attitude a peculiar
blend of hardness and sentiment, a typical product of the old city where tradition had set her class in a prison of rigid
formality. To Dumarest's questions as to how she would dispose of the body she shrugged.
"There are men who will do anything for money. I will bribe a couple. The dead man will be found in a street far
from here. Not today, but tomorrow. There is no time now to make the arrangement, and there will be no questions
and no suspicion as to my part in the affair. A dead man, one from the workings, who is going to be concerned about
such as he?"
"You don't like the workings?" Dumarest sipped at the glass in his hand. She had produced wine and served them
both, now they sat on the edge of the bed, the sheeted corpse a formless bundle to one side of the room.
"The workings?" Again she shrugged, the upward movement of her shoulders causing her full breasts to strain
against the thin fabric of her robe. "To me they mean nothing, but to those who rule this world they could spell
disaster. Already the young are becoming independent and dissatisfied with their lot. You, those like you, are a fresh
wind to blow away ancient cobwebs with your news of other worlds, other societies. Once the habit of obedience is
broken how can it be restored?"
"Blind obedience is never good," said Dumarest flatly. "Always a man must ask himself why he should obey.
Because the one giving the order is older? Has greater wealth? Is in a position of authority? Commands respect
because of his greater knowledge and experience? Unless these questions are asked the habit of obedience leads
inevitably to mental slavery."
"Deep thoughts," she said, smiling. "And questions not of our concern. Had you known the dead man long?"
Dumarest sipped more wine. "Not long. We worked together, and once he saved me from injury. A grab
discharged its load above where I stood. Lemain thrust me aside." His hand tightened on the glass. "The grab
operator had cause to regret his carelessness later."
"You killed him?"
"No, just hurt him a little. After that Lemain and I spent some time together. We ate at the same table and slept in
the same dormitory. We talked of various tilings. I liked him. He was a good man."
"And Earth?"
Dumarest looked at the woman, her face soft in the kindly light of the candle, the glimmer of her gilded hair a
shimmering halo against the shadows beyond. She had, he realized, subconsciously fallen into the habits of her trade,
putting him at ease with wine and conversation, letting her magnificent femininity work its biological magic.
"It's a place," he said quietly. "A world."
"Your world?"
"Yes."
She frowned, puzzled, her mind teasing the problem. "But he said that you didn't know where it was. At least he
said that someone could tell you that. But if it is your world, surely you know the way back?"
"I left when I was very young," Dumarest explained. "I stowed away on a vessel and the captain was kinder than I
had reason to deserve. He could have evicted me, instead he allowed me to join his crew. From there I went on and
on, visiting many worlds, penetrating to the Center."
To where stars hung thick in the sky and the nights were brilliant with sheets and curtains, streamers and halos of
colored brilliance. To where the very name of Earth was unknown and the coordinates unmarked. Deftly she refilled
his glass. "And?"
"Now I'm trying to find my way back," he said. "That is all. A simple story of a runaway boy who became lost in
the vastness of the galaxy. You must have heard its like a thousand times."
"Perhaps." She touched the rim of her glass to his own, her eyes bright as they met his across the goblets. "I give
you a toast. To success in all you endeavor!"
"To success!"
They drank and Dumarest set aside his empty glass. He would need a clear head at dawn, when it would be safe
to walk through the city, to go to the landing field and take passage away from Clovis. And there was still unfinished
business to be settled. He reached into a pocket and produced money, the thick, triangular coins of the local
currency. Taking the woman's hand he filled her palm with precious metal.
"For your trouble," he said. "For what you have done and have yet to do. Is it enough?"
Gold shimmered as she bent her head, counting the coins. "The price of a High passage," she whispered. "My
lord, you are generous."
"You are satisfied?"
"Almost." She raised her head, eyes bright, teeth shining against the full redness of her lips. "For sanctuary and
the disposal of the dead this is more than enough. But for the rest—there is a price only you can pay."
The coins flashed as she thrust them beneath the pillow; fingernails gleaming she reached for the candle, the
glitter dying with the flame.
And then there was only warmth and softness, the scent of perfume and the incredible, demanding heat of her
magnificent body.

Chapter Two
The wind that morning was from the north with the sky clear and without promise of rain, which meant, thought
Quendis Lemain grimly, a bad time to come in the near future. He turned from the meteorological instruments, a
thickset, burly man of late middle age, once hard muscle now running to fat, his gray eyes narrowed as he looked
over his lands.
They were good lands, rich dirt filled with ripe humus, well drained, stocked with beneficial bacteria and showing
the devoted care of generations. To east and west the ranked trees of orchards marched toward the horizon, the deep
green leaves lustrous in the light of the rising sun, the branches heavy with swelling fruit. To the south sprawled acres
of grain, brassicas and vines. To the north stretched the root crops interspersed with succulents and gourds.
There the danger would strike first, the drifting-spore-like seeds riding the wind to settle, to germinate, to sprout
in vicious, horrible growth. A hundred men would have to keep continual watch, tearing out the thin tendrils as they
appeared, hoeing and turning the soil until it was again clean. And then, inevitably, they would have to do it all over
again.
For how long, he wondered? Already a good square mile had been lost from the northern borders of the farm,
good, fertile soil lost to production, covered now by the vile growth which threatened their very existence. And each
foot lost meant that much less food, that much more danger.
"Grower Lemain!" The girl was one of the house-servants, her simple dress of brown fiber taut over the lush
curves of her body. She came toward him eyes bright with health, the mane of her hair hanging loose over her
shoulders. "My lady sent me to tell you, Grower. Your meal is served and is waiting your pleasure."
Trust Susan to think of routine, thought Quendis. The wind from the north, no sign of rain, and she could still
think of food. Yet she was right to do so. Doubling the worry would not halve the danger and to minimize it was to
strengthen the morale of the workers. He drew a deep breath, inflating his chest.
"I'm coming, Nyalla."
"Grower?"
"What is it, child?"
"I am old enough for marriage, Grower. Will I have your permission to attend the mating dance at the harvest
festival?"
Quendis hesitated, then accepted the inevitable. Permission or not she would seek a mate, and it was best that he
agree. But a house would have to be provided, rations put by, money spent on the customary gift. And it would not be
Nyalla alone. From his own knowledge, there would be a score of weddings following the dance, and all would expect
the normal disbursements: Expect them and receive them. He would not be the first to break old tradition.
"Grower?"
He caught the note of anxiety and knew that he had stood brooding too long. Time to the young moved at a
different pace than for the old. Looking at her, he smiled.
"I was playing a game," he said. "Trying to guess who is the lucky man. Hemrod?"
"No, Grower, Ilsham." Her eyes held no trace of embarrassment. "I parted from Hemrod when he tried to take
more than I was willing to give. I have your permission?"
"Yes, my child, of course."
"Thank you, Grower!" Her teeth flashed white against the olive of her skin. "We shall bring you many children to
tend your land. This I promise!"
He lost his smile as she flounced away. His brows knitted as he walked slowly toward the door of the house. More
children soon to come. Strong young bodies to tend the land, to give it strength and to gain strength in return from
the rich, black soil. So it had been since the beginning, but for how much longer could that natural relationship last?
Already there were growers without land, workers without a home farm, forced to offer their labor in return for food.
If it had not been for the tribute, starvation would have been a common sight. No, he corrected himself, not
starvation, they still had a long way to go before that. Short rations, a limited choice, but not actual starvation.
God grant it never came to that.

***

The meal was one of Susan's specialties: heaped plates of delicious concoctions, pancakes, cream, syrup, eggs
and meats, butter and crisp bread together with pots of tisane. A wonderful repast for a man who had been up and
about since before dawn, but Quendis could touch little of it. Moodily he sipped at his cup of tisane half listening to
the interplay of conversation from others at the table. It was the usual chatter; what the new fashions were, Grower
Melton's new project for damming a river and flooding an infested area, the discontent of the workers on Grower
Ekton's land. It fell silent as he rapped for attention.
"The wind is from the north," he said in the following silence. "Hykos, you take a hundred men and stand watch.
Neeld, you gather the children and do the same further to the south. Thorn, how soon can we commence harvesting
the area?"
The foreman blinked, knowing the question was rhetorical. Quendis knew the exact state of every crop on every
inch of land, but the secret of successful cooperation lay in the respect given to others. It was like him to ask and not
demand.
"It could do with a few more days, Grower," said Thorn after due consideration. "A week if possible. I'd like to
make the most of this sunshine."
"Commence as soon as you think fit." Quendis rose, ending the meal and signaling dismissal. The hum of
conversation rose again as they filed out; his three daughters and four of his sons, his foreman, his wife, the chief
stockman and his assistant together with their wives, the agronomist, others. A full score sat down to every formal
meal in the house. Of the regulars only Cleon was absent. Quendis felt the pain rise again as he thought of his eldest
son. Firmly he quashed it. Some things simply had to be.
Susan joined him as the servants cleared the table. She was the younger by a dozen years having come to him
after the death of his first wife, becoming a mother to their only child. Her hand was firm on his own as she looked
into his face. "You're worried, dear. The wind?"
"That and no promise of rain."
"And Cleon?"
"Yes," he admitted. "That also." His hands clenched as he thought about it. "Damn the luck! Another year and he
would have been safe. I—" He broke off, remembering. Cleon would have been safe but he had seven other children.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't stop to think. If it hadn't been Cleon it could have been one of the others."
"Not necessarily." Her eyes were direct as they met his own. "You could exempt the family."
"I could," he admitted, "and don't think that I haven't thought about it. But if I did how long would my authority
last? Have you heard what happened to Grower Rentail? He did that. One night he woke to find his house in flames.
The workers are not fools, and angry men forget tradition. If we are to survive at all we must work together."
"And die together." Her voice was bitter. "I've seen the charts, my husband. The charts and graphs you keep in
your office. And I've spoken to Leaderman. You have a skilled agronomist but he is a poor liar. The exponential curve
is both sharp and final. A storm of wind from the north at the right time, followed by a heavy rain, and what of the
land then?"
"Nothing." He was sharp. Who knew what ears might be listening? "A rain would wash the seeds from the air.
Rain is a friend. A storm?" He shrugged. "Who can fight against nature? But we will have no storm and no sudden
invasion. Leaderman dealt in probabilities, plotting the most dire circumstances which could be imagined; but they
are remote. As remote as snow in summer." He forced a laugh into his voice, a lightheartedness he did not feel,
"Nyalla asked permission to attend the mating dance. I gave it, naturally, and she promised me many children to tend
the land. With such assistance what have we to fear?" He reached out and squeezed her arm. "Don't worry, my dear.
We shall survive."
"Yes," she said after a moment's hesitation. "Of course."
"You doubt it?"
He was ready for an argument, ready to beat down her protests and so dissolve his own misgivings, but the
phone rang before she could reply. A servant answered it, her tone respectful. Quietly she came toward them from the
booth.
"A call for you, Grower. From the city."
It was Colton, his seamed face anxious as he looked from the screen. "Hello, Quendis. Are you busy?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I'm calling a meeting. There are things to be discussed and I think you should be there. It's important, Quendis, if
it wasn't I wouldn't ask."
Quendis hesitated. Sense told him that he was neither essential nor would he be missed, and it was long past time
for him to attend a grower's meeting. He frowned as he looked at the face on the screen. Colton wasn't really a grower
at all for he held no land, but he was the representative of them all in that he had been their common agent in times
past. It was natural that he, as near a neutral as they could get, should chair their meetings.
"I'm not sure that I can make it," he said slowly. "We've got bad weather here and—"
"There's bad weather everywhere," interrupted the agent. "There's sickness and misery and as much worry as
you could wish for. But staying at home won't cure it. Unless we can all work together we might as well give up now.
I'm calling the meeting for noon. If you're interested in hanging on to your land you'd better come."
It sounded, thought Quendis, uncomfortably like a threat.

***

There was trouble at the gate. Dumarest waited patiently as the line of embarking passengers moved slowly
across the landing field to be questioned by a uniformed officer. He sat behind a table, arrogant in his red and black,
the unmarked plastic gleaming as if it newly applied paint still wet with liquid gloss. His voice was sharp as he fired
questions.
"Name?"
 "Frene Gorshon."
"Your sponsor?"
"Grower Gorshon, sector nineteen, decant five, house fifteen. He is my brother."
"I asked the name of your sponsor, not his address."
The inspector reached toward the compact bulk of a computer at his side. "Your reason for visiting Loame?"
"My father is dead. I am here to attend his funeral rites."
"A disgusting custom." The inspector operated the machine and checked the answer. Satisfied he nodded. "You
may pass. Next?"
The man standing behind Dumarest sucked in his breath as the line moved forward. "This is a hell of a thing to
happen," he muttered. "The last time I was here Loame was a free planet. Now look at it. Bright boys all dressed up
and throwing their weight around. If I had the cash I'd turn right around and leave on the next ship. Do you have a
sponsor?"
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"I haven't and I'm broke. I wonder if you could help out? Find me a sponsor, maybe. I'm a skilled mechanic and
can fix anything with an engine." He plucked at Dumarest's sleeve. "If you could fix me up I'd be grateful."
"Sorry," Dumarest didn't look at the man. "Try someone else. I can't help."
"Can't or won't?"
Dumarest turned and looked at the speaker. He was a big man with sullen, angry eyes. "Both," he said coldly.
"Now take your hand off my sleeve before I break your arm."
He turned as the line moved forward, eyes somber as he looked at the fence, the cluster of men standing beyond
the gate. The houses of the town were primitive, built of logs caulked with clay, blending into the background of trees
in rural harmony. A row of antigrav rafts seemed an anachronism, as did the suspended lights and the bulk of
machines to one side. Harvesters, he guessed, to be expected on an agricultural planet.
"Your name?" The inspector looked at the man just ahead.
"Bastedo."
"Sponsor?"
"None." The man lifted his bag and set it on the edge of the table. "I am a seller of agricultural machines. I have a
full set of three-dimensional slides, holograms and working miniatures of the items for which I am agent."
The inspector checked his computer. "I have no record of your clearance. Entry denied."
"What?" Anger mottled the face of the trader. "Now you see here! I'm a legitimate businessman and you have no
right to refuse me entry. Just who are you, anyway? I've got—" He broke off as two armed guards, wearing the same
red and black as the inspector, moved forward at a signal.
"Now listen to me," said the officer coldly. "If you argue you will be detained. If you resist you will be shot. Is that
clearly understood?"
Gulping, the trader nodded.
"Loame is a tributary world of Technos," explained the inspector. "As you have no clearance from that planet you
are deemed to be an undesirable alien. As such you are denied entry. You now have a choice of action. You can take
passage on the next vessel to leave or, if you have no money, you will be given a Low passage to Technos. There you
will be put to work until the debt is paid."
"And how do I go about getting a clearance?"
"You don't," said the inspector. "Those of your profession are unwanted on this world. Next?"
Dumarest shouldered aside the trader. He gave his name and added, "I am a traveler. I carry a message which I
am to deliver to a resident of this world. To Grower Lemain. His address—"
"Never mind that." The inspector's eyes were calculating as he looked at Dumarest. "Are you a resident of the
Technos complex?"
He restrained the impulse to lie. A resident would carry papers, have easily verifiable information which the
inspector could check. The only lies safe here were those impossible to disprove. "No."
"This message, what is it?"
"A few words from a dying man," said Dumarest. He added, lying. "He saved my life at the cost of his own. That
is why I am here. I made him a promise and I'm superstitious about such things."
"I see." The officer manipulated his computer, frowning, his fingers dancing on the keys. "The name of the dead
man?"
"Lemain. Carl Lemain."
"His relationship to the man you wish to see?"
"His younger brother."
The officer leaned back, his eyes enigmatic. "You have no objection to giving him this message in my presence?"
 "No," said Dumarest. "None at all."

Chapter Three
The meeting had been like all the other meetings they had held since the trouble began. Individuals each seeking
to gain an advantage, none ready to yield to the common good. And though he could see the force of Colton's
reasoning, Quendis wasn't going to be the first to give money and manpower without seeing a chance of immediate
return. It was all very well for the chairman to rail and threaten but he held no lands and he refused to understand the
motivations of those who did. The land was everything; to tend it was a man's reason for existence. To work together
was one thing; to make sacrifices so that another would gain was something else. The agent was asking too much
with his talk of pooled resources and shared labor.
Outside the meeting hall Quendis looked at the sun, well past zenith, and wondered what to do now that he was
in town with time to spare. Visit the field? A vessel had arrived and old hopes refused to die. Sternly he repressed
them. There would be officers at the gate and their curiosity must not be aroused. It was not in his pattern of
behavior to visit the field—to break that pattern was to invite interrogation.
He started as a hand touched his arm from behind, feeling the sudden acceleration of his heart as he saw the
hated red and black.
The soldier was curt. "Is your name Lemain?"
"I am Grower Lemain." Quendis stressed the title. "What do you want?"
"You will accompany me to the gate." The soldier ignored the question. "Immediately."
Perplexed, he followed the soldier, conscious of the wondering stares of others, the growers who had attended
the meeting, the workers lounging around. Too many workers; at this time of year they should be in the fields tending
the crops and readying for harvest. They must be some of the dispossessed, he thought. Men and women from the
overrun farms who had not been able to attach themselves to another house. Now they hung around the field, eager
to work at any degrading task, some even taking Low passage from the planet, their strength and the strength of their
children forever lost to the soil of Loame.
"Wait here." The soldier moved on without waiting to see if he was obeyed and again Quendis felt a surge of
irritation at his aggression. Give a man a uniform, he thought, give him a gun and you create a monster. He stiffened
as an officer beckoned to him from the gate.
"You are Lemain?"
"I am Grower Lemain."
"There is a man here with a message for you." Like the soldier, the officer was curt. He turned to Dumarest. "Give
it to him."
Quendis drew in his breath as he looked at the stranger. He wore a high collared tunic with full sleeves, pants
thrust into knee boots, all of a neutral gray plastic. The lines and hollows of his face were hard, the mouth firm, the
jaw determined. The face of a man, he thought, who had early learned to live without the protection of Guild, House
or Organization. And he had come bearing a message. God grant that he be discreet!
"It's from your brother," said Dumarest, "I am sorry to tell you that he is dead."
Carl dead! Quendis felt his shoulders sag and did not have to counterfeit an expression of grief. He had loved his
younger brother. But what message had he sent? He cleared his throat, not daring to look at the inspector, knowing
that he drank in every word, watched every change of feature.
"You bring bad news," he said to Dumarest. "The message?"
"He asked you to forgive him. He said that he had been a boy and had felt a boy's anger at Susan's choice. He said
for me to tell you that he loved you both and that she had picked the better man."
Relief washed over Quendis like a cooling sea. Quietly he said, "It was good of you to bring me his last words. As
you may have guessed we had a bitter quarrel and parted in anger. I would appreciate it if you would tell my wife and
me the circumstances of his death. I would be happy if you would be my guest."
"You may accept," said the inspector curtly. "I will permit entry. You will report back to the gate in seven days."
He looked at Quendis. "I hold you responsible for his appearance."
He turned and moved back to his table and his busy machine. Quendis followed him with his eyes then looked at
Dumarest. "I have a raft. If you will please follow me, we can soon be on our way."
The raft was a commercial affair, a well three feet deep, six wide and twenty long, a weatherproofed cab at one
end holding the controls and large enough for three persons. Quendis didn't speak again until they were flying high
and fast, the drone of air a muted drumming against the cab, the details of the fields below lost in a blur of motion.
"Your name?"
 Dumarest gave it and added, "Your brother died on Clovis. Do you want the truth or shall I tell a pretty lie?"
"To me the truth." Quendis listened, his hands tight on the controls. "A sad end. It would be better, perhaps, for
you to add a little gloss when you come to give the details to my wife. She was fond of Carl." He paused and then said
softly, "And now you can give me the real message. The one Carl sent."
"He told me to tell you that there is no answer on Shem, Delph and Clovis. To me the words have no sense."
"And yet you lied before the inspector," said Quendis quickly. "Why did you do that?"
"I had my reasons," said Dumarest. He had seen fields ringed by high fences before, manned by men with guns
and wearing uniforms who asked endless questions and who watched as they were answered. And he had sensed the
other's fear, the inward cringing at what he might say. It had seemed safer to lie, ambiguous messages could carry
hidden meanings and he had no desire to become involved in planetary politics.
He sat back, eyes somber as he thought of the officer, his computer, the messages it could send and the
information it could hold. The man had been too intent, too concerned with detail, and all he had learned had been
transmitted to the machine. Dumarest had the uneasy feeling that somehow he had walked into a trap. He moved, a
ray of sunlight catching the gem of his ring, the red, flat stone glowing likely freshly spilled blood on the third finger
of his left hand.
Quendis said, "You traveled far to bring me Carl's message. I owe you much. You must tell me what I can do to
repay you for your trouble."
"You can help me to find a man. He is a collector of antiquities and his name is Delmayer. Will you take me to his
place?"
"At once," said Quendis. "But I do not think that you will like what you see."

***

From the summit of a ridge Dumarest looked down at an undulating sea of greenish yellow vegetation. Massed
vines, inextricably interwoven, rioted in savage fecundity in an unbroken carpet toward the northern horizon, the
sickly color blotched with the scarlet of blooms, the puffing white of fruiting pods, the whole bristling with thorns.
"You would never think it. Earl," said Quendis heavily, "but all this was once a prosperous orchard and farm."
"Delmayer's?"
"That's right. You can just make out the whereabouts of his mansion." The grower lifted his arm. "Over there,
see?"
Dumarest followed the pointing arm. In the near distance the vines rose in a gentle hummock, massed blooms
glowing like fire in the light of the setting sun.
"A fine place," said Quendis regretfully. "It held the continuous improvements of a dozen generations. I visited it
often. Delmayer was a hospitable man and loved to give feasts. They were events to remember. Five kinds of wine,
ten of meat and fish, a score of fruits and a dozen types of vegetable. We would start at dusk and continue until
dawn. He had the finest regurgitorium I have ever seen." He sighed. "Well, that's all over now."
"How long?"
"It has been three years since the growth covered his farm."
"And Delmayer?"
"He killed himself when it became obvious that the land could not be reclaimed. He tried, we all tried, but
nothing can eliminate the thorge once it takes hold." Quendis's voice was thick with rage. "Delmayer was a good man.
He fed over a thousand dependents and carried as many displaced workers from other farms to the north. What else
could he do but die with honor when they reached toward him with empty hands?"
Dumarest stepped down the slope to where reaching shoots sought to cover the naked stone. Stooping he tore
free a thin growth. It came from one as thick as his finger which sprouted in turn from one as thick as his arm. The
stem was fibrous, hard to break, vicious with thorns. A thick juice oozed from the broken end. A drop fell on his hand
and he wiped it clean as he felt the sting of acid. From the juice came a fetid odor accentuating the miasma rising
from the ground at his feet.
"We can't get rid of it," said Quendis as Dumarest straightened. "The third year stems are as thick as a man and
the speed of growth is phenomenal. It seeds throughout the year aside from four months in winter and leeches the
soil where it grows. It can be cut but the acid eats into the blades. If we burn it the flames release a poisonous vapor
which sears the lungs and blisters the flesh. We can drag it out by the roots but if a fragment is left it grows again. It's
a weed," he explained. "A mutated pest. Against it cultivated plants haven't a chance."
Dumarest looked toward the buried mansion. The growth must be high for the swell to be so insignificant
Obeying natural law the shoots would struggle to reach the sun, which meant that the lower levels would be free of
leaf and thin shoots. A band of determined men could, perhaps, fight their way through the massed stems.
 Quendis shook his head when he mentioned it. "No, Earl, it can't be done."
"Why not? I have money and can pay. A hundred men with saws and axes should be able to cut a path. We could
use lasers if they are available and wear protective clothing."
"You don't understand," said the grower patiently. "It's all been tried. The house is over a mile from where we
stand and, no matter how many men you employ, only a few can attack the thorge at any one time. Cutting the stems
will release the upper growth. More, it will release the juice and give rise to lethal vapors. Burning with lasers the
same. If you made ten yards in a day you would be lucky. Within a week the new growth would have blocked the path
behind you."
There is another way," said Dumarest tightly. "I could hire rafts and fly out to where the house is. Lasers could
burn the area clear."
"And what do you hope to find? An empty house filled with things of antiquity and items of value? Rooms
untouched and waiting your investigation?" Quendis mastered his impatience; how could this stranger understand?
"All you would find is a heap of disintegrating rubble. A mound of crumbling brick and stone laced with roots and
rotting with acid. What the thorge touches it destroys. Whatever you hoped to find in the mansion of Delmayer is no
longer there. It would be a waste of time and money to search." He paused and added, "And there is something else. I
hate to mention it, but it cannot be forgotten. You have seven days before you must report back to the landing field."
"So?"
"It would take that long to assemble the rafts and men. Longer to burn clear the area. I'm sorry, Earl there simply
isn't enough time."
Time! Dumarest looked down at his hands, now clenched into fists. Again he was too late. The knowledge
Delmayer had owned, assuming he had owned it, was lost. Had been lost for years. But surely Carl would have
known?
"He left five years ago," said Quendis when he put the question. "Shortly after the thorge first appeared. He was
brilliant and guessed what must happen unless we found a defense against it. His message told me that he had failed
to discover a weapon. Three worlds at least do not possess the answer. It was a hopeless quest from the start."
Dumarest was impatient. "This growth would be easy to destroy. Short life radioactives would do it. You could
dust the area and within a year burn the dead vines. The ash would help to fertilize the soil which you could then
restock with bacteria and low life forms. Within five years you could be growing selected crops."
Quendis, not looking at Dumarest, said, slowly, "Are you suggesting that we kill the land?"
"Not kill it, cleanse it."
"With radioactives?"
"Yes, if necessary, why not?"
He was a stranger, Quendis reminded himself, fighting his anger. He could not know of the terrible thing he
suggested, the ingrained horror of what he proposed. To kill the land! To burn it lifeless with the invisible fire of
radiation! To kill every seed and worm, every scrap of potential life, the very bacteria even!
The land which contained the sweat and blood, the body and bone of countless predecessors.
Watching him, Dumarest sensed his anger, the inner turmoil of his thoughts. Quietly he said, "I am a stranger
unused to your ways. If I have given offense I apologize."
"There is no offense." Quendis inflated his chest and dabbed at the sweat on face and neck. He was too old to
suffer such anger and yet, now, he was glad of the tolerance age had brought. A younger man would have struck
without thinking. Struck and, perhaps, died. Dumarest did not look the type of man who would take a blow without
retaliation. "The thought of killing the land is repulsive to us," he explained. "It would be wise not to mention the use
of radioactives again."
"I understand." Dumarest turned and looked once more at the sea of vegetation, the distant swell covering the
house. "Is there no natural enemy you could use? A parasite or a mold?"
"That is what Carl was seeking. If it exists at all it must be on the world of Technos."
"The ones who started the growth?"
"You know?" Quendis looked at Dumarest then shook his head. "You are guessing but it is a shrewd guess. We
were a happy people tending the land and spending a generation to perfect the color of a rose. Production was high
and we exported the surplus; dehydrated foods, perfumes, liqueurs, seeds of a thousand varieties. Then Technos
demanded that we supply men to help in a war against Gest. We refused. A month later the thorge appeared, at first
only in the most northern sector, but it was enough. It spread like fire and, as we tried to fight it, there came the
warning that unless we submitted to the rule of Technos the whole planet would be seeded with the vile growth. And
so we became a tributary world ruled by those who wear the red and black."
"And the tribute?"
"Men and women," said Quendis bitterly. "A thousand of each. Young, fit and virile."
 "To be paid each year?"
"When they demand." Quendis thought of Cleon and bit his lip against the emotional agony. "At first only once in
a year, then twice, then three times and now four. Soon it will be more. They drain our youth and leave us, old men to
tend dwindling lands, bankrupt growers and dispossessed workers. Soon we shall have nothing."
He turned, remembering that he had a guest, conscious of the rule of hospitality.
"Come," he said, leading the way to the raft. "You must not allow me to bore you with our problems. It is time I
welcomed you to my house."

***

It was a big place with massive walls of mortared stone, beamed with foot-thick timbers, many-storied and
strewn with a clutter of outhouses, workshops, stores and barns. The center of a compact village which, as far as
Dumarest could see, was entirely self-supporting.
Sitting at one end of the table, close to his host, he looked over the assembly as they ate their evening meal. The
food was good, heaped plates accompanied by jugs of wine and beer, perfectly cooked and dispensed with a lavish
hand. The people bore the stamp of similarity, olive skinned, liquid eyed, happy in an unsophisticated way. Inbred, he
guessed, content to live close to nature, eating well, working hard when the occasion demanded but unreliable if it
came to hardship. A soft and protected people embraced by a feudal system, serfs in fact if not in name.
But not Quendis. He sat, a king in his castle, his wife at his side and next to her a young man who could only have
been his son. His eldest son, Dumarest guessed, the likeness was unmistakable.
"A toast!" Quendis rose, goblet in hand. "To the guest within my walls!"
To the guest!"
The toast signaled the end of the meal. As the empty goblets rattled on the table the assembly headed from the
room, leaving Quendis, his wife and son, and Dumarest alone. As servants bustled forward to clear away the debris
the grower leaned toward his guest.
"If it is your pleasure we will adjourn to a smaller chamber. My wife and son are eager to hear the story you
bring."
The room was pleasant; a bowl of assorted fruit stood on a table together with a decanter of some thick, yellow
fluid. Susan poured, handing around the glasses, smiling at Dumarest as she lifted her own.
"To you, many thanks for your trouble," she said. "Carl was close to my heart. Now tell us, how did he die?"
"Bravely, my lady." Dumarest sipped at the liqueur. It was astringently cool, kind to throat and stomach, bearing
the scent of flowers. He settled back as he told his lies, padding what he had said to the inspector, giving the dead
man the aura of a hero who had given his life to save that of his friend. He ended, "He was a good man. I shall never
forget him."
"You knew him long?" Cleon leaned forward, his drink forgotten.
"Not long, but when you work with a man you know him well."
"He always wanted to travel. I remember him talking about it when I was young and again before he left. The
galaxy is full of worlds, he told me, new planets filled with waiting adventure. Have you traveled far?"
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"And for long?"
Too long. Riding High with the magic of quick time compressing hours into minutes, riding Low doped, frozen
and ninety percent dead, gambling each time that the fifteen percent death rate would hit other targets. Drifting from
world to world, working, moving on, looking, always looking.
"Yes," he said flatly. "For a long time."
"I wish I could travel," said Cleon. "I—" He broke off. "Well, it's too late now. My first journey will be my last."
"Cleon has been chosen," said the woman quietly, breaking the awkward silence. "He is to go with the next batch
of tribute." She turned to the young man. "You had better retire now. You were up all last night and out most of the
day."
"But—"
"Go!" snapped Quendis. He looked at Dumarest as Cleon left the room. "I must apologize for my son. Not usually
is he so disobedient."
"He must have a lot on his mind," said Dumarest. "What happens to those who are chosen?"
"They go to Technos," said Quendis bitterly. "After that we simply don't know. No word has ever been received
from any of those taken. They could be put to work as servants or used as guards on other worlds. They might even
be bred and their children used as janissaries, such as those you saw at the gate. They could be killed, slaughtered for
sport, used to provide regrafts for the local population. We simply don't know."
 "Don't think about it, husband." The woman was quick to change the subject, "Did you have a productive
meeting?"
"No, everything went as usual. It was a waste of time attending. Colton had some idea of us all pooling our labor,
concentrating on essential foods, and all working together to clear an individual farm. I left shortly after it began."
"So early? But you did not arrive home until late."
"We called at Delmayer's place," explained the grower. "Earl wanted to see him. He hoped that he could learn
something from his collection. It's all ruined now, of course, and Delmayer is dead. Now he will never know if the
man had the information he wanted."
"He might," said Susan. "Elaine might know."
"His daughter?" Quendis frowned. "But how—" He broke off, snapping his fingers. "Of course! Her talent! She can
remember everything she has ever seen or heard," he explained to Dumarest. "A truly phenomenal memory. She was
close to Delmayer, his wife died shortly after she was born and he never remarried, and he took delight in showing
her the old things. Books and charts, ancient records, things like that. She used to play with them. I wouldn't be
surprised if she hadn't read every word in his library."
An eidetic memory? It was possible. It was a common talent among the scattered peoples of the galaxy, minor to
some found among the sensitives, and there was no reason to doubt what Quendis had said. Dumarest glanced at the
woman. She, too, was revealing nothing but truth.
He said, "This woman. Where can I find her?"
Quendis slumped. "I'm sorry, Earl, I had forgotten. She moved to Technos years ago. Before the trouble started.
She could still be there, but I don't know how you can reach her. You need special clearance from the planet itself
before they will permit you to land and there is a complete ban on arrivals from Loame."
Dumarest remembered the interest of the officer at the gate, the details he had taken and recorded. He looked at
his hands, at the glow of the ring as it caught the light.
"I can reach her," he said quietly. "If you will help me."
"Help you?" Quendis was puzzled. "How?"
"By letting me take Cleon's place."
He saw the look, the sudden understanding in the man's eyes, the flare of hope on the woman's face as she
leaned toward him. It died as Quendis shook his head.
"No, Earl. It can't be done. I won't allow it."
But he would, Dumarest knew. He would permit it because it was the thing he wanted, what both he and his wife
wanted. He pressed the point as if the objection hadn't been made.
"They go by numbers not faces. They won't care who goes as long as the total is filled, but it isn't just a matter of
my taking his place, he will have to take mine. I'm recorded at the gate," he explained. "They know that I am with you
and they expect me to report back. Now, if Cleon pretends to be me, no one will ask any questions. He must wear my
clothes and it would be best for him to catch a ship when that particular inspector is off duty. He could go tonight; the
man must sleep, and, in any case, it will be dark. The ship leaves at dawn. Have you money? The cost of a High
passage?"
"Yes," said the woman. "Oh, yes."
"And he must wear a ring. A red stone in a band of gold. Can you obtain such a ring?"
"Yes," she said again quickly. "Oh, yes."
Quendis stirred as if waking from sleep. "Where will he go?" he demanded. "What will he do?"
"Does it matter?" Susan, with a woman's logic, beat aside his objections. "He will be alive and free. There will be
none to look at you with scorn for having cheated or with pity for having lost your heir. He can travel, work
somewhere, return when things are better. But he will be alive and we shall know it."
The rest was a matter of detail.

Chapter Four
Leon Vargas, Technarch, Chairman of the Supreme Council and virtual ruler of Technos, woke screaming from a
nightmare in which he was trapped and threatened by hideous dangers. Light bloomed from concealed fixtures as he
reared upright, heart pounding, sweat dewing face and body. In the open doorway the figure of his personal guard
loomed large against the dimness beyond.
"Sire?" The man was armed, the laser in his hand following his questing eyes. At any moment it could discharge a
pencil of searing heat. "Is anything wrong, sire?"
Vargas gulped and felt himself cringe. Why did the man have to point his weapon at the bed? Desperately he
tried to reassure himself. The man was loyal, tested by every device known to modern science, dedicated to the
welfare of his master. He was armed only as a defensive measure. It was natural that he should scan the room and be
ready to destroy any potential danger. And yet, a mistake, a trifle too much pressure on the trigger, a little too much
eagerness, and he could do the one thing he was paid to prevent.
"Leave me," said Vargas. "It is nothing. A bad dream."
"As you wish, sire." The gun, thank God, was lowered. "Is there anything you desire?"
A new body, a new mind, a ton of courage and a total lack of imagination. At times Vargas wished he had never
been born.
Aloud he said, "No. Nothing."
He rose as the door closed behind the guard, fumbling for euphorics, sitting on the edge of the bed as he waited
for the drugs to take effect. A grown man, he thought bitterly. A master scientist. A person respected and deferred to
every moment of his waking day. And at night he was a slave to terrifying dreams.
The workings of the subconscious, he mused. Buried fears rising to the surface in terms of symbolism or,
perhaps, they were warnings disguised in unfamiliar frames of reference. The web in which he had been trapped, for
example. That could be his position, the responsibility of office, or, again, it could be the strands of intrigue woven by
others to insure his downfall. The monstrosity which had crawled toward him; that undoubtedly was a symbol of the
envy and jealousy with which he was surrounded. The things which had stung and bitten; they must represent those
members of the council with whom he seemed to be continually at war. Brekla, Krell, Gist, Sterke, the list was too
long.
And his fear was too great.
The fear of assassination, of injury, of death. Coldly, a part of his mind reduced the fears to normal proportions.
They were a normal part of the heritage of every person ever born and only when they became obsessive did they
edge over the norm. Paranoia, he thought. A persecution complex combined with delusions of grandeur. The rule of
thumb diagnosis given by every low grade psychoanalyst fresh from college.
And yet he was the Technarch. Could such facile judgments be applied to him?
No, he decided as the euphorics took effect. They could not. For he was persecuted, and with logical reason. A
man could not expand the boundaries of his society without creating enemies. And, if to be ambitious was to hold
delusions of grandeur, then that also was true.
Revived, he rose and stepped into the shower. The sting of scented water lent a transient vitality to aging flesh,
bolstering the action of the drugs coursing through his blood. Dispassionately, he stared at himself in a mirror.
Beneath a cap of white hair his deep-set eyes glared from under bushed eyebrows. His hooked nose hung like a beak
over a savage mouth and a thrusting jaw. The face of a fighter, he thought, even though cragged and gouged with
time. Too much time. His eyes dropped to his body and quickly moved away. He was a fool to wait so long, and yet
always there was the fear. A mistake, a single error deliberate or unconscious and he would be dead.
But how much longer could he continue as he was?
The thought was a spur, driving him to dress, to leave his chamber, to stride through passages his guard a
watchful shadow at his rear. Doors yielded before him, the last resisting for a moment before swinging wide. Within a
tall, emaciated figure rose like a bright flame.
"My lord?"
"Do I disturb you, cyber?"
"No, my lord." Cyber Ruen stood motionless as Vargas slammed the door on his guard. His shaven head roared
skull-like above the thrown back cowl of his scarlet robe. His hands were buried within the wide sleeves and, on his
breast, the great seal of the Cyclan shone with reflected light. "You are troubled, my lord?"
"I had a dream," said Vargas. "A bad one." Did cybers ever dream, he wondered. They were strangers to emotion,
that he knew, training and an operation on the thalamus at puberty had robbed them of the capacity to feel. They
were living robots of flesh and blood their only possible pleasure that of mental achievement. Almost he envied the
cyber; it must be wonderful not to know fear and hatred, terror and despair. Yet was the price too high? The loss of
pain gained only at the loss of the capacity to love, to lust, to experience the joys of food and wine. The joys,
perhaps, of a new and virile body.
Casually he glanced around the chamber. It was sparsely furnished and contained a mass of electronic
equipment. A computer stood on the desk connected, he guessed, to the main information banks. Ruen must have
been busying himself in some abstruse study.
"I was just correlating various items of data, my lord," he said as Vargas asked the question. "Mostly from
Loame."
"The garden planet," said Vargas. The euphorics had made him a little lightheaded, swinging his depression a
trifle too far so that, for amusement, he demanded, "I am considering altering the plan of attack. Your prediction as to
what would happen if I should destroy the thorge?"
"The economic swing would be reversed. With fresh lands to cultivate the growers would maintain their power.
With previous experience to draw on they would increase their exports and use the income to develop biological
weapons against Technos. The probability of that, my lord, is eighty-five percent."
"High," mused Vargas. "And if I continue as planned?"
"The growth will spread until the planet is on the edge of starvation. Long before that the economic structure will
disintegrate with the workers rebelling against the growers and their hold on the land. Within five years there will be a
civil war, naturally on a minor scale. Within ten the planet will be overrun by the thorge and the growers bankrupt.
The accuracy of that prediction, my lord, is ninety-nine percent. Practically certain."
"But not total certainty," said Vargas shrewdly. "With your ability to extrapolate from known data and predict the
logical sequence of events from any course of action why can't you be more positive?"
"Because, my lord, there is always an unknown factor," explained Ruen. "Total certainty cannot exist in the
universe."
Vargas was sharp. "Not even for death?"
"No, my lord. Not even for that."
The cyber spoke in an even modulation, a tone carefully trained to be devoid of all irritant factors, yet even so
the Technarch thought he heard a note of utter conviction. It could be nothing, of course, merely the conviction of a
scientist stating an unanswerable fact, but it could be more than that. The Cyclan was a strong and powerful
organization which operated, if rumor was true, vast and secret laboratories. Could they have discovered the secret
of immortality?
Carefully he said, "Tell me, cyber, if death is not certain then how can a man avoid it?"
"There is only one way, my lord. By continuing to live."
Vargas flushed with anger.
Quickly Ruen continued, "I do not mock, my lord. There is no other secret to immortality. In fact, by the nature of
the universe, there can be no such thing. Nothing can last forever, certainly nothing as fragile as flesh and blood, but
to extend life is not impossible. Your own physicians can do that."
"You contradict yourself, cyber." The drugs in Vargas's blood had mastered his rage. "First you say that nothing is
certain including death and then you say that death is inevitable. Is this a sample of your trained logic? For half the
price I pay to your clan I could buy machines to do better."
"If you wish to terminate your agreement with the Cyclan that can be arranged," said Ruen evenly. "We serve
none against their will."
A threat? Vargas knew better. The Cyclan did not threaten, they did not take sides, they were not corrupt. But if
he dismissed the man he would be free to take service with others. It would be foolish to provide his enemies with
such a weapon. And he had so many enemies.
"If I so decide you will be informed," he said curtly. "In the meantime, cyber, remember that your loyalty lies to
me alone. Not to the state, but to me."

***

Ruen bowed. "It is understood, my lord."

Alone the cyber reseated himself and assimilated the latest data. The Technarch was reaching a critical stage and
already beginning to act illogically. The knowledge he had acquired when younger, the coldly appraising scientific
approach, was dissolving beneath the mounting aberrations of his psychosis. Soon he would be completely irrational
and then it would only be a matter of time before he was ousted from his position. But he would not go easily. Such a
man could only hope to resist his enemies by holding supreme power. Therefore, he would remain Technarch no
matter what the cost.
At such times of confusion the Cyclan came into its own.
Had Ruen been able to feel amusement he would have smiled at Vargas's insistence on personal loyalty. A cyber
was loyal only to the Cyclan. He was a part of the Great Design and against that all the petty desires of transient
rulers were nothing. Vargas would fall. His successors would lean even more on the advice he had to offer. Subtly
they would grow dependent and, in time, another sector of space would be under Cyclan domination.
He turned back to the computer on the desk, his fingers dancing over the keys, eyes reading the spinning dials as
they settled to form words, spinning again as he tripped the release. A mass of routine information, a thousand items
of data to one of potential value, and he would not recognize its significance until he saw it. Hence he must see them
all, from Cest, Wen, Hardish and now from Loame.
Fifteen minutes later he rose and stepped to the door of an inner room. An acolyte, young, totally dedicated, rose
as Ruen looked into the chamber.
"Master?"
"I am retiring. Total seal. I am not to be disturbed for any reason."
The acolyte bowed. "It is understood, master."
Ruen turned and crossed the outer room to the door of his own, private cubicle. It was small, holding a narrow
cot and little else, a windowless niche devoid of decoration. The inside of the door had been fitted with a heavy bolt.
Ruen threw it and then touched the thick bracelet locked about his left wrist. From it streamed invisible energies, a
zone of force which made it impossible for any electronic eye or ear to operate in or focus on the vicinity. His privacy
assured, he lay supine on the cot.
Closing his eyes he relaxed, concentrating on the Samatchi formula, ridding his mind of the irritation of external
stimuli. He was deaf, numb and, had he opened his eyes, blind. Triggered by the formula the Homochon elements
grafted in his brain woke to active life and, suddenly, he was not alone.
He was a part of the Central Intelligence, the gigantic organic computer at the heart of the Cyclan, the massed
brains which resided in a world of pure intelligence. He was of them and with them in an encompassing gestalt which
diminished time and distance, mind merging with mind in organic communication so nearly instantaneous that the
speed of ultra-radio was by comparison the merest crawl.
Like water from a sponge the information was absorbed from his brain,
The man Dumarest was on Loame? You are positive?
Ruen emphasized his conviction.
And has departed to Choal?
If the information received from the computer had not lied the man he had been instructed to watch for had done
exactly that. But his training qualified the answer. Lacking personal knowledge he could only relate the information
available.
He must be apprehended. Agents will be instructed to intercept him on Choal. Others will watch on a predicted
basis of fifty percent probability of movement. You, yourself must be even more alert. It is of prime importance that
the man be constrained.
The subject discussed was dismissed. Brevity was the hallmark of such communication, but other matters needed
clarification.
Cybers have been sent at the invitation of the ruler of Rhaga. You will divert any attempt at expansion in that
direction. Extrapolation of the civil unrest on Hardish shows that insurrection will break out within one month.
Acceleration of the program designed for Technos is desirable.
The rest was sheer intoxication.
As communication ceased Ruen felt that he was suspended in an infinity of diamond glitters, each tiny fragment
of sparkling light the cold, clear flame of a living intelligence, and each aligned, one to the other so that all were
composed of a universal whole, an incredible vastness which stretched across the entire galaxy. And, at the center,
unified by nearly invisible filaments of brilliance, reposed the glowing heart of Central Intelligence, the hub and mind
of the Cyclan.
Voices echoed in Ruen's mind as he drifted in the glowing vastness, scenes, snatches of unfamiliar shapes, alien,
unknown, and yet somehow belonging to the gestalt of which he was a part. The overspill of other minds, other
memories, the interplay of living intelligences all serving the organization of which he was a fragment.
One day he would be more than that. At the end of his active life he would be taken to where the assembled
brains rested miles deep beneath the surface of an ancient world. There he would join them, freed of all physical
limitations, resting in a world unhampered by bodily ills, his detached brain joined with those of others there, living
and aware for countless years.
It was the highest reward any cyber could hope to obtain. To become an actual part of Central Intelligence. To
work for the complete domination of the galaxy and to solve all the problems of the universe.
The aim and object of the Cyclan.

***

It could have been a theater or a concert hall but Dumarest guessed that it was a lecture room, massed seats
facing a dais backed with screens and boards, the low roof grilled with speakers, soft light diffused from the juncture
of walls and ceiling. Cramped in the third row he turned, looking over a sea of olive faces to the rear of the hall. The
doors were closed, locked no doubt, but there was no sign of the guards who had ushered them from the ship and
across the field, down a tunnel into this place. No sign of the red and black uniforms but he knew they would be
there. Out of sight behind loopholes, perhaps, or waiting in the corridor outside.
 Beside him a man stirred, restless, anxious.
"What are they going to do with us?" he muttered. "Why are we here?"
"I'm hungry," said another further down the row. "When are we going to get fed?"
"What are we waiting for?" said someone from behind.
Like the rustle of ripe corn in a breeze the murmur of questions swept over the auditorium.
Dumarest ignored them, conscious of the rising tension. They had ridden packed like fish in a barrel, doped with
quick-time and given no food. Hardened to travel he had slept most of the way but his companions had spent the
time in worried speculation. Now cold, tired and hungry, they were growing restless. The murmur died as a man
came from the side door and strode to the center of the dais.
He was a balding, plump, middle-aged man in civilian clothes with a ruddy face and a benign expression. He
stood facing the assembly, hands locked behind his back, exactly as if he were a lecturer about to teach his students.
He said, "Welcome to Technos. I appreciate that you have had an uncomfortable journey and that you are
probably worried as to your future. It is that I am going to explain, but first, are there any among you who are the
sons or relatives of growers?"
One man lifted his hand. Dumarest did not.
"One only?" The speaker looked over the auditorium. "Thank you, sir. Will you please rise and go to the back of
the hall. Right through the door which you will find open." He waited until the man had gone. "One only. It seems that
the growers of Loame are very selective in their choosing. That man is the first in the past four contingents. Natural
enough, I suppose, but hardly fair to their workers."
It was, thought Dumarest, cleverly done. Without making an issue of the matter the man had clearly
demonstrated how unfairly those present had been treated. He relaxed a little, guessing what was to come.
"And now," continued the lecturer, "I would like to dispose of some of your preconceived notions. You are not
going to be sold into slavery. You are not going to be slaughtered for meat and neither are you going to be used for
medical research. The sole aim and object of you coming here is for the purpose of education. Let us, for a moment,
talk about war. What is war? The efforts of one power to force its will on another. You may have been told that
Technos is at war with Loame. This is not true. If it were you would now be in uniform, fighting and dying to protect
the land of others. Instead you are here, safe, warm and comfortable. Soon you will be going back home."
He paused as a whisper raced across the assembled men.
"Does that surprise you? The truth often does. You must remember that the growers of Loame are, at the
moment, in a position of feudal power over you and your families. That position will not last long. Already the
economic system is beginning to crack. Soon it will utterly disintegrate and the old ways be forever gone. When that
happens the thorge will be destroyed and the land reclaimed. Your land," he emphasized. "Fresh soil to be shared
among those at present denied the opportunity to become free growers. Clean dirt for you and your families."
There was more: slides, pictures and elementary diagrams, smooth explanations and facile extrapolations, all
designed to paint a glowing picture of the future to come. Technos was a crusading power eager to help the
underprivileged. The old system had to be broken before the new could be installed. It was being broken and those
who had been chosen to fill the tribute were the lucky ones. To them, once trained, would fall the newly cleared land.
Each of them soon would become a grower.
Dumarest didn't believe it.
Not the basic premise of economic disruption. In a society such as existed on Loame it was the quickest and
easiest way to shatter the old pattern, but to restore it under new ownership didn't make sense. And it would not be
restored. Glancing at the rapt faces to either side of him Dumarest could appreciate the cleverness of what was being
done. The dangling carrot to keep them eager, to break their spirit and make them amenable to whatever Technos
wanted to do with them. And that was?
He wasn't sure and it didn't matter. He would not be a part of it. Now that he was on Technos the sooner he
broke away from the rest the better. And it would have to be fairly soon. The dye which stained his skin to a matching
olive would not last long and when it faded he would be too conspicuous.
From the auditorium they went to eat. Good food piled in generous portions, high protein substances kind to
mouth and stomach. Facing Dumarest across the table a man belched and helped himself to more.
"This is the life," he said. "Better food than I ever had back home. Grower Westguard was a mean man with his
luxuries. Mean, and it was us that used to provide them!"
"It'll be different now," said the man at his side. "I had a girl and was due to get married. Had my grower's
promise of a house and everything. Then I was chosen." He paused, digging a scrap of meat from between his teeth
with a blunt finger. "At first I was sick about it but not now. Now, when I get back home, I'll have the girl and a real
good house. My grower's house. I might even consider letting him work for me."
Laughter echoed the remark. It had taken, Dumarest estimated, less than three hours to convert them from
potential enemies into willing servitors.

Chapter Five
The voice was a thin, insistent whisper impossible to ignore.
Technos is a wonderful planet, its rulers wise, kind and understanding. It is a great thing to be able to serve
Technos. Those who are chosen to do so are fortunate. You are fortunate. You are very…
Dumarest rolled from his bunk and stood, head tilted, listening. The insidious voice came from all directions
carried on the diffused light which illuminated the dormitory or transmitted by the metal supports of the bunks
themselves. Its purpose was obvious; more conditioning to make the new arrivals obedient.
Quietly he padded around the tiered bunks. The party had been split after taking a shower and only a fifth of the
contingent was within this room. All were asleep, the sound of their breathing loud in the stillness, at times blurring
the whispering voice. The wine, he decided, the brimming jugs which had been given to them after the bath. The food
could have been drugged but he'd had no choice but to eat it. The wine was a different matter. He had avoided it,
suspicious of the motive behind the apparent generosity, and obviously it had been drugged. Of them all he was the
only one awake.
A door broke the wall at the far end of the room. He headed toward it and cautiously tested the latch. It yielded
and he stepped into a corridor. The lights were brighter here, gleaming from the scar tissue which traced paths on his
shoulders, back and sides. Fainter lines showed against the olive on his forearms. He was naked but for shorts, his
bare feet soundless as he moved down the corridor.
A guard waited around the turn. He was neat in red and black, his young face shadowed beneath his helmet,
unarmed but for a two-foot club swinging from his right wrist. He looked at Dumarest without surprise.
"You want something?"
"The toilet." The man was standing too far away for an attack to be successful. He would have time to shout
before being overcome. And Dumarest was too unsure of his whereabouts to make a break. He turned, gesturing
back the way he had come. "I woke—you know. I couldn't find it."
"This way."
The guard stepped back, gesturing with his club, the tip, as if by accident, pointed at Dumarest's stomach, A
shadowed place showed in the rounded end, an orifice capable, perhaps, of spitting a numbing dart or lethal pellet.
He was perfectly composed, almost as if he had expected someone to walk down the corridor, falling behind as
Dumarest passed.
"All right," he said as they reached a junction. "That door to your right. Hurry."
He waited outside, blocking the passage as Dumarest made to return the way he had come.
"No. This way."
Another corridor, another turn and a door faced with a single star in glowing yellow. The guard halted, pointing
with his club.
"Go in there and wait."
It was a bleak chamber fitted with a single long bench and an inner door. Three men sat uncomfortably on the
bench. All had olive skins and were naked but for shorts. Ten minutes crawled past and the inner door opened, a
uniformed guard jerking his head at the man closest to the end of the bench.
"Inside, you. Close up the rest."
Fifteen minutes later the same thing happened. The remaining man next to Dumarest licked his lips. His skin bore
a faint sheen and he almost stank of fear.
"What's this all about?" he whispered. "I was restless, couldn't sleep, and thought I'd take a shower. A guard
grabbed me and led me here. You?"
"Almost the same."
"What do they want with us? That guard acted like I was a prisoner or something. I tried to explain but he didn't
want to know. I—" He broke off as the door opened. "Well, I guess I'd better go."
Twenty minutes passed and then it was Dumarest's turn. The inner room contained a wide desk, an angled
spotlight, a hard chair and a panel of electronic equipment. Two guards stood like statues against the rear wall. The
one who had summoned Dumarest stood just behind the wooden chair. At the desk sat a dark-haired, sleek looking
individual with a thin, lined face and penetrating eyes.
He gestured toward the hard chair. "Sit. Your name?"
"Hgar."
"Your grower?"
 "Yaltoun."
"His address on Loame?"
"Seventh decant, segment eight."
"And you wanted to go to the toilet, right?"
"Yes" said Dumarest, and added, "Sir."
The officer nodded. "That is better. My name, incidentally, is Keron. Major Keron of the Security Division. You
have heard of me?"
"No, sir. I haven't."
"No," mused Keron. "Of course not. How could you have?" He sat back and rested both hands on the desk before
him. They were small, white, womanish in their slenderness. "The law of averages states that out of each thousand
men some will not conform to a regular pattern. You did not drink the wine. Why not?"
"I've a poor head for wine," said Dumarest. "And my stomach was upset. I find it unpleasant to drink at the best
of times."
"And you could not sleep?"
"No, sir."
"Why not? Did something wake you? A noise, perhaps?"
"No, sir." It was safe to lie. The whispering voice had been on the verge of sub-aural diminution and the officer
could not know the state of his hearing ability. "I just woke and wanted to go to the toilet That's all, sir."
"Why?"
Dumarest made a helpless gesture. He was an ignorant worker from Loame. How was he supposed to know what
the officer was getting at?
"You passed three ounces of urine—hardly enough to have made your visit imperative." Keron touched a control
and the spotlight blazed into life. Dumarest narrowed his eyes against the glare. "Those scars, how did you get them?"
"I fell into a patch of thorge and was pretty badly torn getting out."
"Long ago?"
"A couple of years, sir."
"On your grower's land?"
"No, sir. A crowd of us went to help another grower to the north."
"His name?"
Dumarest gave it, adding details, piling lie upon lie. He had worked out the story with Lemain, claiming to have
worked for a grower on the opposite hemisphere, a region from which the present contingent had not been drawn. It
was a safeguard against being faced with someone who should know him or whom he should know. It should pass a
casual questioner but the major was far from that.
The spotlight died, Keron leaning forward as Dumarest blinked away the retinal afterimages.
"Take a thousand men," he said gently. "Among them, you are certain, are spies in disguise. How do you discover
them? You wait. You watch. You compare behavior patterns and, sooner or later, they will betray themselves. A wolf
cannot emulate a sheep—not and delude the shepherd. You understand?"
Dumarest frowned. "I'm not sure, sir. Are you saying that I am a spy?"
"Yes. From Cest, Wen, Hardish, or some other world with which we are having a difference of opinion. But not
from Loame. Your reactions are not those of a worker. By now you should be in tears begging my forgiveness. You
should have become confused and afraid. You are neither. I am intrigued." He looked beyond Dumarest to the guard
standing at the rear. "Selig!"
Dumarest turned as the man stepped forward, lifting his club.

***

He was a tall man, hard faced, teeth bared as if he enjoyed his work. He lost the smile as Dumarest spun from the
chair, straightening, catching the descending wrist and twisting savagely so that bone snapped and the club dangled
from its thong. Snatching the weapon free he sprang aside and then forward beyond the desk. One of the guards
standing at the rear lifted his club to block an expected blow then fell, choking on blood from a ruptured larynx as
Dumarest thrust instead. Again he sprang to one side, foot lifting to kick aside the second guard's club, seeing a flash
from the orifice at the end, feeling the shock as he smashed his own club at the side of the man's neck.
The knurled grip held a stud. He pressed it as he faced the remaining guard. Selig, chair lifted in his good hand,
stumbled and fell as something sprouted from his cheek.
"Drop it!" Dumarest thrust the club toward Keron's face, aiming at an eye. "Take your hand from that drawer.
Empty!"
 The officer drew a long breath. "Fast," he said. "I've never seen anyone move so fast. Where are you from?"
"That doesn't matter." Dumarest looked around the room. The fight had been practically noiseless but there was
no way of telling how long he would remain undisturbed. Nor could he be sure that Keron hadn't given the alarm.
"Stand away from that desk. Quickly!"
The officer obeyed, his eyes enigmatic. "What now?" he said quietly. "What do you hope to accomplish?"
"Lie on the floor, face down, hands above your head." The drawer of the desk held a laser. Dumarest picked it up
and held it loosely in his hand. "Don't move or try anything stupid. I've made one mistake, I don't intend making
another."
"You made no mistake," said Keron as Dumarest, the laser at his side, began to strip the uniform from Selig. The
man was unconscious, the dart had been an anesthetic. "The dormitories are monitored. I knew you were not asleep.
You anticipated the arrival of guards by minutes."
Dumarest ignored him, rapidly donning the guard's uniform. They were of a size and he needed the authority it
would give. One of the other guards moaned and he fired twice with the club, sending them both into a deeper sleep.
Discarding the club, he picked up another, holding it in his right hand, the laser in his left. Frowning he looked about
the room.
The electronic panel was studded with signal lights, some winking, others burning with steady colors. The men
who had preceded him had not left by the same door so there had to be another. He found it, almost invisible in the
shadows, against the far wall.
"This door," he said to Keron. "Where does it lead?"
"To a monitoring room. There are guards."
"Get up." Dumarest gestured with the laser. "This will be aimed at your back at all times. If you make a mistake or
we are stopped I will burn your kidneys. Do you understand?"
"What do you intend?" Keron showed curiosity as he rose, but he was not afraid. Almost he seemed amused. Had
microphones picked up every sound?
"We are going to leave here and get above ground. You are going to guide me. Which is the best way out?"
"That way." Keron pointed to the door by which Dumarest had entered. "Outside into the corridor, turn right and
continue until you reach an elevator. It will take you to the upper level."
The truth? It was possible but Dumarest doubted it. The man was too much at ease and an elevator would make
a perfect trap. Without warning he struck with the clenched fist of his right hand and as Keron, dazed, staggered back,
he jerked open the inner door. A guard sitting before a panel began to rise. Another standing against the far wall took
a step forward. Both slumped unconscious as darts thudded into their flesh.
Dumarest reached for Keron, pulled him forward and sent him staggering across the room to the far door. It
opened on a corridor, empty, the passage running to either side.
"We want the stairs," said Dumarest. "Take me to them. Quickly!"
There had to be stairs, for emergency use if for nothing else, and the chances were they would be deserted.
Keron shook his head as he led the way, rubbing the side of his jaw, recovering rapidly from the effects of the blow.
"Fast," he said again. "The speed of your reflexes is incredible. Do you come from a heavy gravity world?"
Dumarest dug the laser into his spine.
"There are no microphones here if that's what you are thinking," said the officer calmly. He seemed to have
regained his full composure. "I suggest that you would be well advised to consider the advantages of complete
cooperation. You are a most unusual spy. What do you hope to gain now that you have revealed yourself ?"
"I am not a spy," said Dumarest. It could be important that he made that clear. "Technos has nothing to fear from
me. All I want is to get away from here."
"And you will kill me in order to do it?"
"If I have to, yes."
"And then what? Such an act would be irredeemable." Keron opened a door and led the way to a staircase.
Calmly he began to mount. "Once you kill me," he pointed out, "you will have no defense. Need I describe the
punishment you will suffer? I assure you that it will not be pleasant. On the other hand, if you were to yield and give
full cooperation, you would not only safeguard your life but also obtain rich rewards."
Dumarest made no comment. The stairs circled a well and he looked down then up seeing nothing but emptiness.
At the head of the stairs he halted before a closed door, thinking. Beyond could wait guards. Certainly there would be
danger, but would it be best to face it alone or with his hostage? Alone, he decided. Keron was not a coward and had
correctly judged the situation. He would take the risk that Dumarest would not kill and act accordingly. In any case,
from now on he would be a liability.
"Well?" The officer turned, smiling. "Have you decided? As a wise man I think—"
He broke off as the dart struck the side of his neck. The anesthetic acted immediately, and he was unconscious
before his knees began to buckle. Dumarest caught the slumping figure, eased it to the ground, went rapidly through
the pockets. He would need money and some form of identification. He found them both in a wallet, a wad of notes
and an official pass. Tucking them into a pocket together with the laser, he opened the door.
It gave on to a hall bright with red and black: guards hurrying on mysterious errands; others standing about; still
more passing through large doors at the far end.
Closing the door he strode among them, a man busy on an official task. The large doors gave on to a second hall,
this one flanked with reception counters, a bank of elevators, a scatter of tables and chairs. Guards stood before the
elevators with the unmistakable alertness of men on watch. Others guided civilians to one or another of the counters
and more civilians sat in chairs or talked over the tables.
A recruiting station? A center for contractors or, perhaps, an information service? Dumarest didn't know and had
no intention of finding out. More doors opened to a street bright with daylight and busy with traffic—they had landed
shortly after dawn so it must be early afternoon. He reached them, passed through, ran for a cab that was just
discharging a passenger.
"You free?"
The driver studied his uniform. "Can't you give me a break, soldier? I'm low on the take today. Hauling you will
make it a bleak time."
Apparently guards traveled free or signed a chit which took time to collect. Dumarest smiled.
"I'm on a short leave and feeling generous. This one I'm paying for in cash. Drop me at a juicy hotel."
"Somewhere with action?"
"That's the idea. I've got a lot of catching up to do and I'm in a hurry to start doing it. Let's move!"
The drive took him to a sleazy place in a back street, a thinly disguised bordello with painted faces peering from
between dingy curtains. Dumarest paid him, waited until he had pulled away then moved on, walking fast for another
three blocks before halting at another hotel, a twin of the first. The madam, a raddled woman with dyed hair and
suspicious eyes, frowned at the sight of his uniform.
"Sorry, soldier, but you've called at the wrong shop. This place is off limits to the military."
"Forget that." Dumarest produced money and let her see it. "I want a change of clothes. A set of civilians to wear
while I have some fun. Can you arrange it?"
The frown deepened. "What are you, a deserter?"
"If I was would I be here?" Dumarest riffled the notes. "Come on, I want to relax. I can't do it wearing this gear.
How about helping me out?"
The money won. He changed in a dingy room, keeping the laser but wrapping the club in a bundle with the
discarded uniform. The chances were high that the madam would report him either for a reward or in order to save
her own skin, but it was imperative that he gain time, and it was an unavoidable risk. Leaving the bundle he walked
from the hotel, caught a cab and had it drop him on the edge of the shopping district. A drugstore sold him certain
items, a tailor supplied a new suit and underwear, a cobbler provided shoes.
With the items in a suitcase he booked in at another hotel, ran a bath, tipped various chemicals into the water and
climbed in. Five minutes later he left the tub, the olive dye dissolved from his skin. Dressing in his new clothes and
leaving the case and old ones behind he left the hotel, walked a mile and booked in another.
Only then did he dare to relax.
With luck he had avoided pursuit. Keron would be looking for a man with a dark skin wearing a guard's uniform.
He would pick up the trail and find the discarded clothes. He would quest further and then slow down for lack of
positive identification. The thing now was to keep moving and get utterly lost.
Sitting on the edge of the bed he checked the contents of the stolen wallet. The money he put to one side. The
identification bore a photograph and a series of raised symbols. A credit card, he guessed, or a pass for classified
areas. To be found with it could be dangerous but it might have its uses. The laser, too. He hefted it and then put it
with the wallet. Both would have to be safely disposed of. The card he decided to keep a little longer. The photograph,
while unmistakably not his likeness under close scrutiny, would pass a casual inspection.
The phone rang. He picked up the receiver. "Yes?"
"Mr. Ganish, sir?"
"What is it?"
"Will you be dining tonight?"
"Yes," he said immediately and added, "What is the menu?"
"Roast gleek, fried wobart, casserole of jastune and chicken seethed with nuts and wine. I would recommend the
wobart, sir. It is one of the chefs specialties." The voice became apologetic. "One other thing, sir. We have received a
general order to verify all guest's credentials. If you would be so good as to present yours at the desk we would be
most obliged."
 "Of course," said Dumarest. "As soon as I get my identification. Has my luggage arrived yet?"
"Your luggage, sir?"
"Didn't I explain? I left it to be forwarded from the station. Surely it must have arrived by now?"
"A moment, sir." The voice retreated, became a murmur, returned. "No, sir. No luggage has been received."
"It must have got mislaid," said Dumarest. "I had better go and collect it myself. Are you sure the fried wobart is
the best on the menu?"
"You have my word on it, sir."
"Then I'll have it. Together with appropriate wines and liqueurs, naturally. I leave the selection to you and you will
not find me unappreciative of any care you may take."
"I understand, sir." The voice held a smile. "Until this evening, then. I do hope that you find your luggage."
Time, thought Dumarest lowering the receiver. Everything was a move to gain time. Keron had acted fast and he
was in a trap. The talk of the meal was to reassure the receptionist. A man on the run would hardly concern himself
with details of food. But it was a meal he would never eat.
And where would he sleep? With every hotel checked a man without credentials would be investigated and it
would be risking too much to book in as the officer. A bordello, perhaps? They would be among the first to suffer
investigation. To walk about? The streets would be thick with watchful guards.
Outside he looked at the sky. It was heavy with cloud and the air held a rising chill. A garbage can swallowed the
wallet and laser and he bought a top coat from a store. With the temperature falling a man without a coat would be
suspect.
As he paid for the purchase Dumarest said, "Where is the station?"
"Which one? The monorail or the subterranean?"
"The monorail."
"Five blocks north and three east. You a stranger?"
"Landed yesterday." Dumarest picked up his change. "A fine city you've got here."
"This?" The clerk pursed his lips. He was a young man with definite ideas. "This is nothing, mister. You should see
the capital. Technos is a real city. This place is more like a barracks. Soldiers everywhere, you can't move without
bumping into a uniform. You a military man?"
"No, just here on business."
"You're lucky. I'm getting drafted next week. Two years without option and for why? Because that creep on Cest
won't grow up. It stands to reason that the place will be better off accepting our rule. But do they admit it? Like hell
they do. So I'll be off to stand guard and maybe collect a knife in the back while I'm doing it."
"Tough," said Dumarest. "But sending you off doesn't make sense. Why don't they use those men from Loame."
The youth blinked. "What men?"
"You don't know about them? The tribute?" Dumarest shrugged as the man remained blank. "Well, never mind, I
probably got it wrong. You can never trust rumor."
The monorail stood on a rise of ground from which it was possible to look over the city, a suburb really, clustered
about the landing field. It was thick with the expected guards. Dumarest walked among them, not looking around,
striding directly to an information board. It was a loop system, a train running directly to the capital to the east,
another heading along to the west, skirting the coast and joining a branch leading back to Technos. No man in his
right mind would take that route if going to the capital.
Conscious of the guards, Dumarest walked to the ticket office.
"One to Farbein."
"Single or return?"
"Return."
The clerk reached for a ticket, thrust it into a machine and looked at Dumarest. "Identification, please."
Dumarest produced Keron's card.
It was a gamble. As yet they couldn't know he had changed the color of his skin and a partition between himself
and the clerk blurred details. The man picked up the card, added it to the ticket in the machine and pressed a lever.
"All right. Major," he said handing over both ticket and card. "Platform two. You've got twenty minutes to wait."
He didn't even look up as he said it.

Chapter Six
From her window Mada Grist stared at a dancing swirl of snowflakes and felt an unaccustomed pleasure in
watching the steady fall. It had begun an hour ago and now the woods and hills, the logged outhouses of the hotel
were covered with a fluffy white blanket, bright in the light of the beacon rotating on the roof. There was a random
charm about the flakes, she thought, each holding its own pattern, each drifting to the vagaries of the wind, to settle
and add to the thickening blanket.
Like people, she thought, pleased with the analogy. Born to drift and then finally to settle. But the comparison was
incorrect. People, unlike flakes of snow, could determine their direction and choose their own place of landing.
Musing she turned from the window, polarizing the glass to insure her privacy, the interior lights brightening as
she touched a control. A mnemonic clock whispered the time, adding that she had only thirty minutes before the time
set for dinner. She ignored it, concentrating instead on her reflection in a long mirror.
The body was superb.
Fabric rustled as she eased the thin robe from her shoulders, bright synthetics falling to mound at her feet. They
were slender, high arched, without blemish. Long legs rose, tapering, from fine ankles and shapely calves. The hips
swelled beneath a narrow waist, the waist rising to high breasts and rounded shoulders. Her hands touched the thighs,
rose over the cage of her ribs to cradle the molded fullness, rose higher to pause at the base of her throat.
The clock whispered again, this time adding that the council was due to meet in a couple of hours. Trust Vargas
to choose such a peculiar time. He was growing more irrational every day, but it wouldn't be the first session she had
missed and she doubted if it would be the last. And, tonight, there were more important things to do.
Reluctantly she turned from the mirror, recognizing the narcissus complex and a little amused by it. How many
women, she wondered, were in love with their own bodies? How many had cause?
Dressing, she left the room. Krell, his face anxious, met her in the passage outside. It was paneled with dark wood
carved with depictions of the chase, men hunting beasts with primitive weapons. Against the implied virility of the
motifs he looked diminished and insignificant, an illusion heightened by the furtiveness of his eyes.
"I'm worried, Mada," he said. "I think we'd better call the whole thing off ?"
"The meeting? Why?"
"Brekla hasn't arrived. Marmot called to say that he's been delayed. Dehnar—"
"Is a coward," she interrupted. "And so are you, Eegan. Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to win your
seat on the council."
"And that's another thing. There's a meeting called and we shall be missed. I honestly think that we'd better leave
it until a later occasion."
He meant it, she decided, searching his face. He wanted to abandon the whole enterprise and run back to what
he imagined was safety. To bow and cringe and hope to be overlooked in what was certain to come. To hide like a
rabbit—and to scream like one if caught. It was hard to remember that they had once been lovers.
"You're a fool," she said flatly. "You're letting your imagination run away with you. So what if the others can't
come? We are here to enjoy a private dinner, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."
"But—"
"What are you afraid of ? We intended to talk about the Technarch—is that a crime? We are members of the
Supreme Council and have the right to discuss anything we want wherever we want. But now we won't even do that.
We will simply enjoy the evening and that is all."
"We could be watched," he said miserably. "Vargas has spies everywhere. If he knew that we had gotten together
he would be immediately suspicious."
"He's that already." Firmly she tucked her arm through his and led him to where a waterfall of stairs fell to the
dining area below. "But if we suddenly leave for no apparent reason he will have grounds for thinking the worst. Now
smile," she ordered. "You are the host, remember? Look as if you're enjoying yourself."
It was a place in which to have pleasure. The area below was bright with polished weapons; the walls hung thick
with trophies: mounted heads watching with glass eyes, horned and fanged and once terrible but now only pathetic
decorations. Glass and silver and snowy linen reflected the glow of a great fire and the discreet brightness of
facsimile flambeaux. The air was scented with wood smoke, and the soft music carried the sound of wind in the trees.
Shergan met them at the foot of the stairs. He smiled as, bowing, he kissed her hand. "Mada, my dear, you look
superb! What do you think of the weather?"
"The snow? I like it."
"I'm glad to hear that. I'm arranging a party to take advantage of it. The hills will be ideal for skis and toboggans,
and we can have a fire and hold a winter picnic. Does the prospect attract you?"
She hesitated, almost yielding to temptation. It had been a long time since she had sported in the snow.
Regretfully she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but no. There's too much work waiting for me and it would be criminal to
ignore it."
Shergan was insistent. "Work can wait. What's the point of being on the council if we can't take a vacation when
we want one? Come on, Mada, you'll enjoy yourself."
 He had not, she noticed, invited Krell. Was there more to the invitation than appeared on the surface? Again she
shook her head.
"No, and don't try to change my mind. It simply isn't possible."
"To change your mind?" Shergan smiled as he summoned a waiter and ordered drinks. "Isn't that the prerogative
of a woman, to change her mind? You were always a hard one to convince, Mada, but I'm not giving up hope."
About what, she wondered, sipping at her glass. The distillation warmed her throat and stomach and added to the
enjoyment of the surroundings. Even Krell seemed to have lost some of his worry though his eyes were still furtive as
he scanned the room. Searching for spies lurking behind the furniture. At times he was pathetic in his concern.
Marmot joined them as she finished her drink. He was apologetic. "Sorry I'm late, but something came up at the
last minute."
"Glad you could make it," said Krell. He seemed relieved. "Brekla and Dehnar won't be joining us. Alica isn't down
yet, but she is here. How was the journey?"
"Not too bad though the snow's pretty thick over the city." Marmot took a gulp of the drink a waiter brought him.
"There was a power failure. A fine thing to happen. I'm going to propose that an inquiry be held to investigate the
cause. Someone's been careless and I want to see him pay."
"Relax," said Shergan. "You worry too much."
"And some of us don't worry enough," snapped back the other man. "We're responsible for the whole of Technos,
or have you forgotten? If we overlook a thing like this what will happen next?"
"Murder, violence and sudden death," said a new voice. Alica had joined them. She smiled greetings and accepted
a drink. "Are you still beating that old drum, Gill? Do you still look under your bed at night for fear of saboteurs?"
"You can laugh, Alica, but you can't tell me they don't exist. That failure, for example. It could have been an
accident but we wouldn't have accidents if the technicians knew their jobs. I—" He broke off, shrugging. "Well, never
mind that now. Let's enjoy our dinner."
It was a fine meal but wasted Mada thought later as she headed back to the capital. Leaning back against the
cushions of her flier, the pilot a vague shape beyond the dividing glass, she pondered the events of that evening.
Krell was a loss. Marmot had a real concern but was inclined to gnaw too long at details. Shergan was more
promising; like Alica he used words as a mask for his real thoughts and both he and the woman would be potential
allies to back her in a vote of impeachment. Not that she intended to put any such proposal to the council. In fact it
would be better if she took steps to disengage herself from any possible intrigues. Better and safer. And yet could she
feel really safe alone?
For diversion she looked through the transparent canopy forming a roof over the cabin. The snow had ceased,
the fallen whiteness giving the night a strange, luminous quality. Far to one side, falling from the sky in a haze of blue,
a ship settled down the landing field. A vessel from Cest probably, or one from Loame; another contingent was due
from that planet. It could not be a casual arrival, for such ships were banned from landing at night.
A streak of brilliance from below caught her eye. A monorail traveling high above the snow, the line of
illuminated cars looking at this distance like a bright and flexible snake. It swung in a wide curve as it followed the
line of a ridge, and she watched it, remembering, feeling an unaccustomed touch of nostalgia.
As a girl she had loved to ride on the monorail, sitting beside a window, the inevitable book in her lap, merging
her studies with glimpses of the coast, the restless sea, the soaring mountains and wooded hills. The soft hiss of the
train had allowed her to concentrate and, as a student, she had traveled at reduced fare. And sometimes she had met
interesting people. That young man, for example, who had been obviously attracted and who had worked in a
subterranean power installation. He had been very keen and very disappointed when she had firmly told him that
study came first, thoughts of romance a long way behind. He must be married now, with grandchildren probably, or
dead, which was more likely.
It had been a long time ago.
She blinked, annoyed with herself at the sudden sentiment, reminding herself that she had achieved her
ambition, that she was a member of the Supreme Council and that all the study and work had been worthwhile. Even
love had come later, or a facsimile of it; the quieting of her bodily needs in a succession of barren affairs. She was
rich and powerful, respected and admired. Why then did she feel sad?
The night, she decided. The touch of nostalgia. The sight of a train which had wakened old memories.
But it was just a train, a string of cars humming along a single rail. She looked at it again, staring beyond her
reflected image into the luminous expanse of the night. The cars would be warm and comfortable, the seats soft, the
metal fabric of the car vibrating with a restful hum. And there would be people and the sound of talk and laughter.
Abruptly she yielded to impulse.
"Take me to the monorail station," she ordered the pilot. "One not too close to the capital, and one in which a
train is shortly due."
 "Madam?" His voice held surprise. Against the partition his face was a featureless blur as he looked back from the
controls.
"You heard me," she snapped. "Obey!"
She smiled as the flier wheeled, circling to follow the rail below, conscious of the pilot's rigid disapproval. Well, if
he didn't like it that was just too bad. It was a long time since she had indulged herself in a foolish whim and it would
be good to ride in a monotrain again.

***

A group of soldiers at the far end of the car were having themselves a ball, passing bottles back and forth,
singing, making the most of what remained of their leave. A woman sat crying, tears running down her cheeks, thin
hands clasping a worn hand bag. Two old men snored in the third row, and a pair of lovers were lost to the world.
Dumarest watched them, dispassionately, sitting hunched in his coat and fighting a mounting fatigue. It had been
a hard night. The journey to Farbein had been as he'd expected: the cars jammed with commuters; businessmen
leaving the base; parents returning after visiting their sons. At the junction he'd had to wait for an hour to catch a
connection which took him well along the coast before returning to the capital in a wide circle. As the hours passed
so the train had shortened, cars being dropped as the number of passengers had diminished, the passengers
themselves changing in character.
He shifted to ease the ache in his bones. The upholstery was worn and the springs unkind. He'd managed to buy
some confection from a machine at Farbein and had managed to quench his thirst with a handful of snow but aside
from that had had nothing. One of the derelicts woke, gasping, staring about with rheumy eyes. To Dumarest the sight
was reassuring. They had ridden with him all the way, probably buying a ticket to the next station and riding the loop
all through the night. Like himself it was the only place they could find warmth and a measure of comfort. Their
presence meant that the train was badly checked and he should be safe from questioning guards.
But for how long?
Not much longer, he decided. If Keron was any good at his trade he would anticipate what the fugitive would do.
With the hotels blocked and the roads watched the monorail was the only thing left. His only hope was that he would
reach the capital before the guards had been fully alerted.
He tensed as the train checked to a halt. The crying woman rose and left the car. The lovers parted for a moment,
checked the station and returned to each other. One of the soldiers whistled as a woman entered the carriage and
walked to where Dumarest sat. She ignored the whistle and sat across from him, her face muffled in the collar of a
heavy coat.
Already Mada was beginning to regret her romantic impulse.
The train had been late and not as large as she remembered but then, she reminded herself, she had never
traveled so late before. She had picked the last car for sentimental reasons. She had always chosen that car in the
past, but it was not as she recalled. Surely the seats hadn't been so worn, the paint so dull? And the smooth hum of
gliding progress, what had happened to that?
Time, she thought, the magic of distance. Foods lost their flavor, colors their brightness and the trifling details of
annoyance became swallowed in a nostalgic glow. But that could not be the whole answer. Maintenance standards
had fallen, and work that should have been done had been neglected. The wars, the drain of men and money to hold
down the rebellious populations of Cest and Hardish must be the cause. How long must it continue?
It would be wise for the members of the council to mix more with the ordinary people. It was too easy to become
detached. She made a mental note to raise the matter at the next meeting, then relaxed, looking around, determined
to make the best of her illogical whim.
The soldiers she ignored; men trying too hard to convince themselves they were having a good time. The lovers
created a sudden stab of envy, startling because unexpected. Yet how wonderful it must be to lose yourself in
anothers arms. The derelicts—another matter she should bring to the attention of the council. The man opposite?
She met the impact of Dumarest's eyes.
He was studying her hands, her face, the color of her skin. The rich olive glowed in the subdued lighting and he
frowned, wondering. It was the color of the women of Loame and he was reminded forcefully of the girl he had come
to find. Elaine Delmayer. Could this woman be she?
It was barely possible and, in any case, she might know of her. Expatriates would tend to stick together or, at
least, to remain in contact. He could lose nothing by asking.
He rose and stood above her. "My lady?"
She looked up, thinking that he was trying to scrape an acquaintance and amused at the possibility. An attempted
seduction would at least beguile the tedium of the journey. "Yes?"
 "Your pardon, my lady, but would you be so kind as to tell me your name?"
He was direct if nothing else, or perhaps the technique had changed since the old days. Yet he didn't look the
type of man who would haunt the cars in search of women.
Quietly she said, "Sit down beside me. I do not like people to stand over me."
"As you wish, my lady." He sat and met her eyes. "Your name?"
"Mada Grist." It meant nothing to him, she could tell by his expression. "Why do you ask?"
"A personal reason, my lady. Are you from Loame?"
"No."
"Thank you, my lady. My apologies at having troubled you."
Incredulously she realized that he was going and put out a hand to detain him without conscious thought. He
looked at it and then at her, his eyes questioning.
"Please stay with me," she said quickly. "Those soldiers. I am afraid they may try to molest me." It was a weak
excuse but she made no comment. Did he think her a woman of pleasure looking for custom? Quickly she added,
"And I am bored. Conversation will shorten the journey. Do you go to the capital?"
"Yes, my lady."
His voice was strong, matching the strength of his face, the masculinity she could sense emanating from his body.
And she was responding to it! Startled, she felt the glandular reaction, the biological chemistry triggered by the
stimulus of his proximity. To yield to it was tempting, but it was safer to concentrate on other things. His clothes, for a
start. They were clean but cheap and rumpled as if he had worn them too long. And his manner of address was
strange. It reminded her of Ruen, but this man was no cyber. He was being polite, she decided, using a safe term of
address in case she should be of superior rank.
And that meant he must be widely traveled and used to dealing with nobility.
She glanced at him. He was relaxed, his eyes closed, dozing or perhaps reluctant to engage in idle conversation.
She herself felt a sudden fatigue and wondered if it were genuine tiredness or the association of relative objects. The
man, her desire, a bed, which for too long had symbolized nothing but sleep. And yet if she were to get him into bed
with her, sleep would be the last thing on her mind.
She nodded, waking as the train halted, dozing again as it continued its journey. At the last halt before the capital
guards entered the car. They were trim, awake and determined.
"Your identification, please."
She felt the sudden tension of the man at her side, an inner tightening outwardly invisible, and wondered if he
was afraid. But of what? And why?
"Madam?" The guard was young and impatient. He blinked as she held out her left wrist, the thick, identifying
bracelet gleaming in the light. She could appreciate his discomposure.
"Satisfied?"
"Why yes, madam. Certainly." He glanced at the man sitting beside her. "Sir?"
She saw the slip of plastic, the thumb held as if by accident over the photograph, and spoke before the guard
could make a thorough examination.
"The gentleman is with me."
"Yes, madam. Thank you, madam. I am sorry to have caused any inconvenience."
She relaxed, smiling, as the train continued on its way.

Chapter Seven
A machine had designed the palace, incorporating the Golden Rule in a series of arches, pilasters, vaulted roofs,
endless passages and echoing chambers. The result should have been aesthetically pleasing. Instead it presented a
cold, machine-like atmosphere of repetitious monotony, heightened by the abstract decorations and concealed
lighting.
Striding down a corridor, Vargas noticed none of it, his eyes brooding as he mulled over recent events. The
council meeting had been a farce, with a good third of the members absent and the rest barely paying attention. The
details discussed had been trivial: the area to be devoted to crops, the manpower necessary to build a new power
installation, an adjustment of taxes; things which could have been better decided by a computer. Why did he have to
be burdened with such ignorant, conceited fools?
He halted before the door of an elevator, his guard moving forward to check the interior, turning to watch as he
entered the cage. The doors closed and they fell, Vargas fighting his instinctive fear. What if the mechanism had been
tampered with? What if the protective devices should fail and the cage with its contents be smashed to atoms at the
foot of the shaft?
It slowed and he breathed again, waiting as the door opened and his guard made the usual check. Warm air
tainted with the sharp tang of antiseptics struck his nostrils as he walked down a short passage. The odor increased
as he entered a chamber glittering with metal and glass. Brekla was before him, turning as he heard the click of the
closing door.
"Sire?"
A good man, thought Vargas. An ambitious one and therefore predictable. But because he was ambitious, he was
also dangerous. It was something he must never forget. Yet the danger was not immediate. Only when he had firmly
secured the position he coveted would Brekla lift his eyes to the pinnacle of power.
"Is everything prepared?"
"Yes, sire." Brekla moved toward an inner door. "Yendhal is waiting."
The physician was a small man with delicate hands and the light of fanaticism burning bright in his eyes. He
bowed as Vargas approached and looked pointedly at the guard.
"It would be best, sire, if your attendant remained outside."
"Leave us." Yendhal was to be trusted or the entire project was pointless. Even so, Vargas felt a prickling in the
middle of his back as the guard withdrew. "Is this the man?"
He was a prime specimen, well muscled, in good condition, young and handsome. Vargas felt a quick envy as he
looked at the naked, virile body. Once he had looked like that.
"You understand what it is you are to do?"
"I—" Sweat gleamed on the olive skin."I think so, sire."
"You are not certain?" Vargas glared at the physician. "Has he not been instructed?"
"Of course, sire, but he is afraid and has forgotten." Yendhal turned to the man and explained as he would to a
child. "You have been selected to take part in an important experiment. You are fit and healthy and strong but, as I
explained, strength is a relative term. A man under the influence of strong emotion can display unsuspected
capabilities. It is this we intend to discover. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then let us commence." Yendhal led the way from the door, down a corridor and to a small chamber flanked by
many doors. He pointed to one. "You will pass through that door when the light turns red. Beyond lie many dangers.
If you survive them you will be given a rich reward."
"Does that mean I shall be sent back home to Loame, sir?"
"Yes." Stimulus was important to the success of the experiment and Yendhal did not hesitate at the lie. "Now do
your best. Your life depends on it."
They watched from another room, Vargas intent on the screen, Brekla equally interested, Yendhal making
appropriate comments.
"The initial waiting time is important for the generation of adrenaline and the mental preparation of the subject.
He has, of course, been carefully chosen to fit the desired specifications. All that now remains is to discover the
extent of his survival instinct. Many psychologists believe this to be a purely mental phenomena but my own
researches have convinced me that much of it is inherent in the physique. As the body is a primitive entity divorced
from the brain and as the brain is a separate mechanism to the mind so the trait of survival is something basic to the
pattern incorporated in the DNA blueprint. This survival attribute has an important medical aspect verified by more
than a thousand experiments. A person with it has a much higher chance of surviving extensive operative surgery
than one without. It is this, of course, that we are now attempting to determine." He pressed a control. "Now we
commence."
The subject lasted exactly four and a half minutes.

***

The chemist was a round, middle-aged man with tired eyes and manner. He pursed his lips at Dumarest's order.
"Something to keep you awake? Sure I can supply it. Have you got an order?"
"No."
The man shook his head. "That makes it difficult. All drugs are under strict control or didn't you know that?"
"Of course I know it. All I want is something to give me a lift." Dumarest lowered his voice. "You're a professional
man and I'd appreciate your advice. I've got some important work to do and I was on a binge last night. Didn't get a
wink. If I fall asleep on the job I'll get canned for sure." He displayed a folded bill, "It's worth this if you can help."
"Studying, eh? You up for exams?"
"That's right." Dumarest didn't know what the man was talking about but rode along. "It's my last chance and I
don't want to spoil it."
"I know how you feel." The chemist was abruptly sympathetic. "I had to sweat to get my degree. We had
neighbors, dumb swine who stayed up late and the noise was really something. At times I thought I'd go out of my
mind trying to memorize formulas." He reached for a jar and poured tablets into an envelope.
"These should do it. Take three at a time and repeat as you need." He exchanged the envelope for the bill. "Good
luck!"
Luck, thought Dumarest as he left the just opened druggist's. How long could it last? He'd had more than his
share when he'd met the woman. She had obviously been someone of importance, a member of some high family
perhaps, and he had walked from the train under the shield of her authority. An all night restaurant had provided food
and shelter, and he'd stayed there until the dawn had awakened Technos to life. Now, armed with the tablets, he faced
another day.
He took three with a cup of savory liquid at another restaurant. The fatigue of constant strain was beginning to
catch up, but it was important that he stay alert. With care it should be possible to lose himself among the teeming
population of the capital.
But how to find Elaine Delmayer?
On a small, primitive world it would have been easy. Everyone would know everyone else. On a medium civilized
planet it would have been impossible without the expenditure of money and time. On Technos it shouldn't be hard. A
society in which everyone carried identification cards was one in which everyone would be registered in a central
index. All he had to do was to find it.
The waitress was young and obviously impressed. She frowned as he asked the question.
"You want to find someone and you don't know her address?"
"That's right." He smiled at her. "An old friend. We lost touch and I'd like to meet her again."
The hint of romance won her cooperation. "I should try the library. It's over in the palace. They should be able to
tell you what you want to know."
The library was busy with a stream of youngsters passing through the doors; students intermixed with older
people, most carrying books. Dumarest guessed that advancement on Technos was based on intellectual
achievement, the gaining of degrees giving a higher status. It made things easier. In such a society information should
not be hard to obtain.
The reference section was lined with machines, each facing a chair, all with space for the taking of notes. The
attendant was brusque.
"Insert your card, type out your question and wait for the answer. If you want a photographic copy press the red
lever. The charges are listed above each machine."
And would be charged against the credit number on the card, Dumarest guessed. Keron's card. It would leave a
trail but it was a chance he had to take.
Early though it was the place was crowded. Dumarest waited his turn and moved forward as the place fell vacant.
As an experiment he touched the keys. Nothing happened. Inserting the stolen card he sat down. On impulse he
typed EARTH.
Above the keyboard a screen brightened to life. On it flashed words.
EARTH; soil, dirt, loam, ground. A general term depicting planetary mass.
EARTH; the name of a mythical planet held as an object of veneration by The Original People.
Dumarest typed THE ORIGINAL PEOPLE.
The screen blanked then brightened to new life.
THE ORIGINAL PEOPLE; a religious sect of minor importance to be found on various backward planets
scattered throughout the galaxy. The sect is a secret one and neither seeks nor welcomes converts, fresh adherents
being obtained from the natural increase of existing worshipers. The main tenet of their belief is that Mankind
originated on a single world, the mythical planet Earth, and that, after cleansing by tribulation, Mankind will return to
this supposed world of origin, at which time the universe will cease to exist and the cleansed race be transformed
into a higher form of life. This belief, founded on an obvious fallacy, is surrounded by esoteric ritual and elaborate
ceremonies which are based on a primitive cult of fertility. There are no grounds supporting the truth of their
contention which must remain as one of the more illogical religious creeds.
Dumarest typed TERRA.
TERRA: no information available.
It had been worth the chance but he knew nothing he had not known before and had just proved that the library
knew less. Terra was another name for Earth but knowing it did not help him in his search. Perhaps Elaine Delmayer
could.
He typed ELAINE DELMAYER.
 There were three hundred and thirty eight of them. He sat looking at the closely packed list of names and
professions. No addresses were shown and it would take another question to get them. But so many? He frowned,
thinking. Quendis had said that he'd known her as a little girl so she could not now be very old. She had left Loame
before the start of the war and she would not have done that as a child. Put her age at, say, thirty and allow ten years
to either side.
He typed ELAINE DELMAYER AGE BETWEEN 20 AND 40.
This time there were only a hundred and eighteen. He asked for the addresses, hit the red lever and waited for the
sheet to roll from the side of the machine. It would be possible, he supposed, to go through them all one by one but
perhaps there was a quicker way. The girl had originated on Loame. Specifying it would, if the information was
registered, cut down the list even more.
It did.
To one.

***

The address was in Technos, a building a mile from the palace, a soaring block capped by a transparent dome
and obviously the home of the rich and influential. Inside were thick carpets and scented air, warm after the outside
chill. An attendant moved forward as Dumarest thrust his way through the glass doors. He pursed his lips at the
stated business.
"It's very early," he pointed out. "I am not sure that the person concerned would welcome a visit at this hour."
Dumarest was curt. "Then find out. Tell her it is important. Hurry!"
The attendant bridled. "Your name?"
"Keron." Dumarest flashed the stolen card. "Of Security. Now move!"
She lived on the twenty-second floor in an apartment furnished with excellent taste and unabashed luxury. And
she was beautiful.
Dumarest looked at her, at the smooth contours of her face and the glowing olive of her skin. There was a
familiarity about her which he found strange, and then she spoke and the illusion was shattered. This was not the
mysterious woman he had met on the train. The voice was too mellifluous for that.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, my lady." He could lose nothing by being polite. "This may sound strange to you but I have traveled a long
way to find you. From Loame. You were born there, I understand."
"That is so."
"You are the daughter of Grower Delmayer?"
"Yes. You have news of him?"
"I regret to tell you, my lady," said Dumarest quietly. "Your father is dead."
"I see." She stood before a window, the light rendering her thin robe translucent so that he could see the
silhouette of her figure, the same light shadowing her face. "And how does this news affect Security?"
"It doesn't. I used a pretense to gain admission."
"You are honest," she said. "If nothing else. Would you care for refreshment? I have some excellent tisane."
Her composure was remarkable. Dumarest watched as she prepared the beverage and then, excusing herself,
went to dress. She returned wearing a simple gown falling to below her knees and belted around the waist, the neck
high and the soft fabric cut to enhance her figure. Sitting so as to face him, she poured herself a cup of the steaming
tisane.
"You will forgive me if I appear unaffected by the news you bring. My father and I were far from close. I am sorry
that he is dead but all things must die. It is the way of the universe."
"You are a philosopher, my lady?"
"A realist."
And an opportunist, he thought. Her ability had been wasted on Loame. Here, in this society, it must have
enabled her to gain rapid status and she had taken full advantage of it. But did she know what was happening on her
home world?
"I know," she said when he asked the question. "You are not a native of Loame so perhaps you can't understand.
But I hated the system. A daughter cannot inherit the lands of her father. They pass to the man she marries. And it
may seem an ideal existence for those who live in the mansions but for those living in the huts it is a different matter.
The majority of growers are kind enough according to their conception of kindness, but even the best of them
regards his workers as little more than serfs. Education is limited and class distinctions rigid. Progress is resisted
because of the turmoil it could bring. The thorge is a clean and painless way of breaking the status quo."
 "And those who are chosen to fill the tribute quota? What happens to them? Wouldn't they be happier left alone?"
"Their happiness would be that of cattle in a field of succulent corn. Here they are educated. They are taught
skills and put to useful work. Their lives are better than they had reason to suspect."
She didn't know, he decided. She was repeating what she had been told, but at least she did know of the tribute.
That, apparently, put her in a minority.
"And now," she said, refilling both their cups, "tell me why you wanted to see me." She looked sharply at him as
he obeyed. "Are you serious?"
Dumarest met her eyes. "Yes, my lady. Very serious. Can you help me?"
"I don't know." Her eyes were thoughtful. "It was so long ago and there were so many books."
"But you can remember?"
"I can never forget," she said with a trace of bitterness. "My ability is not wholly an advantage. Childhood is not a
pleasant time and there is much I would prefer not to remember. But Earth?" She paused, thinking, the steam from
her cup rising to wreathe her face with vapor. "Earth," she said again and added, "There is a rhyme I once read in an
old book. It was incredibly ancient and I didn't understand it at the time. It was simply something I read to assuage
loneliness but, somehow, I think it may have a bearing on what you ask."
Dumarest looked down at his hands. They were tight about his cup. Carefully he set it down. "And the rhyme, my
lady?"
"A silly thing." She began to recite in a thin, little girl voice. "The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins, and next the
Crab, the Lion shines, the Virgin and the Scales. The Scorpion, Archer and Sea Goat, the Man that holds the Watering
Pot, the Fish with shining scales." She blinked and said in her normal voice. "Does that mean anything to you?"
"No, my lady."
"And yet it must have a meaning." Her eyes grew blank, withdrawn and he realized that she was again reading the
ancient volume, recalling each word from the chambers of her perfect memory. "The signs of the zodiac!" she said
triumphantly. "A mnemonic to put them in correct order."
"The zodiac?"
"Twelve symbols each representing a portion of a band of the sky in a complete circle. Twelve configurations of
stars each representing one of the signs. If you can find a planet surrounded by those signs then that world could be
the one you seek."
"Earth?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "It could be if such a planet exists but I simply don't know."
Dumarest hid his disappointment. "Thank you, my lady. There were no old charts or navigational tables?"
"None." Her voice softened as she read his eyes. "I'm sorry I haven't been of much help, but it's the best I can do."
He sat thinking. She had been of little help but the journey had not been wholly wasted. The stars would provide
the answer, the constellations he had seen as a boy. Hypnosis would bring them to the surface and stellar charts
would provide verification. He could hire the use of a planetarium and a computer together with the services of a
skilled astronomer. It would only be a matter of time.
And he was positive that Earth must be very close. Certainly in this sector of the galaxy—so much, at least, he
had learned.
She caught his arm as he rose to go.
"A moment, you can't leave like this. I must make you some more tisane, a special blend with a unique flavor
which I am sure you will enjoy. And you must tell me about Loame. Grower Lemain, how is he?"
"Well, my lady."
"And his son?"
He answered as she made the drink, wondering at her sudden interest, discovering the reason as he sipped the
beverage and realized too late that it was drugged.

***

A man stood outside the apartment, stocky, in civilian clothes but with the unmistakable stance of the military.
He doubled as Dumarest hit him in the stomach, falling, retching, slumping unconscious as he hit him again. As he
raced toward the elevators Dumarest tore open the envelope the chemist had given him, spilling the tablets into his
hand, thrusting them into his mouth, swallowing the dry fragments. They were a stimulant and might combat the
sedative the woman had put in the tisane.
One of the cages was rising. He pressed the button of the other which was descending from two floors above. It
arrived and he jumped inside, slamming the doors and hitting the first floor button. A woman, over-dressed and no
longer young, glared at him from where she stood at the back of the elevator.
 "What are you doing, young man? I wanted the tenth floor."
The beauty shop, the restaurant, the dressmakers, perhaps. It didn't matter. She would have to wait.
"Did you hear me?" Her voice was sharp, acrimonious. "Who are you? A resident? I shall complain to the
manager!"
He ignored her, watching the floors as they rose past. The man outside the apartment had been waiting and there
would be others below. The drug? Elaine had wanted to render him harmless, but why? To capture him obviously, but
he couldn't guess at her motives. To her he was a stranger and she had had no reason to suspect him. And how had
she summoned the man in the passage? She had made no call while he was in the apartment.
The elevator halted and he left the cage. A door gave on to a flight of stairs but he passed them, they were wide
and carpeted and would be watched. Somewhere there had to be another flight, service stairs for the use of
maintenance workers and cleaners. A place like this would want to keep such people out of sight of the residents.
He staggered a little, fighting a sudden nausea, a bee-like buzzing in his ears. Sweat dewed his face and body as
his metabolism struggled against the diverse effects of the drugs. He reached a corner and ducked around it as
someone called out from behind. A door yielded and he stared into a closet filled with cleaning material. Another held
a row of meters. The third opened on a flight of narrow stairs.
He ran down them, almost falling, knuckles white as he gripped the rail. He passed the ground floor and
descended lower guessing that there had to be an exit from the basement. A door at the foot of the stairs opened into
a large area filled with machine sounds, the soft whir of ventilating fans, a quiet hiss of steam from a leaking valve,
the regular pound of a pumping mechanism. A man gaped at him, cringing as Dumarest caught his arm.
"The way out. Where is it?"
"Uh?" The man didn't seem to understand.
"The exit, damn you!" Dumarest dug his fingers deeper into the moist flesh. "The way out!"
He followed the pointing arm, running past a humming generator, the pits of elevator shafts, a bank of glowing
instruments. He had descended too far. A short flight of stairs took him to a higher level, a maze of pipes and
conduits and twisting passages. He fell and rose, shaking his head to clear the dimming mist from his eyes. From
ahead came a blur of voices and a busy clatter.
It came from a wide area filled with benches, ovens and cooking smells. The main kitchen supplying the
restaurant and individual rooms. A man cutting meat stared at him, blood on his soiled apron, a shining knife in his
hand. From one side a voice called an urgent command.
"Hold that man! Hold him!"
The butcher grinned and came forward, the light shining from the blade gripped in his big fist. He was a burly
man with muscles toughened by years of hefting carcasses.
"Just stay where you are," he said. "Move and I'll split you open."
Dumarest ran forward. As the blade lifted he kicked, his foot smashing against the man's kneecap, his raised right
arm blocking the downward swing of the knife. As the man staggered he struck again, the edge of his left hand
slamming against the side of the thick neck. A row of garbage cans stood to one side and he headed toward them,
thrusting through the swing doors beyond, feeling cold air blowing from a ramp leading upward.
Five seconds later he had reached the street.
He fell again, slipping on frozen slush, rolling at the feet of startled pedestrians. A man caught his arm, helped
him to rise, stared his concern.
"You all right, mister?"
"Yes."
"You sure?" The man was anxious. "You look bad to me. Are you ill?"
A cab pulled up across the road, a young woman alighting, her face white against the dark fur of her robe.
Dumarest pulled free his arm and ran toward it His head swam and the pound of his heart was a hammer beating at
his chest. Darkness edged his vision and confused his sense of judgment.
He heard someone cry out, saw a looming shape rushing toward him, tried to spring clear and felt his foot slip on
a patch of snow.
The shock of the impact was swallowed in darkness.

Chapter Eight
All channels were alike; organic chemistry, quantum mechanics, binomial theory, applied physics, atomic
engineering, astronomy, algebra, basic mathematics, each a nonstop stream of educational matter force-fed into
every home. Irritably Mada switched off the television. Had it always been like that, she wondered, and remembered
that it had. The scientific approach. If a thing had no educational value then it went into the discard. Dancing was for
the study of controlled movement and for physical development. Singing for the exercise of the vocal chords and the
illustration of varying harmonics. Stories were lectures, painting an exercise in manual control, verse a mathematical
problem.
But why should it bother her now?
Restlessly she wandered about her chamber, touching various items, her hands lingering on soft fabrics and
supple leathers. Tactile pleasure, for so long unappreciated and now holding a special charm. How much had they all
missed in the past? Was intellectual attainment really the sum total of existence? It wasn't she knew, remembering
the lovers on the train, her own past affairs, but there had to be more than bodily satisfaction.
A mistake, she thought, sitting and leaning back in the chair. One built into the system at the very beginning of
the colonization. The apparently bright but secretly tarnished concept that education would solve all ills. But it didn't
work like that. A man gained degrees or he went to the bottom of the heap. Yet the levels were relative and the end
product inevitably one of growing dissatisfaction. A laborer had been taught to recognize the menial nature of his
work. A man with a valued degree could be qualified only to clean out sewers.
And so the imported labor from Loame. Let them do the filthy jobs, the dirty but essential tasks, lifting by their
presence the egos of those above. Yet it was an uneasy solution, for it would lead directly to a slave culture with all
that implied. Better to dispose of them all even though that was wasteful and emotionally unscientific. They were a
smoldering bomb which would one day explode.
Subconsciously her hands roved over her body, feeling the firm contours beneath the clinging gown. The touch
wakened memories and aroused again the biological reaction she had felt on the train. The reaction brought him
vividly to mind.
Impatience drove her to the phone, sent her fingers punching a familiar number. On the screen a face,
hygienically clean, looked at her.
"Madam?"
"Please report on the progress of patient nine eighteen."
The face dipped, rose as the woman completed her scanning of a file. "Progress is steady, madam. The injuries
were intense and grafts had to be made. The spleen, a kidney and a section of intestine. There were also broken ribs
and a punctured lung."
"How long before he is well?"
"The patient is in deep sleep and his progress is satisfactory. He—"
"How long?"
"Another few days, madam."
"Very well. Send him to me when he has fully recovered."
There was no point in being impatient, she thought, breaking the connection. Even the magic of slow-time which
increased the speed of the metabolism so that an hour's healing could be compressed into little more than a minute
took time.
The impatience of youth, she thought, and smiled. The impetuousness, too. It had been simple to order a guard
to keep a discreet watch on the stranger, changing him for less conspicuous men when the chance arose. They had
followed him: to the chemists, the library and then to the apartment of the woman. Almost they had lost him, but the
accident had put him firmly in her power. A private nursing home and he was safe until she should need him.
As a lover?
She faced the question squarely, responding even to the concept, the reaction of her body telling her that it was
the basic reason for her actions. He had appealed to her and she wanted him. The fact that he was something of a
mystery enhanced his attraction. A whim, she thought. A romantic interlude. But why shouldn't she indulge herself ?
She turned as the door chimed. Dek Brekla stood outside. He entered, smiling, glancing at the subdued
illumination.
"Sitting in the dark, Mada? But then you have a fondness for shadows, don't you." Lifting one hand he touched her
gently on the cheek. "I wonder why?"
"What do you want?"
"To talk." Deliberately he selected a chair, sat, folding his legs and resting his hands on the dark fabric of his thigh.
"Did you know that Krell has retired from the council? He considers that his health would be better if he remained
away from the capital. Naturally he retains his status and full pension. It simply means that he will no longer have a
vote." He paused and then said gently, "I wonder if you also have considered the benefits of retirement?"
"No."
"Perhaps you should," he urged.
She controlled her mounting anger. "I see no reason to do so. Is that all you came to talk about? If so, I suggest
you leave. It is not a subject which interests me."
"To be efficient the council must be a viable entity. Surely you can see that? If we are to become static then it will
be good-bye to all progress. Tell me, how would you have felt when young if you had known that there would never
be an opportunity for you to achieve your ambition?"
She met his eyes. "I wouldn't have liked it."
"Exactly."
"Are you suggesting that each council member retires on reaching a certain term of office?"
"I think it a fair suggestion," he said. "We are entering a period of potential unrest and should have younger minds
to deal with the problems which will arise. You are a clever woman, Mada. I think you can see which path is best for
you to follow."
To how many had he carried the suggestion? Krell gone and how many more to follow? Frightened by a shadow,
terrified by the hint of a suggestion. But the council ruled and Vargas was only one man. If the Technarch sought
dictatorial power then she wasn't going to help him get it. Even so it would be wise to be discreet.
"I'll think about it," she said. "There is truth in what you say; the young should be given their chance. But what of
those who retire? Will they continue to—"
"As before," he said quickly. "I assure you, my dear, that you won't lose a thing. Just the right to vote. Everything
else will be as before." He rose, teeth bright in a smile. "I'm glad we had this talk. I like you, Mada, and I would hate to
see you hurt. Be wise. You won't regret it."
"As long as you promise that nothing will change? Aside from the vote, I mean?"
"You have my word on it." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "I must hurry. There is a council meeting due.
Are you joining us?"
"No. I want to think."
"Good for you, Mada." Again he touched her cheek. "Nice," he said. "Very nice."
A dog, she thought as he left. A slavering hound running at the heels of his master and hoping for a share of the
feast. More. Doing Vargas's work for him; seeing the members of the council, whispering, setting one against the
other. How long before he would turn assassin?

***

Yendhal said, "I am sorry, sire, but I am doing the best I can. The tests are stringent but essential if I am to offer
more than an eighty percent chance of success."
One chance in five—it wasn't enough. Others had taken it, those more desperate than himself, but the odds were
too low. Vargas scowled as he stared at the screen and the miniature figure depicted on it. Even via the electronic
transmission he could sense the man's fear.
"Five and a quarter minutes," said the physician. "He has been lucky but it cannot last."
"Why not?" Vargas turned from the screen. "Isn't luck an essential factor for survival? It could be that you are
looking for the wrong attributes. Why can't you test them for luck?"
"If they are lucky they wouldn't be here," said Yendhal flatly. "That is the first thing to consider if we are to seek
their relative potential in that area, As for the rest, how do we test them? On the spin of a coin? On their ability to
select certain favorable combinations? And, if they test high, wouldn't the sequel invalidate the findings?"
"Doesn't the same objection apply to the labyrinth?"
"No. They do not know what the final outcome will be if they survive. If they did it would affect their
performance." Yendhal glanced at the screen. "Six minutes."
Vargas was ironic. "Still lucky?"
"Luck has an important part to play in survival," admitted the physician. "But it is too intangible a factor for us to
be able to isolate. If a man lives he is lucky because he has lived. But it takes more than luck to pass through the tests
I have devised." He grunted as a red light flashed from the screen. "Six and a quarter minutes. Failure."
Another one, thought Vargas. And one of how many? Would the result always be the same? Had Yendhal made
certain that it would be so?
"Perhaps the test is too severe," he said. "Would lessening the dangers show an advantage?"
"It would increase the chance of survival, true, but it would invalidate what we are trying to determine."
Vargas was insistent. "A series of tests then, each harder than the ones before."
"That would prove nothing except the ability of the subject to learn from experience."
"And that is not survival?"
"It is," admitted Yendhal, "but we are not testing to determine educational ability. As I explained the survival
instinct is inherent in the basic pattern. A man can be taught but it is not the same. I assure you, sire, I know what I
am doing. Each subject has been selected on the basis of tissue affinity. If you wish I could operate tomorrow but—"
"Only with a success factor of eighty percent?"
"That is so, sire. I strongly suggest that you allow me to continue my researches on the present basis. You have
nothing to lose and everything to gain by waiting. The laws of probability must, in time, produce a perfect specimen."
Vargas glowered around the subterranean laboratories. Yendhal was in his element here, a man devoid of morals
or conscience, happy to pursue his experiments and, perhaps, forgetful of the main object. Such a man would take no
account of the passage of time.
To reassure himself he said, "There is no doubt in your mind as to the suitability of the subjects?"
"No, sire, none. The people of Loame are unique in that they show a total lack of the stress factors induced by
higher civilizations. From birth they have eaten a mainly vegetable diet, lived in a relatively gentle environment and
have had none of the strains of competition. The results show in their medically perfect physiques. Comparisons with
opposed types from Technos show a remarkable diminution in organic wear and arterial blockage. Unfortunately the
same environment which has provided the stress free condition has worked against a high survival factor. They are
like domestic cattle as compared to those running wild. The domestic types are more healthy in every way."
"But are more easily killed?"
"Exactly, sire. If they were not, the war with Loame would be far different from what it is. The mere fact they
agree to the tribute is proof that their natural resistance is low. On a planetary scale war is, of course, an analog of an
individual infection. A healthy organism will resist the invader—by healthy I mean one with a high survival factor. It
will produce antibodies to fight on its behalf. Loame has not done so. And so we have the apparent paradox of a
people perfectly healthy in body but hopelessly unable to resist the infection of war. For our purposes they are ideal."

***

At four in the afternoon the palace was a teeming hive of activity with people streaming through the lower
chambers, supplicants, examinees, minor officials intent on their business. An ant hill, thought Major Keron
dispassionately. A hive. A community of which the whole was greater than the parts.
The activity fell away as he rose to the upper levels, changing elevators to rise still higher, the cage humming as it
rose into silence. A guard checked his credentials, another guided him down a mesh of passages, pointing as he
reached a turn.
"The third door along, Major. Knock and wait."
Frowning, he obeyed. The panel swung open and a youth, bright in scarlet, gestured for him to enter.
Ruen stood at the far side of the room.
"Major Keron?"
"Yes." Keron stared about the room. "I was summoned to appear before Cyber Ruen."
"I am he. Will you sit?"
Keron obeyed. The acolyte glided silently from the room. For a moment the two men stared at each other, Keron
frankly curious, the cyber calculating as he studied his visitor. A typical product of Technos culture, he thought. A
man who considered himself to be highly intelligent because he had passed various exams, not suspecting that
wisdom, intelligence and book learning were not the same.
"I have the permission of the Technarch to interview you, Major," he said. "You understand that I have his full
authority? That in speaking to me you are speaking to him?"
"With respect, cyber, I disagree." Keron was firm. "As an officer attached to the Security Division I must be
circumspect. You understand?"
"Are you intelligent, Major?"
"I have nine degrees."
"That isn't answering my question. Do you know what intelligence is?"
"Knowledge," said Keron after a moment. "Education."
"Wisdom is neither," said Ruen in his even monotone. "An untaught man can be wise. And intelligence is not
necessarily knowledge. It is, rather, the ability to survive in the environment in which you find yourself. You can
appreciate the difference. I venture to state that on Sarg, a planet of blistering heat and little water, you would quickly
die." He paused and added, "Dumarest would live."
"Dumarest?"
"The man you allowed to escape." He caught the sudden tension, the almost indiscernible stiffening of his visitor.
"You have never heard of him?"
"No."
"I have been checking the records," continued Ruen. "Of the last contingent from Loame how many were
suspect?"
"Five. One was a liar, claiming to be the son of a grower when he was not. Three were interrogated and found to
be harmless. The other—"
"Escaped," said Ruen. "That man was Dumarest. He was not a spy and comes from no local world. How did he
elude your guards?" He waited as Keron explained. "He moved quickly?"
"Very quickly. Faster than any man I have ever seen before."
It was confirmation if Ruen had needed it, which he had not. Logic and extrapolation pointed to the obvious. The
message received via Central Intelligence proved that Dumarest must have visited Technos. Now he had to be found.
If Keron was as intelligent as he thought he would have found him long ago.
"I take it that you have thoroughly checked the base area? That he was not found?"
"I have and he was not." Keron was irked by the implication that he was incapable of doing his job. "We found his
discarded uniform. We also found other clothes which he had left in a hotel. There is a suspicion that he booked at
another under the name of Ganish. Other than that, nothing."
"It was getting late," pointed out Ruen. "The temperature was falling and later it snowed. He could not have
wandered the streets all night."
"No."
"So he must have found shelter. Where else but on the monorail? Surely you checked?"
"Yes," admitted Keron. "I did. A ticket was sold against my credit card and identification. He stole it together with
some money. But he was not on the monorail. Every car was checked and no passenger was found without
satisfactory identification."
"He could not have boarded a vessel?"
"Impossible. The gates were locked and the fence guarded. Also each ship was later searched."
Ruen stood thinking, his eyes somber in the stark planes of his face. "The man is in the capital," he said after a
moment, "You will find him at a hospital or nursing home. Either that or he will be in jail. Check every patient and
prisoner, and when you find him bring him to me. To me, Major, do you understand?"
Keron frowned. "It is a security matter, I am not sure that I can do that."
"You can." Ruen was insistent. "It will be to your advantage. The man means nothing to you. Do as I ask and you
will not regret it. I have the confidence of the Technarch and he will promote you if I suggest he do so. Now hurry.
Already too much time has been allowed to elapse."

Chapter Nine
The room was pentagonal, windowless, soft lights casting an artificial moonlight from the vaulted roof, the air
heavy and perfumed with a musky odor. Soft carpets lined the floor, and on small tables rested various objects of
interest.
Idly Dumarest examined them. A tall cylinder of transparent crystal held a slowly moving growth of fibrous
matter, bright colors merging, changing into new patterns, the material streaked and flecked with kaleidoscopic
brilliance. Another cylinder held a mass of crystals which spread, piling one on top of another until the jar was filled
with a glittering tree, the whole abruptly slumping into a turgid liquid which grew again as he watched, faceted gems
forming themselves into new configurations. A cone shimmered with living rainbows. A cube slowly revolved, the
lines and planes seeming to shift into other dimensions so that he blinked at the sudden ache in his eyes.
"Children's toys. Mathematical novelties to illustrate natural and scientific law."
The voice had come from behind him. He turned. A door stood open in one of the angles of the pentagon, dim
illumination showing a wide bed, a mirror, a table loaded with vials. The woman standing in the opening was almost
as tall as himself, hair a dark waterfall streaming to below her shoulders, a thin robe caught just under the breasts with
a golden band. She stepped forward, naked feet graced with laced sandals, the movement accentuating the long
curves of her thighs. Her face was that of a young and beautiful woman.
"I am Mada Grist." Her hand rose, gold shining from the nails. "Do you remember me?"
"We met on the train." Dumarest caught the proffered hand and lifted it to his lips, feeling the softness and
warmth of the olive skin. "It seems, my lady, that I owe you my life."
"You acknowledge the debt?"
"Yes, my lady."
"My name is Mada. You will please me by using it." She moved from the open door of the bedroom and crossed
to where a wide, padded bench stood against one of the walls. "You will find wine in that cabinet. Serve us both."
It was held in a jar of frosted glass cut to a mathematical form. The glasses rose like flowers from a solid base.
The wine was tart and refreshing to the tongue, scented with a delicate odor and bright with drifting bubbles.
"From Hardish," she said. "They have a knack with wine. Have you been there?"
"No, my lady."
"Mada," she reminded. "There is no need for us to be formal, Earl." Her eyes smiled at his expression. "Yes, I
know your name and a little about you. There are techniques known to our medical science which can gather
knowledge from a sleeping brain. Earl Dumarest," she mused. "A traveler. A man with a quest." Her voice grew
wistful. "Does finding this planet mean so much to you?"
"It does." His voice was guarded. Guessing the reason, she laughed.
"Don't be so wary, Earl. We could only skim your mind and gather information you were willing to give. Your
secrets are safe. I would not have ordered the violation of your privacy but certain matters made it urgent that I learn
something of the truth." She emptied her glass and held it to be refilled. "That you were not a spy. That you are not an
enemy of Technos. That you owe loyalty to none."
"Mada?"
"Never mind." Taking the replenished glass she drank half the contents at a gulp. "Serious matters can come later.
For now tell me something of yourself. You have traveled, that I know. Far? To the Center?"
"To the Center and beyond," he said, remembering. How many ships, journeys, worlds? How much time spent
traveling Low or riding High? Biologically he was still fairly young but chronologically the years had mounted and, in
one respect, he was very old. In experience, the only time scale which held any real meaning. And Mada?
The light was dim, the contours of her face blurred with shadow, but her body was young and appealed to him
with primitive attraction. Thoughtfully he sipped at his wine. She was high in this society, that was obvious, and
possibly bored and eager for excitement. Often such women sought it in the company of strangers, titillated by
novelty, intrigued by the attraction of the unknown.
Was that why she had saved him, had him healed and, when he was wholly fit, brought to her apartments in the
palace?
He lowered the glass, conscious of danger. Such a woman could have jealous guardians quick to hire an assassin
to cleanse the honor of their house.
"You are somber," she said. "Why?"
Bluntly he told her.
"Assassins?" Her laughter was strained. "No, Earl. That is the least you have to fear. Technos is not a primitive
culture with a proud nobility and formal ways. And I have no husband, no lover, none who would object to any liaison
I may make." Again she held out her glass for it to be replenished. "You have known many women?"
"A few."
"Now you are being discreet. I would venture to guess that many women have found you attractive. Have you
never thought of marrying? Of settling down?"
"Yes."
"And what happened? Why didn't you?" The wine, she realized, was going to her head, and its aphrodisiacal
qualities accentuated the desire burning her flesh. "What happened Earl? Why hasn't some woman claimed you for
her own?"
"Fate, my lady," he said quietly. "Death and unfortunate circumstances."
"And you don't want to talk about it," she said quickly. "I understand." Her hand rested on his own, the long
fingers caressing the flesh, halting as they rested on the ring he wore on the third finger of his left hand. "And this? A
gift?"
"Yes, my lady."
Her voice was sharp. "From a woman?"
"Yes," said Dumarest, and added, "she is gone. It was some time ago."
"Dead?"
"You would call it that."
"I'm glad." she said. "I would not like to have to share you." Fabric rustled as she turned to him, taking the glass
from his hand and setting it aside. "Now," she whispered. "I have waited too long. Now!"

***

A lamp burned in the center of the groined roof, its wash of kaleidoscopic colors turning the chamber into a vault
of mystery, swathes of red and yellow, orange and blue, green and smoky amber drifting over the wide bed, his naked
body, the furnishings of the apartment. Dumarest stared at it, lying supine, his eyes half closed against its hypnotic
compulsion. From beyond a door came the sound of rushing water, a shower where the woman laved her body, but
even there the light was dim.
Shadows, he thought, and strangeness. The burning demands of a young and nubile body but the face had
remained almost totally serene. Only the eyes had reflected the passion and, when he had tried to caress her cheek,
she had prevented it, holding his hand, guiding it to the soft contours of her body.
A mask? It was more than possible, but if so it was the product of a master. She had smiled and sighed and
pursed her lips for his kiss. Drifting shadows of changing color had blurred all detail and mounting passion had taken
care of the rest. But now, with passion spent, there was time for thought.
"Earl."
He rose as she came from the bathroom. The robe was once again adorning her body, the hair falling neatly to
her shoulders, the graceful feet enhanced by the sandals.
"Bathe," she said, "and dress. We have much to discuss."
She watched as he moved toward the shower, feeling again the strength of his arms, the joy he had given.
Perturbed she went to a cabinet, opened it, selected a drug from assembled vials. Somehow she must control the
rebellious reactions of her body. He had slaked her desire but still the yearning remained. It must be crushed if she
was to remain in control of the situation.
The drug quieted her so that she was calm when he joined her in the pentagonal chamber. She poured them both
wine, a different vintage from that they had drunk before, handing him a goblet and sitting so as to face him.
"To health," she said. "To the achievement of heart's desire."
Dumarest drank to the toast.
"Love," she said. "Another name for the chemical reaction occurring between the sexes. A romantic definition of
the urge to procreate. You agree?"
"My lady, I—"
"Mada," she interrupted. "How can we be formal now?"
"It is not always wise to build a future on events of the past," he said quietly. "It is a mistake often made and one
for which many men have suffered."
Had he? She studied him over the rim of her glass, resentful of his calmness while appreciating his tact and
diplomacy. He was telling her that the incident could be forgotten. It made it easier for her to guide the conversation.
"You are a traveler. It must be wonderful to visit new worlds and see different cultures. Are most of them
barbaric?"
"No, Mada. Usually a world when colonized falls into a definite pattern. Great houses rise to control government
and industry. But others are based on different forms of society. Kren is a world in which democracy has been carried
to the ultimate. Nothing can be decided until a referendum has been taken. Computers, naturally, make this simple.
Pharso, on the other hand, is a dictatorship with supreme authority vested in one man who is chosen by lot each five
years. Charos is a world devoted to athletic prowess. Status is determined by victories scored at games and combats.
The old and those unable to compete are relegated to the status of servitors."
"An interesting system," she commented. "Those once in power inevitably wind up as demoted citizens. It should
make them consider the welfare of the servitors if nothing else. They would be safeguarding their own future."
Dumarest poured them both more wine, wondering at the woman's motives. "And Technos?"
"A meritocracy based on educational attainment." She sipped at her wine. "To you it must seem a strange culture.
There is small chance for individual freedom of the type to which you must be accustomed. Technos was a bleak
world. In the beginning everything had to be subordinate to the common welfare. There was no room for wasted
effort, even the unfit were culled at birth or shortly afterward. Now citizens are allowed to breed only if they reach a
certain mental level. The dream was of a continually rising spiral of intelligence governed on scientific principles."
"An ambitious undertaking," said Dumarest. "Why did it fail?"
"Fail?"
"Technos is at war. War, by definition, is a confession of failure. It requires little intelligence to beat a weaker man
with a club."
"And much to persuade him to do what you want while letting him think he wants to do it?" She nodded. "You are
right, but one mistake doesn't make a failure."
"You have made more than one. A viable culture should not erect barriers to prevent the free passage of visitors
or residents. Technos is a hard world to reach. Science should not be afraid of the truth."
"And travelers carry truth?"
He smiled. "Not always. Most travelers simply want the chance to work and accumulate enough money to buy
another passage. Is that possible here?"
"No." She paused, watching him, gauging the moment. "You acknowledge the fact that you owe me your life. Do
you consider the debt paid?"
 Dumarest met her eyes. "No."
"You want to leave Technos, to continue your search for Earth. I can help you."
"At a price, my lady?"
"Money and a High passage," she said quickly. "All made easy for you to go. In return I want you to do one thing."
She drew in her breath. "I want you to kill the Technarch!"

***

The silence grew, deepened by the drifting shadows from the open door of the bedroom, the glow of artificial
moonlight from the vaulted roof. Dumarest looked at his hands, raising his head to meet the woman's eyes.
Quietly he said, "I am not an assassin, my lady."
"You are a fugitive, on Technos without legal right, subject to punishment when caught. Hard punishment." she
emphasized. "Interrogation and, perhaps, death. Unless I aid you, capture is certain. And you admit that you owe me
your life."
"Is that why you saved it, my lady?"
"No," she spoke without thinking, but it was true enough. At first she had obeyed the promptings of a whim and
the desires of her body. But then had come the interview with Brekla, the thinly disguised threats, the knowledge that
she stood alone against Vargas and his ambition.
Shergan, Alica, Marmot, Dehnar, all had turned against her. The Supreme Council were rats each scuttling for
safety. Or, perhaps, they had formed a cabal from which she was excluded. With the Technarch dead they would think
again, and at least she would have time to secure her position.
Dumarest had to agree!
Leaning forward she spoke quickly before he could refuse. "Vargas is an old man, terrified of his shadow. He
trusts only a single guard. I can arm you and guide you to his chamber. Two shots and the thing is done. In return I
will give you money and arrange a passage." Her voice rose, grew thin and querulous. "Why do you hesitate? What
have you to lose? Your mind carries the knowledge of violence. You have killed before so why not again? It is such a
little thing I ask. Two shots and you will have repaid your debt. Do it, Earl. For me. Please!"
A little thing! To kill the head of a state! And afterward would she keep her part of the bargain or would she
arrange to have him killed so as to close his mouth? And when he refused, what then? Poison in the wine?
Slowly he said, "My lady, you are distraught. You cannot realize what you ask."
"I ask you to kill a man," she said. "A mad dog who will drag us all to ruin. An ambitious fool blind to everything
but his own lust for power. Kill him and Technos will have cause to be grateful."
"I have little cause to trust the gratitude of princes," he said dryly. "And less to rely on the thanks of a nation.
What you propose, my lady, is unwise."
"You refuse?"
"To kill a man I have never seen? Yes, my lady. As I said, I am no assassin."
Dumarest rose, stiffening as a sudden knocking came from the door, seeing by the woman's eyes that the
interruption was unexpected. It came again, sharp, imperious.
"Hide," she said quickly. "In there." She gestured toward the bedroom. "Make no sound."
The knocking increased as he stepped into the room, closing the door all but a crack. Through it he saw Mada
cross the chamber and open the door. A flood of light from the corridor beyond lined her figure with a halo of
brilliance.
"Your pardon, madam," said a familiar voice. "I crave your indulgence on a matter of planetary security. Have I
your permission to enter?"
Keron! And from the sound of his voice, he would brook no refusal. Dumarest turned and ran toward the
bathroom. Inside he scanned the walls. They were solid, broken only by grilles too small to allow the passage of his
body. A disposal chute opened at his touch and he stared into darkness. It would lead to a shaft, dropping to the lower
levels and ending, perhaps, in a furnace. As he hesitated he heard the sudden rise of Mada's voice.
"How dare you! To burst into my apartments! Have the members of the Supreme Council no rights?"
Keron's answer was firm. "Not when planetary security is at risk, madam. I must insist that you allow me to
search your rooms."
The chute bent at a sharp angle two feet from the opening. Dumarest felt the scrape of the rim against his back as
he wriggled around the bend, elbows extended to brake his passage. His legs dangled free and he followed them,
hanging by his hands at the lower edge of the bend, reaching back with one foot to find the extent of the shaft. It was
about four feet wide, narrow enough for him to press his feet against one side, his back against the other, lowering
himself with cautious motions.
 From above he caught a flash of light and heard a muffled voice.
"Nothing here, Major."
The light vanished and the darkness was complete. Cramped in the chimney Dumarest cautiously eased his way
down. To return to the woman's apartment was to take an unnecessary risk. Keron would have stationed a guard in
the corridor if nowhere else and the man would probably have orders to shoot on sight. And the woman was another
problem. His refusal would not have endeared him to her, and if she was wise she would kill him to close his mouth.
He frowned, remembering the youth of her body, the childish solution she had found to social problems. Kill the
Technarch and everything would be wonderful! It was the answer a primitive would think of, not an educated and
sophisticated woman. And she was a member of the ruling council. An infant prodigy, perhaps? In such a society he
guessed it was possible.
His foot slipped and he strained against his other leg, sweat beading his face at the thought of the emptiness
below. He concentrated on the pressure of steel against the soles of his feet and the area of his back. He seemed
lower than before, his body less cramped, and he realized that the shaft was widening as it descended. Soon it would
be too wide for him to support his weight.
His foot slipped and met emptiness. A joining shaft or the mouth of a chute? He could have passed a dozen of
them, missing them all in the thick darkness and he could miss a dozen more. But the lower he went the harder it
became to straddle the shaft. Halting, feet and back pressed against the metal, he felt to either side with his hands.
Nothing. The shaft was unbroken. Crablike he moved in a circle, hands testing the metal, pausing as he felt the
upper edge of an opening. It was smooth, rounded and slick with some covering. Grease, perhaps, or a plastic film to
protect the metal from corrosion. In any case, it was too wide for him to gain a strong purchase; if he tried to thrust
his body into the opening he would slip and fall.
Grimly he began to climb back up the shaft. He had to reach a point where it was narrow enough for him to enter
one of the openings without losing his balance. His shoulders met the lower rim of a chute and he moved away from
it, climbing still higher. When the shaft had narrowed so that his knees were pressed against his chest he searched for
another opening.
Sweat oozed from his skin as he fought a mounting fatigue, the strain on his muscles turning them into fire. A foot
met no resistance and he circled, back scraping the wall. Reaching the opening he positioned himself, hooking his left
elbow into the chute. Tensing his muscles he kicked out, turning at the same time, the pressure forcing his head and
shoulders into the opening before he could fall. Desperately he rammed both elbows against the sides, fighting the
pull of gravity as his legs fell from the support of the wall. He kicked, meeting the upward bend, using elbows, chest
and chin to gain traction. A knee caught the lower edge of the chute and he thrust upward, back arched and head
rising toward the mouth of the chute.
His face bumped into hardness and he reached upward, fumbling at the smooth surface, pressing, feeling
resistance and knowing that the door was locked. He tensed, ramming the sides of his legs against the walls of the
chute, his back, one arm and hand. With the other he pressed against the top of the door, gritting his teeth as he felt
himself begin to slip. Drawing back his hand he slammed the palm hard against the upper edge and, as something
yielded, lunged forward and gripped both sides of the mouth of the chute.
A heave and he was through the opening and falling into darkness.

Chapter Ten
It was a bathroom. He could tell by the scent of soap and lotions, the touch of tile and humid warmth. Carefully
he felt along the walls, finding a switch and narrowing his eyes against a flood of light. From a wall a mirror threw
back his reflection.
He was filthy, covered with greasy dirt, his face streaked, his hands grimed and his clothes a ruin. If he hoped to
escape the building he would have to wash and change. As he was, he would be arrested on sight.
Dumarest turned, switching off the light and gently opening the door of the bathroom. Beyond lay a chamber
dim with subdued illumination, a bed resting in the center, a wardrobe to one side. From an outer room came the
sound of voices.
"My lord, my extrapolations show that there is a probability of ninety-two percent that insurrection will break out
on Hardish within a few weeks. I advise that extra troops be sent from Cest and Wen to reinforce the occupying
garrisons."
"I know what you advise, Ruen." Vargas was impatient. "But there are things of greater importance. Five
members of the council have agreed to retire and three others will probably join them. Brekla has secured a favorable
vote to grant me extraordinary powers for the duration of the war. How long will it be before I am in absolute
command?"
"You are that in fact if not in name already, my lord." Ruen's even monotone was in direct contrast to the
Technarch's emotional outburst. "The prediction that a cabal will be formed to act against you is of a very low order
to probability, seven point eight percent. It cannot be ignored but the probability can be lowered to two point three
percent if Dehnar is sent on a special mission to Loame."
Vargas scowled. "And to eliminate it totally?"
"That is not possible, my lord. The potential danger will always remain. Even if you destroy all the members of
the council a junta of the military could seek power at your expense. The most that can be accomplished is to reduce
the probability factor to a point where it can be safely ignored."
His calmness infuriated the Technarch. How could the cyber be so cold, so calculating? Events were dark clouds
piled before a rushing wind, sweeping relentlessly toward him, monstrous with hidden dangers. Restlessly he prowled
his room, his brain trying to grapple with a dozen facts, make a score of extrapolations and failing to determine even
one. Now it seemed that the euphorics had lost their power to soothe. Sleep was a thing of nightmare to be taken in
small doses and even the darkness brought by the closing of his eyes held peculiar terrors.
The things which could happen in such a moment of inattention! A laser could blast his life, the roof fall, an
assassin strike in a host of ways. And Ruen spoke of danger to be safely ignored!
His hands felt sticky, slimed with sweat and he headed towards the bathroom, caution slowing his feet. Yet he was
reluctant to summon the guard. The apartment had been checked before he had entered with Ruen and, each time he
called the man he risked a blast from the weapon hired to protect him.
Ruen watched his hesitation, gauging the extent of the Technarch's fear, feeling the glow of mental achievement
at the success of his predictions. Vargas was medically insane and would soon totally disintegrate. Vargas would
leave chaos: the council disrupted and the state in turmoil. From the wreckage he, Ruen, would fashion a new
council, guiding it with his advice, steering it the way it must go.
"My lord," he said as Vargas reached the door of the bedroom, "let me summon your guard. It is not wise to take
chances."
"Could an assassin come through the walls?"
"The probability is extremely low, my lord, yet it does exist." Make him afraid of darkness, of shadows, of the
very beat of his own heart. A man poisoned by terror was unable to think, to plan and determine. A creature of blind,
unthinking emotive reaction was a predictable tool. "The guard, my lord?"
He came at the call, laser in hand, eyes searching the rooms. It was a ritual he had performed a thousand times
before and he acted with a trained economy of movement. A foot opened the bathroom door, lights blooming in
automatic response, the panel swinging back as he entered.
Dumarest struck with the heavy bottle of lotion he had snatched from a shelf.
He dropped it as the guard slumped, snatching the laser and springing through the door into the other room.
Vargas screamed his terror, hands lifted to protect his face, eyes bulging with the fear of imminent death.
"Be quiet!" There had been two voices. Dumarest ran to the door of the bedroom, narrowing his eyes as he saw
the scarlet of the cyber's robe. "You! In here. Quickly!"
Calmly Ruen obeyed, standing beside where Vargas had slumped in a faint, his eyes bright within the shadowed
sockets of his skull. "Your name must be Dumarest," he said. "You are making a grave mistake."
"Perhaps."
"This man is the Technarch. How do you hope to escape?"
Dumarest ignored the question. He had managed to wash the dirt from his face and hands but had been unable to
do anything about his clothes. He stepped to the wardrobe, sliding back the doors, tensing as he saw a threatening
figure. It was a reflection; the cabinet was backed with mirrors. He turned as he noticed the movement of Ruen's
hands.
"No. Keep your hands away from your sleeves. Away, I say!"
"You are being irrational," said the cyber, obeying. "Logical deduction should tell you that you have no hope of
avoiding the guards." He watched as Dumarest changed, tearing clothes from the cabinet, dressing awkwardly but
keeping the laser trained on the scarlet figure. "If you leave here with that weapon the probability of your being killed
is ninety-nine percent. Certainty. Your only hope for life is to surrender yourself to me."
"Inside!" Dumarest gestured to the wardrobe. It had a catch and would hold for a while. "Quickly!"
"And if I refuse?"
"That would be illogical. I am a desperate man and it would be simpler to kill you than to argue. Your hands!"
snapped Dumarest sharply as Ruen lifted them to his wide sleeves. "I shall not warn you again."
"You are desperate without cause. Yield yourself to me and I guarantee that none on Technos will harm you."
"Move!" Dumarest closed the panel as the cyber entered the wardrobe. He engaged the catch and glanced at
Vargas. Unconscious the man was no problem. He had a few minutes at least before the alarm could be given.
Opening the door, he stepped into the corridor outside. The Technarch's paranoia had kept it free of guards. At
the far end a man in red and black glanced at him, curious but reassured by Dumarest's air of confidence.
Fifteen seconds later he ran directly into Major Keron and six of his men.

***

Yendhal said, "I want you to be certain as to what we are doing. You have heard of lie detectors?"
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"Then you will understand what this is." The physician gestured toward the assembled apparatus. "It is a
development of my own with certain improvements over the standard model. Electrodes will register the tensions of
your body, the degree of emitted sweat, the minute, muscular contractions impossible to avoid when uttering a lie.
The truth needs no consideration and can be spoken without hesitation. A lie, no matter how well rehearsed, requires
concentration and there is usually a small but measurable delay. You understand?"
"Yes," said Dumarest again. He was naked, strapped to a chair, electrodes fastened to a dozen points of his body,
more sprouting from a band of metal about his head.
Calmly he stared about the laboratory. The place had a harsh, clinical smell and looked more like a hospital than
an interrogation room. Yendhal, fussing over his equipment, seemed more like a schoolmaster about to conduct a
routine experiment than an inquisitor. But his eyes held a ruthless dedication which betrayed his true nature.
"There is one other thing." Yendhal rested his hand on a tube aimed directly at a point between Dumarest's eyes.
"This is a laser. If you lie it will burn a hole in your brain." He looked at someone beyond the range of Dumarest's
vision. "Commence."
"Your name?"
"Earl Dumarest."
"Your planet of origin?"
"Earth."
"How did you arrive on Technos?" The voice was cold, emotionless, the studied modulation of a machine.
Dumarest answered without hesitation.
"Are you an assassin?"
"No."
"Have you killed?"
"Yes."
"On Technos?"
"No."
"Why did you try to kill the Technarch?"
Dumarest remained silent.
"Answer the question. The laser will fire if you refuse."
"I cannot answer because the question is wrongly framed. You are asking me to give a reason for doing
something which I did not do and did not intend."
"Did you intend to kill the Technarch?"
"No."
"Did you try to kill him?"
"No."
"Could you have?"
"Yes."
Vargas turned from where he stood before a sheet of one-way glass as Yendhal came toward him. "The man is
lying. He has found a way to beat your machine."
"Impossible!" The physician was emphatic. "No man can control his respiration, muscular response and nervous
tension to that degree. I stake my reputation that he is telling the truth."
"But he was in my apartments! What reason could he have had unless he intended to kill me?"
Yendhal was patient. "He had no weapon, sire, and an assassin would have to anticipate the presence of your
guard. Logic dictates that if he had intended to kill you he would have been armed."
Vargas frowned, reluctant to accept the conclusion, yet knowing it to be true. And the man had illustrated a
weakness. Who would have thought anyone could enter from the disposal chute? Ruen should have thought of it.
Perhaps he had. The frown deepened as Vargas's suspicions began to feed on his doubts. Who could tell what had
happened after he had fainted? Had the cyber hoped that the sudden strain would burst his heart? Had they been
interrupted before killing him without trace? The coincidence was too much for him to believe. How had the man
known which chute led to his rooms? And Ruen had made certain that the guard had been summoned and sent
ahead.
He scowled, listening to the drone of question and answer from a connecting speaker. Was the man in the pay of
some seditious element? Had the cyber lied in his assurance that there was no organized opposition to his plan to
gain supreme power? And Yendhal, could he have rigged the machine so as to give harmless answers?
"You are a stranger on Technos?"
"Do you have friends on the planet?"
"No."
"Have you been here before?"
"No."
Check questions repeated at irregular intervals and in different phraseology. Standard procedure to catch a liar
but now it was even more than that. The relentless barrage would numb the consciousness and induce a hypnotic
condition in which the answers would come mechanically from the lower regions of the brain, thus bypassing the
censor. Dumarest was being conditioned to answer without conscious volition.
"An unusual man, sire." Yendhal turned from the observation screen. "I have questioned Major Keron as to his
activities. Apparently he reacted most violently to routine interrogation, attacking the guards at the threat of violence
and making good his escape despite formidable obstacles. The incident is even more remarkable when we realize
that he knew nothing of our culture and could not fully assess the difficulties he would have to overcome."
"Are you saying that he reacted instinctively?"
"Yes, sire, I am. Almost as an animal would react, sensing danger and taking action to avoid it, gauging situations
as they arose and taking steps to elude capture. An intelligent animal, naturally, and one with a highly developed
sense of survival. He must have spent much time on backward worlds among primitive cultures in which personal
survival depended on individual strength and quickness. His reflexes are amazingly fast. So fast that they must
operate independently of conscious thought. Logically it would have been wiser for him to have accepted Keron's
punishment and bided his time. He must have reacted on a purely subconscious level, assessing the situation, judging
the chances of success and moving into action all in the time it took for him to see the upraised club and realize its
significance. A truly remarkable performance."
Vargas was thoughtful. "Would you say he was unique?"
"I would."
"Isn't it possible to get him to volunteer information?"
"No, sire, not under the present conditions. Lying is a form of preservation, and he will lie if given the chance. As
it is his monosyllabic answers are a form of protection. He will answer each question truthfully but will volunteer no
truth. Our job is to make certain that we ask the right questions. I'm afraid that it will take some time."

***

A weak sun had thawed the snow turning the slush into water and filling the air with a damp chill. Huddled in her
furs Mada stepped from the cab, dismissed the driver and stood looking down the street as it drove away.
It was an uninviting place. A quick-teach palace blazed with light and the promise to quick-feed education by
means of the latest techniques. A store displayed shoddy goods from the occupied worlds together with an invitation
to step inside and learn about the wonderful new settlement offers now available. A toyshop offered the latest in
educational pastimes. A child, crying, was dragged from the window by its harassed mother.
"I keep telling you we can't afford it," she scolded. "With your father in the army it's all I can afford to put food on
the table. Now shut up before I give you something to howl about!"
A man called softly from where he leaned against a wall. "Help a man with a limited wife, lady? She can't do
better than the fourth level."
Another approached, limping. "Spare a few coins for study, madam? One more degree and I'll be able to get my
leg fixed."
Mada glared her dislike. "How did you get hurt?"
"In ambush on Hardish, madam. A bunch of us got jumped by some locals one night."
"You're lying. If you were in the army you can get free medical attention."
He shrugged, unabashed. "Sure, but you know how it is. A man likes to get the best that's going."
Dirt, she thought as she pushed past him. Scum. The dregs of Technos and a disgrace to the planet. Why didn't
they get themselves some education and find decent jobs?
The irritation was misplaced; she had more important things to do than worry about beggars and slums. With
quick strides she walked down the street into a place selling educational tapes and out of a rear door. A narrow alley
opened on a wide boulevard. Two hundred yards along a soaring sheet of glass and metal protected a display of gold
and jewels. A uniformed attendant glanced at her, at the bulky bag she carried, then stepped forward to open the
door. Inside, a wave of scented air warmed away her chill.
"Madam?" A man, sleek and well groomed, rose at her side.
"I wish to sell some items."
"Certainly, madam." He led the way toward an inner door. "If you will be so good as to wait inside?"
The buyer was a plump man with a pink scalp and veiled eyes. He looked at the contents of the bag, resting his
fingers on scaled miniatures, an elaborate clock, a set of chessmen carved from solid crystal, two statuettes, a
handful of cameos, some filigree work of silver and gold, a fragment of tapestry, a meditation light of skilled
workmanship and historical interest.
Quietly he said, "You will pardon the question, madam, but can you give me proof that these things are yours to
dispose of ?"
For answer she held out her left wrist. Gravely he studied the engraving on the bracelet.
"My apologies, madam, but you can appreciate our concern. There has been a great deal of theft in the city
recently."
"I understand. Can you accommodate me?"
"Certainly, madam. If you will permit me to make a closer study of these items?"
She nodded, relaxing as he produced a jeweler's glass and fitted it to his eye. Her precautions, though simple,
should have been good enough. She had used three different vehicles and had walked the last few yards. Had anyone
been following her, he must have lost the trail.
Removing his glass the buyer said, "You have excellent taste, madam. These items are truly works of art."
"You will take them?"
"Naturally." He mentioned a price. "It is not as high as you may have expected but the market is slow and the cost
of storage high. If you would prefer us to sell them on commission you would probably get more but it would take
time."
"I accept your valuation. Can you give it to me now?"
"Of course, madam. I will arrange for a check immediately."
"Not a check, jewels. Small stones easily negotiable. I will shortly be traveling to various primitive worlds," she
explained. "I want something I can use to purchase local products."
He was too polite to display surprise. "In that case I suggest unmounted gems. The tax is lower and they should
meet your requirements."
For travel, for bribes, for escape. She still retained enough influence in the palace to be able to get information.
Dumarest had been captured and was being questioned. Vargas would not be gentle and would learn everything he
knew.
And she had asked him to assassinate the Technarch!
If nothing else, his testimony would damn her. Without support she wouldn't stand a chance. Even with it the
crime was enough to send her to trial as an enemy of the state.
Her only hope lay in flight.

Chapter Eleven
Dumarest woke to the sting of minor irritation, hearing the click of metal on glass, the regular breathing of a
person very close. Opening his eyes he stared at a white ceiling barred with stripes of shadow. His mouth was dry
and he had a throbbing ache behind his temples. Trying to rise, he felt the pressure of a hand on his bare shoulder.
"Be still," warned a voice. It was female and vaguely familiar. "I haven't finished yet."
"What are you doing?"
"Taking a series of samples. Your sweat, blood, lymph, spinal and seminal fluids—there are exactly fifty-eight of
them. Do you want me to list them all?"
"No."
"You had a set taken when you were carried from the questioning. Now I'm taking another." Dumarest felt a slight
prick at the lobe of his ear. "You've had slow-time therapy giving you the equivalent of thirty hours of sleep. How do
you feel?"
"I'm thirsty and I've a headache."
"It's probably a hangover from visual strain. I'll give you something for it in a minute."
 Instruments made small noises and Dumarest heard the sharp hiss of a hypogun as it blasted drugs through his
skin and into his bloodstream. The pounding ache eased a little though the thirst remained.
"Can I get up now?"
"You'd do better to rest." He heard the rattle of movement as if vials were being shaken in a holder. "You
recovered sooner than I expected. You must have strong powers of recuperation."
Quietly he said, "Yes, Elaine. I have."
He heard the soft intake of breath and sat upright, turning to look at the woman where she sat beside a medical
trolley beyond the head of the bed. Elaine Delmayer was dressed all in white, the rich olive of her skin accentuated
by the sterile fabric, the warm tones deepened by lack of contrast.
"Coincidence," she said calmly. "Well, it happens."
Dumarest rose. He was in a cube seven feet square, one wall completely barred. The cell contained the bed, a
toilet and washbasin. He crossed over to it, turned on the tap, drank from the running faucet and then laved his face
and neck. He was completely naked, droplets of water gleaming like pearls on the hard whiteness of his skin.
Turning, he looked at the woman. "Why?"
"Why did I drug you?"
"We can start with that, yes."
"I didn't know who and what you were," she said flatly. "All I was certain of was that I knew who you weren't the
man you claimed to be. I know Major Keron. Jack and I are old friends and I was expecting to see him when you
arrived. I couldn't understand why you used his name and so I gave you something in the tisane. I wanted to render
you helpless while I called Jack and made inquiries." She lifted one hand and touched the side of her jaw. "You gave
me no chance for that. Do you often strike women?"
"Only when I suspect their motives. And the men waiting outside?"
She frowned. "I know nothing of that."
"Never mind." Mada, of course. She must have had him followed from the train. "But why should you have been
afraid of me?"
"I'm from Loame," she said evenly. "That makes me an enemy alien. A planet at war is inclined to become
hysterical and to see spies under every bed. You could have been sent to test my loyalty, to trap me in some way. It
was a risk I dared not take." She saw the movement of his eyes. "Don't worry. This place isn't fitted with microphones.
We have other ways to learn the truth."
Dumarest was grim. "So I discovered."
"You had a bad session," she admitted. "Far more intense than anyone has ever had before. You were exhausted
when they carried you from the chair. I had to give you intravenous feeding with saline and glucose together with
restoratives to avoid total physical and mental shock."
He could believe it. The questions had become hammers beating at the naked surface of his brain, each answer
becoming a greater effort as he struggled against fatigue. Twice, he remembered, they had paused to give him water.
Well, it was over now. They had searched his mind and learned what they wanted to know.
"What are the charges and when is the trial?"
Elaine said, "I don't know what you mean."
"Do I have to explain?" Dumarest was curt. "I have been questioned. All right. Now they know all they wanted to
find out. The next step is surely to try me for breaking the law. What are the penalties for landing without permission,
escaping from custody, theft and assault?"
"I don't know," she said. "But it doesn't matter. I don't think they intend to try you."
"Why not? This is a civilized world, isn't it? A highly sophisticated culture which operates on the basis of law. Or
are they going to release me now they know I had no criminal intent."
"Not that either. Vargas—"
"Is a man," he interrupted. "The head of the council. Or are you saying that he has set himself above the law? Is
that it?" He stepped toward her, gripping her shoulders as she made no answer. "And you are willing to work for a
system like that? A society in which the individual has no rights at all? Are you so in love with slavery that you run to
meet it?"
"I work here." She responded to his anger with a rising fury of her own. "I am a doctor and a skilled pathologist. I
have degrees in ecology, botany, economics, social science, psychology, chemistry—" She broke off, eyes hard as they
met his own. "What's the difference? You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"On Technos I am respected. I have a high position and live well. On Loame what would I be? The wife of a
grower and a virtual serf. A—"
"A person who could entertain a guest without fear of a trap." Dumarest released her and stepped back. "You
drugged me because you feared that very thing. And still you try to justify your blindness. Are you trying to climb
higher still? To get a seat on the Supreme Council?"
"That's impossible! Only the native born are allowed to stand for the examinations."
"Not impossible. What about Mada Grist? She comes from Loame. She denied it but she lied. The color and
texture of her skin is unmistakable."
"Mada Grist?" Elaine frowned, puzzled, her anger evaporating. "You know her?"
"Yes."
"And she looks like me?"
"Very much like you. You reminded me of her when we met. You have the same coloring and height, and even
your figures are much the same. She is a little younger, perhaps, but that—" He broke off at the sound of her laughter.
"Elaine!"
"You poor devil," she said. "Someone has been having a game with you. Mada Grist is eighty-seven years old."
Beyond the bars of the cell footsteps echoed from a point down the external corridor. As they grew closer
Dumarest said, "Delay matters. We must talk."
"But—"
"Do it!"
He returned to the bed and lay supine, eyes closed and hands lax at his sides. He felt the woman lean over him
and touch him with some instrument. The footsteps halted.
"Madam?"
"I am not finished. Leave me. I will call when ready." As the footsteps retreated she said, "What have we to talk
about?"
"Mada Grist. Has she a granddaughter?"
"No. She has no children."
"The woman I am talking about wears a bracelet of gold on her left wrist. It is her identification. Does that mean
anything to you?" He rose as she remained silent, turning to look into her face. "Well?"
"Members of the Supreme Council wear such a bracelet," she admitted. "But it could have been a forgery. How
would you know?"
"I wouldn't, but the guards would, and could an impostor live in an apartment in the palace? And your friend saw
her. Major Keron came looking for me. He seemed convinced she was genuine."
"No. It isn't possible. There must be some mistake."
"Such as?"
"Women are vain and old women more so. The wearing of masks has become fashionable. In a dim light you
could have easily been mistaken."
It was possible, he had seen her only twice and both times the light had been poor. He remembered how she had
prevented him from touching her face and his own suspicions that she wore a mask. But there had been no doubt as
to the youth of her body.
"I told you that I knew her," he said. "I saw her naked. Her body is younger than your own." He saw the look in
her eyes, the dawning comprehension. "You didn't know?"
"No. How could I have? I still can't believe it."
He was harsh. "You don't want to believe it because, if you do, it will shake your nice, tidy little world. But you
work here. You must have guessed. What do you do?"
"Tissue typing mostly. Taking cells to grow new organs in culture vats as replacement grafts for the war-injured."
"From the tributaries sent from Loame?"
"Mostly, yes. We have an extremely low rejection mechanism which makes culture growths ideal for surgical use.
The donors aren't harmed, of course; they just lose a few cells which are quickly replaced by normal means. But the
other—what you suggest—it's horrible!"
"But true. Mada Grist can't be the only one. There must be others, members of the Supreme Council wouldn't
take the risk unless there was a reasonable chance of success." Or perhaps she had been desperate, he thought, her
body so diseased that it was easier to give her a new one rather than a series of implants. The details didn't matter.
The important thing was to convince Elaine of the inevitable consequences. "You are intelligent and must know what
will happen. More and more old people will want new bodies and, for every one that does, one of your own people
has to die. Technos will become a parasite on Loame. Your planet will be a farm for the production of young and
healthy beasts. Their brains won't matter, only their bodies, fed and cosseted until they are needed. Cattle!"
Her hands tightened into fists. "No! It's too vile! It mustn't happen. It can't!"
"It will unless you stop it. The Technarch has everything in his favor. He can offer young bodies and extended life
to those who are loyal. Already he has made himself the master of Technos, and soon he will be almost a god. And
he has someone to help him do it. A creature of the Cyclan. My guess is that the cyber came here just before the wars
started. Am I right?"
"I don't know. I've only been in the capital a short time. I was studying and—" She drew a deep breath. "That
doesn't matter. What can I do?"
"Fight, what else?" Dumarest paused, listening. From somewhere down the corridor he heard the muffled slam of
a door. "You have access to some of the tributaries from Loame. Set them free, fill them with chemical courage and
turn them against the palace guards. How well do you know Keron?"
"Very well. We are to be married."
"Contact him. Use hypnotics if you have to but get him to act. He is in control of armed and trained men. Once
Vargas is dead he could become leader of the planet. Damn it, girl, think! A culture like this is brittle, the people
conditioned to obey the man with the big voice, the officials terrified to act of their own volition. Act now and Loame
is safe. Mada Grist will cooperate because she has no choice now that Vargas knows she asked me to kill him. With
her on your side others of the council will fall into line. Keron can retain control in the name of security and from
then on it's up to you."
"You make it all sound so very simple."
"It is simple. All you need to do is to think and act for yourself." Dumarest tensed as he heard the sound of
approaching footsteps. "The guard. Can you get me out of here?"
Elaine shook her head.
"Why not? He has to let you out and you can take me with you. Tell him that you have to conduct some special
tests or something."
"It wouldn't work," she said regretfully. "You don't understand. They are afraid of you and there are guards posted
beyond each end of the corridor. If we leave together they will incapacitate us both."
"Incapacitate? Why not kill?"
She glanced toward the medical trolley. "You seem to be very important and now I've a suspicion why. The
samples I took are to confirm tests already made. Your tissues are sympathetic to those of the Technarch." She
paused then added, "And Vargas is a very old man."
Dumarest said tightly, "Get me out of here."
"I can't. I told you, it's impossible."
"You've a stack of degrees and a headful of knowledge," he said sharply. "Use that intelligence you're so proud of.
Help me or I'll ruin your life."
She studied his face, the hard set of his mouth, the savage determination of his eyes. "You mean it. You really
mean it?"
"Yes," he said. "You'd better believe that."

***

The guard came running at her call. He halted beyond the bars, looking to where she stooped over Dumarest as
he lay on the bed.
"Madam? Is anything wrong?"
"This man is ill," she snapped. "Dying. Summon help immediately. He must be taken to the hospital at once."
He hesitated. "My orders—"
"To hell with your orders! This is an emergency! Move!"
"I'll call a doctor."
"You stupid fool!" Her eyes blazed with impatient anger. "I am a doctor! I tell you this man is dying. He needs
immediate surgery. Now do as I say. Quickly. If you delay and he dies, you will answer for it. Now hurry!"
Her tone, sharp with fear, spurred him to action. From the end of the corridor came a blur of voices and the
sounds of movement. Elaine dropped her hands to Dumarest's chest, thrusting with the heels of her palms in the
basic actions of heart massage. Her breath was warm against his cheek as she whispered quick instructions.
"Remain lax as if you were unconscious. Roll up your eyes in case anyone makes a simple test. Restrain your
breathing if anyone comes close or, if you cannot hold your breath, make it ragged and irregular. It would be better if
I drugged you. There will be other physicians."
"No. Have you slow-time?"
"Not with me. In the hospital, yes. Is that what you want?"
"Use it if you can. I—" He broke off, falling silent as men streamed down the corridor. They brought a wheeled
stretcher, waiting as the door of the cell slid aside, entering to lift Dumarest on the vehicle. Continuing her massage
Elaine walked beside him, shielding him with her body, maintaining the pretense, as they passed the guards. One of
them busied himself with a phone as they headed toward an elevator, Dumarest catching his tone of frantic urgency.
Unable to hold his breath any longer he inhaled with a tearing rasp, forcing saliva into his throat to produce a
liquid gurgling.
A man said, "He sounds bad, madam. What's the matter with him?"
"Syncopic failure coupled with internal seepage of lymphatic fluids into the lungs. Probably internal hemorrhage
and a malfunction of involuntary muscular responses aggravated by extreme exhaustion and psychic shock."
The elevator came to a halt, doors opening, the wheels of the stretcher humming over a smooth floor. More
doors, the sound of muted voices and the taint of antiseptics. The hands lifted from his chest and touched his mouth.
Something hard and cold was thrust against his tongue.
Elaine whispered, "Yendhal is coming. I heard them notify him what happened."
Dumarest groaned and heaved on the stretcher. Through slitted eyes he saw the uniforms of watchful guards.
Elaine stooped over him, the spatula hard against his tongue. Her eyes were anxious, afraid.
"What now?"
He relaxed, unable to answer, forcing the woman to think for herself. If she had sense she would think of an
answer but it would have to be soon. At the moment she was operating on fear, caught in events over which she had
little control, her intelligence numbed by the shock of recent disclosures.
The spatula left his mouth and he felt the touch of something cold on his chest. An electronic stethoscope? It
rose and pressed against his throat. He spoke, sub-vocally, only a sighing murmur passing his lips.
"Get the guards out of here or get me somewhere out of sight."
The instrument left his throat, and he heard the sharpness of the woman's command.
"This man needs immediate operative surgery. You will leave the room while I have him prepared."
One of the guards said firmly, "We have our orders. He is not to leave our sight."
"I cannot work with you watching. For one thing you are medically unclean. If he should become infected
because of bacteria carried on your persons I shall not be responsible." Her tone softened a little. "I appreciate your
dilemma but he cannot walk let alone escape. You can wait outside. There is no other exit from this room. Now please
hurry. Every second lost lessens his chances of recovery."
The door closed and she said faintly. "All right, Earl. You've had your way so far. Now what?"
He opened his eyes and rose from the stretcher looking around. The room was small and lined with cabinets
containing medical equipment. The bright glitter of operating instruments shone from a tray: forceps, shears, scalpels
of various sizes. He picked up the largest.
"You're a barbarian," she said contemptuously. "A savage. All you know is how to lie and kill."
"You think I lied?"
"I don't know. You threw me into a panic and I acted without due consideration. That was unscientific. I should
have gathered more data, tested the truth of what you said, made my own judgments. I was a fool."
"You still are," he said harshly. "A fool and worse. You are a traitor to your own land."
"Loame—"
"Means nothing to you," he interrupted. "And it means even less to me. I came here to ask you for help and that is
all. The rest simply happened. Now all I want is to get away from here. To take passage to another world. If I have to
kill a dozen men to do it, I shall. The alternative isn't pleasant."
She was in shock, he decided; the even tenor of her life suddenly disrupted, her previous conviction now being
replaced by doubt. He remembered the luxury of her apartment and the loneliness she had suffered when young.
Here she was respected and her knowledge was valuable. The ability she owned gave a tremendous advantage in the
peculiar competition of this culture.
"You told me that you had slow-time," he said. "Is it here?"
"A little. Enough for about thirty hours subjective time. You want it?"
He hesitated, tempted to take advantage of the offer. It would enable him to leave the building and perhaps reach
the landing field. Certainly it would remove him from immediate danger. But he owed a duty to the girl.
"No, you take it. You've used it before?" He continued as she shook her head. "It will speed your metabolism to
forty times normal That means you must be very careful how you move and walk. Don't hit anything and remember
that, because of inertia, things will weigh forty times as much. Keep eating glucose because you'll be burning up a lot
of energy. Use the stairs, not elevators, it will save you time."
She frowned. "Time for what?"
"To find Keron. To get him to prove what I say about Mada Grist To bring him back here and to put an end to this
corruption. And," he added, "to save my life if I'm still around."
 Chapter Twelve
It had been a prediction of a high order of probability, and Ruen was not surprised when the acolyte announced
Dek Brekla. He came into the room, tense, wary, his eyes glancing from the scarlet figure of the cyber to the package
lying on a low table. Ruen remained silent as the acolyte brought the guest a glass of wine. Brekla sipped and nodded.
"Nice," he said. "A good vintage."
Ruen wouldn't have known. To him food and drink were fuel for the mechanism of his body, tasteless substances
which kept it operating at an optimum level of efficiency. The wine was kept merely for use by the Technarch and as
an offering to guests.
Brekla finished his wine. "I want to talk to you, cyber. Can I be sure as to your discretion?"
His voice was strained, hurried, in direct contrast to Ruen's even modulation.
"You can, my lord."
"You can predict the course of events. I want you to make such a prediction for me. If Vargas were to die what
are the chances of my becoming Technarch?" He frowned as Ruen remained silent. "Well? Why don't you answer?"
"Such a prediction is not easy to make, my lord. There are factors which must be taken into consideration and of
which I have no present knowledge. The council, while sundered, still remains a viable entity and could unite against
you. There could be a question as to the loyalty of your men." Ruen paused then added, "And Vargas is not yet dead.
Much can happen in the immediate future to alter the present pattern of potential probabilities."
"Assume the Technarch was to die within the next few hours. What then?"
Ruen said, "Would you care for more wine, my lord?"
"More wine?" Brekla looked at his glass and then at the tall figure of the cyber. "You digress. Why won't you reply
to my question?"
"The services of the Cyclan are not given freely to all, my lord. The fees are paid by the Technarch."
"And if I were he?"
Ruen bowed. "In such a case I would cooperate to the full, my lord."
The prediction had materialized just as he'd anticipated and its success brought the only pleasure the cyber could
ever know. And yet it had been an elementary problem based on the emotional weakness of greed. Brekla was
ambitious and so transparently obvious. He had been given a position of power and wanted more. It could be wise to
let him have it. The mounting irrationality of Vargas's behavior was reaching a climax. Already his paranoia had
spread to include distrust of the cyber.
"Of course, my lord," said Ruen, "we could, perhaps, reach a compromise. My aid in return for yours."
"You have it," said Brekla quickly. "What is it you want?"
"The man Dumarest."
"The stranger?" Brekla frowned. "Is that all?"
"Yes, my lord. Place him into my hands and I will advise you as to the steps you must take to achieve your
ambition." It was a request the cyber had already made to the Technarch and Vargas had abruptly refused. Brekla
would not.
"Dumarest," he mused. "He was questioned. You know that?"
"I know it."
Then he was placed in a cell. "You know that also?"
"Yes, my lord. It should not be hard for you to arrange his release. The probability of his attempting to escape is
ninety-three percent and so it would be wise to render him unconscious before the cell is opened."
"Your information is out of date." Brekla enjoyed his momentary triumph. "He did escape."
"And was recaptured," said Ruen evenly. "That was inevitable if the Technarch had taken elementary
precautions."
"You underestimate the man." Brekla was curious. What possible interest could the cyber have in Dumarest? That
he was valuable to the Cyclan was obvious, but why? His restless mind probed the question. Perhaps it would be
better for him not to rely on Ruen; if he could act alone he would be free of any obligations.
"The probability of you becoming the new Technarch is thirty-eight percent," said Ruen, as if he had read the
other's mind. "That is if you operate alone. If you take advantage of my services the probability will rise to the order
of ninety-one point seven. Now tell me about Dumarest. He was recaptured?"
"Finally, yes." Brekla recognized the threat and the promise. "He managed to get from the cell into the hospital.
An adjoining chamber in which equipment was kept. Yendhal had it filled with anesthetic gas, and when Dumarest
was unconscious, he was taken. The woman who must have aided him had vanished."
"A woman cannot escape from a closed room. It was closed?"
"Yes."
 "And guarded?"
"It was watched all the time. Only the man was found." Brekla added, "The door opened once and closed
immediately. No one came out. The guards swear to it."
"They were wrong, my lord. It was then the woman must have escaped. There can be no other explanation for
her absence." Ruen did not elaborate. The woman was unimportant and could be ignored. Dumarest was another
matter. But with Brekla's help he would no longer be a problem. "Can you bring Dumarest to me now?"
"No. Vargas has him safe." Brekla anticipated the cyber's question. "He is going to put him through the labyrinth."

***

Vargas stared fretfully at the screen and demanded impatiently, "Why doesn't he get on with it? What's he waiting
for? Did you give him full instructions?"
Yendhal was soothing. "Of course, sire. But as yet we have not given him the signal to commence."
"Why not?"
"I am checking his external responses with electronic scanners, sire. The intensity of sweat, heat and emitted
odor. The last is most interesting. As you know, an odor is actually minute particles which are translated into smell by
a receptive organ. Emotions have recognizable odors. A dog will attack a man in fear and run from one in anger.
Dumarest is experiencing neither."
Vargas was thoughtful. "He is not afraid?"
"Not as far as I can determine, sire. His temperature has risen a little but that is to be expected. The human
metabolism being a heat mechanism will ready itself for action by consuming more fuel and thus gaining greater
energy. He is not sweating which means that he is conserving that energy for later use. He is not afraid which means
that he will be that much more efficient. There is a trace of resentment which is natural in any thinking organism
forced to operate according to unwelcome dictates." Yendhal pressed a button and watched a flicker of lights. "The
labyrinth is fully prepared. I have kept the programming exactly as before but it can, if necessary, be changed
according to need."
He was too eager, thought Vargas, too quick to propose changing the system. Was he afraid that a deception
might be discovered? Had Yendhal set the dangers too high in order to maintain his position, failing all subjects so as
to keep him in suspense?
"There will be no change. I want everything exactly as it has been before."
"As you wish, sire."
"I do wish." Vargas leaned toward the screen and operated a control. "Dumarest, listen to what I say. It is the
Technarch who speaks." He saw the small figure lift its head to scan the ceiling, turn to stare at the doors facing the
small chamber. "At the signal you will pass through the door as you have been told. Within lie various hazards. Pass
them all and you will be given a free pardon, money and passage from Technos. Speak if you understand."
"Go to hell," said Dumarest.
Vargas was a liar and was a fool to imagine that his lies would be believed. And Dumarest had no reason to
pander to the inflated ego of the Technarch. He had been treated like a wild animal. Now, completely naked, he faced
unknown dangers with his life the penalty for failure. He was in no mood to be polite.
Waiting, he scanned the room. Why were there so many doors? For the purpose of the experiment one should be
enough. Were they to delude? To confuse? Or was it simply that this compartment had been built at the junction of
many passages and that communication between them was still important?
He dropped, resting his ear against the floor, listening to soft vibrations. A muted thud, a scrape, the dull,
repetitious beat of a mechanical heart. The room must be far underground, for the sounds he heard were the pumps
of the ventilation system and the movements of attendant guards.
As he rose the light flashed red.
"He isn't going through the door," said Vargas. Anger thickened his voice and made it ugly. "If he refuses to obey I
will have him flayed alive."
"He obeys, sire. He is merely being cautious." Yendhal lifted his hand, ready to reset the clock timing the
experiment. "Already he is displaying a strong sense of survival. For all he knows danger could threaten from behind."
All the doors other than the designated panel were locked. Dumarest opened it, flung it wide and sprang aside.
After a moment he dropped and thrust his head through the opening. The room was empty, a small compartment
tapering in the shape of a wedge, the roof curved as if part of a tunnel. Again he listened to the sound of distant
pumps and, faintly, caught the whir of fans.
The labyrinth, then, must be within the ventilation system, built in the colossal pipes and hidden from all without
specialized knowledge. The special laboratories and operating theaters, too; no wonder Elaine hadn't known about
them.
Rising, he turned and headed toward the remaining door.
It opened on a passage three feet wide, curving away to the right, the left blocked by a wall covered with long,
pointed spikes. They were set close together, the entire surface a vicious bristle. Dumarest examined them, touching
the points and feeling the burr of tiny barbs, the slight discoloration of the metal. A nerve poison, he guessed, an
added inducement to stay away from the wall. Turning, he looked the other way. The passage was eight feet high,
floor and walls covered with a tessellated design of red and yellow. The roof was luminous and cast a soft,
shadowless glow. The curve swung sharply to the left, as if he stood in the hollow rim of a wheel.
He sprang forward as something touched his shoulders, stinging with sharp agony. The spiked wall was moving
forward, silent, already beyond the edge of the door. It moved faster as he watched so that he had to back, finally
turning again to face the empty passage.
It would contain mechanical traps, snares, devices which would maim or kill. The purpose of the wall was
obviously to keep him moving, the spikes to prevent him clinging somehow to the surface. Yet the passage could not
be totally impassable, if so there would be no point to the test.
The wall touched him again.
Dumarest ran down the passage. He ran at top speed, feet making a soft slapping noise against the floor, his eyes
darting from side to side, every sense taut as he sought for danger. A less determined man would have moved as
slowly as the wall allowed, trying to discern hidden traps, becoming confused with doubt and mounting fears.
Dumarest was gambling the speed of his body against mechanical delay.
He felt the floor sink a trifle, saw a panel gape and something lash through the air. Behind him came a vicious
crack. A whip perhaps? It was possible but he wasted no time on speculation. The sharpness of the curve and the
speed of his progress threw him against the right hand wall. It sprouted tendrils, thick strands covered with a gooey
slime, catching and hampering his body. He twisted, not touching the snares, moving so as to throw one against the
other, creating a tangle from which he jerked free as the wall approached.
It reached the place, moved on, the tendrils sheared from the side of the passage falling to mound in a ball at the
foot of the wall. Dumarest ran on.
The curve had grown sharper and he guessed that he was in a spiral, running through a passage curved in on
itself. A section of the floor dropped ahead, moving to one side and revealing the gleam of serrated metal teeth far
below. From the roof fell a rope. He jumped, caught it, swung himself back and forth over the pit, let go when he had
gained momentum enough to reach the far side. The rope fell into the opening, the floor returned, the wall moved
relentlessly on.
Dumarest raced ahead of it, gaining time, his brain working with lightning thought. As yet the traps had been
simple tests of intelligence, dangerous to a dull intellect but basically easy to avoid. There would have to be others of
a different nature. From around the curve came a clang of metal and a deep-throated snarl.
Bars had dropped across the passage. Before them paced a slavering beast. Doglike but with the fangs of a wolf, it
glared at Dumarest with savage eyes. Drugged, probably, its natural ferocity enhanced by chemical stimulants,
starved and desperate. It crouched, tail lashing, preparing itself to spring. Dumarest was on it before it could leave the
ground, his left hand catching the loose skin beneath the snarling jaws, the stiffened blade of his right smashing down
through fur, skin, fat and the vertebrae beneath.
Releasing the dead animal, he sprang to the bars blocking the passage. They were an inch thick, close-set and
apparently immobile. Turning, he studied the approach of the spiked wall. It seemed to be traveling faster. Swarming
up the bars he tested the roof and found it solid. To either side the walls were the same. Dropping he sent his hands
over the floor and found a thin crack running to either side. As the spikes of the wall neared his chest the crack
widened, the floor swinging down and sending him plummeting into shadows.
He fell ten feet and rose at once, eyes strained against the dimness. He stood in a tiny compartment from which
ran two passages. As in the curved one above, they were lit by a dim glow from the roof. He chose the right, running
down it until halted by a blank wall. Returning he headed down the other, pausing as it branched, head tilted to catch
the slightest sound. From the left came the soft tinkle of water, from the right the gusting sigh of wind. Without
hesitation he chose the right-hand passage, running down it past branching openings, turning right again as he
reached a junction.
He was in a maze, he realized, a compact labyrinth of blocked passages and blind turns, probably adjustable by
remote control and the entire system filled with various dangers.
A labyrinth he had to penetrate in order to save his life.

Chapter Thirteen
 Vargas said, "He's following the air currents. See how he wets his finger in order to determine the direction of
flow?" He stooped over the screen, his hooked nose and lined features giving him the appearance of an aging bird of
prey.
"He's clever," admitted Yendhal. His fingers caressed the controls governing the programming of the labyrinth. "I
should like to test him yet further. If we blocked the east passages and released the krell it would drive him into the
barbed mesh. To escape he would have to plunge into the water containing the gleese. He is bleeding and they would
be attracted by the scent. Unless he manages to either kill them all or to escape in time they will tear him to pieces."
"No."
"But, sire, we could rescue him in time. He need not die. I feel that it is important we test him to the utmost. His
survival factor is incredible and much could be learned."
"No," said Vargas again. He glowered as the physician reluctantly lowered his hand from the controls. Already the
programming had been altered twice, each time increasing the hazards, the move justified by Yendhal's insistence.
But the limit had been reached. Further dangers would prove nothing other than that Dumarest was a man with
all a man's frailty. Flesh and bone could not withstand the metal and plastic, the protoplasmic brain and electronic
engineering which had gone into the manufacture of the krell. The gleese, too; what man could withstand the
concentrated attack of a score of the voracious flesh-eaters?
Was Yendhal trying to rob him of his prize?
Vargas turned as the door sighed open, face mottling with anger even as his heart pounded with a sudden fear.
The fear subsided a little as he recognized the tall figure in the scarlet robe, but the anger remained.
"What are you doing here, cyber? How dare you come uninvited into my presence?"
Ruen crossed the room and looked at the screen.
"My lord, this man must be released from your labyrinth. Immediately."
"You forget yourself, cyber. The Technarch does not take orders!"
"Even so, my lord, he must be released."
"By my order, not yours!" Vargas was adamant. "I rule here, cyber, not you. The man is mine to do with as I
please. If it is my whim I shall test him to destruction." He raised his voice and shouted. "Guards! To me! At once!"
"They will not respond, my lord," said Ruen evenly. "There is trouble in the palace and they have been relieved of
their duties in order to withstand it."
"Trouble?"
"Yes, my lord."
An insurrection? Vargas felt the tightening of his stomach as he considered the possibility. It was remote. With
Brekla taking care of things any opposition would be short-lived. Ruen must be playing on his fears, using his
knowledge to gain his own ends. And yet, where were the guards?
"You!" Vargas glared at the cyber. "You have done this. You have worked against me from the beginning. There
was no trouble until you came with your lying advice and subtle ways. You and your damned Cyclan! Well, we shall
see who is the master of Technos. Yendhal! Test Dumarest to destruction. Release the krell. Now!"
"Hold!" Ruen did not raise his voice and it remained an even monotone devoid of emotion but now it held on iron
note of command. "Release him."
The physician hesitated, the point of his tongue wetting his lower lip as he stared from the cyber to the
Technarch. Against Vargas the figure in scarlet looked the epitome of calm, his shaven head hooded by his cowl, his
eyes direct in the shadowed sockets of his skull. His controlled determination was heightened by his immobility, the
hands which he had thrust into the wide sleeves of his robe.
"I advise you to think before you answer, my lord," said Ruen before Vargas could reply. "The man Dumarest
means nothing to you, but the aid of the Cyclan does. Deny one and you will lose the other. How long do you think
you will continue to rule without a cyber to guide you?"
More threats? Vargas felt suffocated with the accumulating pile of enemies. Did Ruen want Dumarest to act the
assassin as that bitch Mada Grist had done? Was that why he wanted him freed? And if he yielded how, where would
it end?
"You heard my orders," he snapped at Yendhal. "Obey!"
Ruen took a hand from the sleeve of his robe. From it something spat, singing, the high-pitched whine deepening
a little as it struck against the side of Vargas's throat. A quivering mote rested in the center of a spreading circle of
disintegration, cell and tissue yielding beneath the sonic destruction.
As the Technarch fell, already dead, Ruen lifted his hand toward the physician.
"The man Dumarest," he said evenly. "Release him."
Yendhal hastened to obey.
 ***

The arrows had come from nowhere, running before him, below lifted partitions and pointing the way at
junctions. Dumarest followed them, loping past areas acrid with insect smells, black pits in which things stirred, the
surge of turgid waters. He was covered with sweat and blood, staggering a little from numbing fatigue. A spined patch
of growth had torn at his bare flesh with vicious thorns.
The arrow halted at a door. He opened it and found himself in a familiar chamber. A small room flanked by many
doors, one of which led to the passage he had followed into the labyrinth. Somehow he had made a complete circle
and returned to the point from which he had started. Lips thinned with anger, he padded from one door to another,
baring his teeth as a panel opened to reveal a chamber bright with gleaming instruments.
Framed in the opening Yendhal stared at him, eyes wide in the sudden pallor of his face.
"No!" he said as Dumarest moved forward, hands lifted, face a relentless mask. "Please, no!"
"I survived," said Dumarest. "I won your filthy game. I want what was promised, a pardon, money, passage away
from this world. I'll get it or I'll tear out your throat."
"I can't! I—"
"Where is Vargas?" Dumarest followed the direction of the physician's gaze, saw the slumped body, the warm
flame of a cyber's robe. "Dead?"
"Ruen killed him." Yendhal clutched at Dumarest's arm. Once he had seemed to be a fussy schoolmaster; now he
was a terrified schoolboy. "Master him and I'll give you anything you want. Kill him! Quickly! Before he kills us all!"
Dumarest shook off the restraining hand.
"Why?" he said to Ruen. "A cyber doesn't kill his employer without good reason. Did he die so that he could be
replaced by another more amenable to the designs of your clan?"
Ruen said evenly, "I killed him in order to save your life."
Dumarest looked at his hands, at the ring glowing like freshly spilled blood on his finger. "I suppose I should thank
you but I've the feeling that such thanks would be premature. What possible interest could you have in me?"
"Personally, none. But you are of value to the Cyclan. My orders are specific. You are to be safeguarded and sent
to a world I prefer not to name. There you will be questioned. Not by means of the childish devices used on this
backward planet but with all the skills developed over centuries of research. In a secret laboratory of the Cyclan you
will divulge all you know."
"About this?" Dumarest held up his hand, catching the light on the red stone of his ring. "Do you know why I am
so important to your people?"
"You possess a secret of tremendous importance. One stolen from the Cyclan by a man named Brasque." Ruen
made a slight gesture, dismissing the man as unimportant. "He is dead, but before he died he incorporated the stolen
secret in a ring which he gave to his wife. That ring she gave to you."
"And you have been after it ever since," said Dumarest bleakly, remembering. "Your predictions told you that it
was the only place it could be. But now you cannot be certain that it is still there. I could have changed the stone or
altered the sequence. You must keep me alive in order to discover the truth."
"That is so."
Dumarest laughed without humor. "Odd that I should be indebted to those whom I have such reason to hate. But
the secret is valuable to you, isn't it, cyber? To you and to your clan."
Ruen made no comment.
"The composition of the affinity-twin," continued Dumarest. He was talking in order to gain time, to restore the
strength of his body. "Fifteen molecular units which create a living symbiote with the power to unite host to subject in
almost total empathy. The host becomes the subject. He is the subject. He—or she."
A mane of lustrous red hair, eyes like sparkling emeralds, skin as soft and as white as translucent snow. How
could he ever forget Kalin?
"Fifteen units," Dumarest repeated. "You must know how long it would take to test them all. If you could try one
combination each second it would take more than four thousand years. Can the Cyclan afford to wait that long?"
"No," said Ruen.
And took his hand from the sleeve of his robe.
Dumarest moved, dropping, lunging forward, rising to grip the thin wrist before the cyber could aim his weapon.
A thing to stun and paralyze, to render him helpless, packaged meat prepared for transport. He felt the thin wrist
beneath his fingers, the sudden explosion of strength as Ruen fought back. He was deceptively strong but hampered
by his very nature. He fought with a coldly calculating logic, using fingers and elbows, feet and knees, moving in a
scientific dance which would have sent any normal man writhing helplessly to the floor.
 Dumarest wasn't normal. His reflexes gave him an advantage, but his hatred was his prime weapon. He snarled
with anger, not feeling the crippling blows, his fury lifting him above pain. He struck with the blade of his hand and
felt ribs yield. He struck again at the base of the neck, a third time, then stepped back as Ruen slumped to the floor to
lie in a pool of scarlet fabric.
Yendhal stared at him, then at Dumarest. "He's dead?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad." The physician stooped, examining the body. "He was dangerous. A man like that has too much power
and I am sure that he tried to set Vargas against me." He straightened and looked at Dumarest, "You won't regret
this."
"I know that." Dumarest reached out and caught Yendhal by the shoulder, his fingers digging hard against
sensitive nerves. "And now for you."
"What do you intend?" The physician squirmed as Dumarest dragged him from the room into the external
chamber. His struggles increased as he recognized where he was, the door to which he was being dragged. "No! For
God's sake! I'll give you anything you want. Anything!"
"You'll give me satisfaction." Dumarest stared at the terrified man. "You remember the questioning? The things
you said? You designed this toy and who knows how many poor devils you've sent to be tormented in it? Well, now
it's your turn."
He kicked open the door and threw Yendhal inside, slamming shut the panel and leaning on it, listening, hearing
the soft hum of hidden machinery as the spiked wall stirred into life.

***

It was snowing again, the landing field a swirl of dancing flakes which caught the lights and shimmered with
transient beauty before settling to mound the area with fluffy whiteness. Elaine shivered. "It's getting cold. It will be
freezing before midnight."
"The ship will be gone long before then." At her side, bulky in his uniform weatherproof. Major Keron moved a
little, boots stamping the snow. "You've picked a good time to leave, Earl. Technos can be hell in winter."
"I can imagine." Dumarest turned to where the ship reared high against the snow, its peak capped like a distant
mountain. He wanted to get inside where it would be warm, to find his cabin and settle down on the bunk, to sleep a
little and wash the taste of this world from his memory. He looked at the woman. "Before I forget—my thanks for
saving my life."
"And our thanks for having saved our world." Her eyes were direct as they met his own. "We owe you a lot, Earl.
All of us. You showed me things I didn't want to see. It's strange how a world can grow rotten and no one really
suspects what is happening. We trusted the council too much. We trusted in the authority vested in the Technarch.
Well, we won't make the same mistake again."
"We can't afford to." Keron was brusque. "Vargas dead, Brekla, the cyber and Yendhal. A dozen officials and close
to three hundred men. It was nasty while it lasted."
"It was cheap," said Dumarest. "A little blood and you've won a world. Now you have to hang on to it. The price
of freedom is eternal vigilance." He looked again at the waiting vessel. "What are you going to do about Loame?"
"Kill the thorge," said Elaine quickly. "Educate and then return the tributaries. Within five years everything will be
back as it was."
"No," said Dumarest. "Not that. Clear the land and build factories. Find and operate mines. Use the educated
labor to man industries. Make Loame a free world. If you maintain the authority of the growers you'll be begging for
trouble." He moved, impatient at his own lecturing. "But you know all this. You know that you have to end the war
and the rest of it. I don't have to tell you what needs to be done."
"You did once," she reminded and paused, musing. "We were like a supersaturated solution, poised and inert.
Then you came, a seed crystal, and immediately the pattern was broken. There should be more men like you, Earl.
More travelers with fresh ideas."
"Open your landing fields and there will be."
"They'll be open." Keron snapped his fingers. "A moment. I've forgotten something." He turned, moved to where a
car stood waiting, returned with a package, "This was found in Ruen's apartments. I think it must belong to you."
Dumarest opened it, fingered the gray plastic material with the protective mesh buried deep. So Cleon was dead,
caught by the Cyclan, interrogated, disposed of and his borrowed clothing sent to Ruen as evidence that the man
they wanted had to be on Technos.
"There's one other thing," said Elaine quietly. "Someone wants to see you before you leave." She stood in the
snow, a vague blur in the shadows, her furs piled high against her cheeks. From reasons of vanity or shyness she had
retained her mask. Dumarest was glad of it.
"My lady."
"You call me that, even though you know that I am not what I seem?"
"I remember that you saved my life," said Dumarest. "That you gave me something—" He broke off, knowing
better than to arouse painful memories. Mada Grist had acted as she did because of the promptings of her young and
virile body. The desire of her flesh overriding the wisdom of her mind.
"Earl," she said. "Earl!" Her hand rose as if to touch his cheek. "Keron found me while I was trying to book
passage. He arrested me then released me when the girl persuaded him to act. I was instrumental in proving that you
had not lied."
"And now?"
"I will work," she said. "What else? But—you know, Earl. Perhaps you can understand. Do you forgive me?"
"Yes, my lady."
"And shall I ever see you again?"
It was kinder not to lie. "No, my lady. Never again."
He turned and headed to where the ship was waiting. It would carry him to Jalanth where there would be other
ships heading for other worlds.
And, soon now, he would find Earth.

VERUCHIA

Chapter One
There was something cathedral-like about the museum so that visitors walked softly and spoke in little more than
whispers, awed by the nobility of the building. It was of natural stone, the high, vaulted roofs murmuring with distant
echoes, the vast chambers flanked with galleries and long windows of brightly stained glass. Even the attendants
standing unobtrusively beside carved pillars seemed more like exhibits than men: creatures subjected to the
taxidermist's art, uniformed simulacra set to guard fabulous treasures. It would have been easy to have forgotten their
presence.
Dumarest did not forget. From the moment he had entered the museum he had been conscious of their watchful
eyes. They followed him now as he walked with a dozen others, his neutral gray in strong contrast to their city finery,
a stranger and therefore an object of interest. Even guards grew bored.
"A phendrat." The voice of the guide rose above the sussuration of halting feet. He pointed upwards to where a
winged and spined creature hung suspended on invisible wires. Even in death it radiated a vicious ferocity.
The treatment which had preserved it had not detracted from the glitter of its scales.
"The last of its species was destroyed over three centuries ago in the Tamar Hills. It was a carnivore and the
largest insect ever known on this world: the result, apparently, of wild mutation. Its life cycle followed a standard
pattern, the female sought but a suitable host and buried her eggs in the living flesh. See the sting? The venom
paralyzed the selected creature which could do nothing as it was eaten alive by the hatching young. Note the long
proboscis, the mandibles and the hooked legs. This is the sound of a phendrat in flight."
The guide touched a button set in a pillar and a thin, spiteful drone filled the air. A matron cleared her throat as it
died away.
"Are you certain there are none left?"
"Positive, madam."
"I've a farm in the Tamar Hills. If I thought those things were still around I'd sell it tomorrow."
"You have nothing to fear, madam, I assure you." The guide moved on. "A krish," he said, halting beside a ten-foot
display case filled with a mass of convoluted spines. "This one was found at the bottom of the Ashurian Sea. If you
will study it you will see that the body-shell is almost covered with bright stones. Sometimes they are found so thickly
laden that true mobility is lost. The stones are not natural to the creature and, as yet, we cannot determine whether
or not the adornment is deliberate or accidental. By that I mean there is a possibility that the creature actually
chooses to adorn its shell in the manner you see. If so the purpose could either be for camouflage, which seems
unlikely, or as a means of attracting a mate."
"Like a girl dressing up?" The man was young and inclined to be frivolous.
 The guide was curt. "Something like that, sir. But this is a male."
"But wouldn't that mean it is intelligent?" The girl had a thin, intent face with thick brows over eyes set a little too
close for beauty. She glanced up at Dumarest and he noted, among other things, that she had stayed close to his side
all through the tour. "Wouldn't you say that? I mean, if a creature exercises free choice doesn't that imply it has a
thinking brain? And, if it can think, then it must be intelligent."
The guide moved on and saved him from the necessity of a reply. This time the man halted before a pedestal
bearing a peculiar fabrication of metal.
"A mystery," he said. "The alloy is of a nature unused and contains traces of elements which are not native to this
world. It was obviously part of a fabrication, a machine, possibly, but what the machine was or the part this played in
its construction is unknown. It was found buried in alluvium and was discovered during the mining operations at
Green. Aside from the fact that it is very old and of an artificial nature nothing is known about it." He paused. "Of
course there are rumors: an earlier native civilization which developed a high technology and then completely
vanished without leaving any other trace; the discarded part of a spaceship of unknown manufacture; an art form of
a culture unknown—the choice is limited only by the imagination. Personally I believe the explanation to be less
bizarre." The girl said, "And that is?"
"My own belief ?" The guide shrugged. "The part of a machine which proved unsatisfactory and was reclaimed
for salvage. The alien elements could have been imported and the alloy was probably one of a series tested for
greater efficiency. Economic pressure or the discovery of a cheaper substitute would account for it no longer being in
use. It most likely fell from a raft during transport to a smelter."
A safe, mundane explanation, thought Dumarest, and one calculated to reduce interest in the strange fabrication.
Who would be intrigued by junk? Yet he did not turn away, stepping closer to the pedestal instead and studying the
near-shapeless mass with narrowed eyes. It was hopeless. The thing defied any attempt to determine its original
function, the attrition of time marring its delicate construction. And it was delicate, that much was obvious despite
the damage it had sustained: metal-like lace interspersed with solid elements and weaving conduits. If they were
conduits. If the metal had originally been like lace.
"Old," said a voice quietly. The girl was still at his side. "So very old. Did you notice how the guide paid no
attention to that in his explanation?"
"He probably didn't think it important."
"Do you?" Her voice held interrogation. "Are you interested in ancient things? Is that why you are visiting the
museum?"
Dumarest wondered at her interest. Was it an attempt to make casual conversation or was it something deeper?
She looked harmless enough, a young girl, a student perhaps, busy widening her education, but appearances could be
deceptive.
"It was raining," he said. "The museum offered shelter. And you?"
"I've nothing better to do." Her voice fell a little, gained a slight huskiness. "And you can meet such interesting
people in a museum." Her hand slipped through his arm and held it close. Through her clothing he could feel the cage
of her ribs, the feverish heat of her body. "Shall we catch up with the others or have you had enough?"
"And if I have?"
"There are more things to do on a rainy evening than look at the past." She paused and added, meaningfully,
"More pleasant and just as educational. Well?"
"The guide is waiting," he said, and pulling his arm free strode down the chamber.
The man had halted before a cleared space ringed with a barrier of soft ropes curling from stanchions. One hand
rested on a buttoned pedestal, the other was raised in a theatrical gesture.
"Your attention," he said as Dumarest, followed by the girl, joined the party. "What you are about to see is a true
mystery for which even I have no explanation. First I will permit you to feast your eyes and then I will tell you what it
is you see." He paused, a showman captivating his audience, then firmly pressed the button. "Behold!"
Later the balm of time and weather would soften the bleakness, rounding edges and blurring harsh contours,
casting a net of vegetation over the place so that the ragged outlines would merge into the landscape and the ruins
be transformed into an intriguing irregularity. But now the rawness was like a blow: a jumbled pile of desolation
naked to the lavender sky, the tortuous striations of savage color stark against a somber background; the exposed
entrails of a beast stricken with the blind fury of relentless destruction.
A city, thought Dumarest, like a machine, like a man, showed the agony of its death.
He stepped forward and felt the soft impact of the barrier against his thighs, blinking as he remembered that this
was illusion, but the hologram was so lifelike that it deluded even as to scale. It was hard to remember that these were
not real ruins a short distance away, that they need not even look exactly as they seemed.
Thickly he said, "Korotya?"
 "The same." The guide sounded surprised. "An unusual sight as I think you will all agree, and one of the
mysteries of Selend. No one knows how destruction came to this place. Even the existence of the city was
unsuspected though there had been rumors. The site is unfit for husbandry and so attracted no settlers. Hunters must
have stumbled on it from time to time but, if so, they never reported having found it. The assumption is that the
inhabitants made sure they could not."
A woman said, sharply, "Killed them, you mean?"
"Possibly, but there is no proof."
To one side a girl whispered, "It's horrible. Such destruction! And yet, in a way, it's also magnificent. Those colors,
those shapes, but how…?"
"Atomics." Her companion was emphatic. "What else could have generated such heat? See how the stone has
fretted into outflung traceries? Internal pressures must have done that, the super-heated air on the interior gusting out
to blast the molten walls. The varied colors must be due to internal structures, pipes, wires, reinforcements of diverse
nature. The whole thing must have happened almost instantaneously. A tremendous blast of heat which reduced the
entire area into what we see."
"But an entire city!" The girl echoed her disbelief. "And no one knew it was there?"
"No one," said the guide, then amended his flat statement. "Aside from the inhabitants, of course, assuming that
there were any inhabitants. All we know is that fifty-eight years ago seismological instruments registered a shock of
great proportions. Almost at the same time reports were received of a column of flame, oddly brief, which came from
the point of disturbance. The two were obviously connected. Later investigation discovered what you see before you.
The area was intensely radioactive and still precludes personal investigation. It will be another century before we
dare move in to commence excavations but there is little doubt as to what we shall find."
Nothing. Circling the barrier Dumarest had no hope of anything else. The entire place must be fused solid—the
buildings and the ground for miles around. There was no hope that records would remain, not even a carving on
stone, a metal block engraved with the data he had hoped to find, certainly not a man who could tell him what he
wanted to know.
A man's voice rose, puzzled. "I still can't understand how the place could have remained undiscovered. Surely
there were flights over the area?"
"The entire area was mapped by aerial photography three times during the past two centuries."
"And nothing was seen?"
"Nothing." The guide was emphatic. "The terrain showed only an unbroken expanse of forest. As I said Korotya is
a mystery. If there were answers to the questions which fill your minds it would be a mystery no longer. Those ruins
are fifty-eight years old and that is the only thing we can be sure about, the only real fact we have. All the rest is
surmise. How long the city existed, who built it, who lived in it, how it was destroyed, these are things we do not
know."
Dumarest had circled the area. As he approached the rest of the party the image flickered and abruptly vanished.
Reaching forward he pressed the button on the pedestal and restored the illusion.
To the guide he said, "Some things can surely be determined. The destruction was atomic in nature—you
mentioned residual radioactivity."
"That is so."
"I assume this world is monitored. Was any record made at the time of atmospheric flights or spatial
approaches?"
The guide frowned. "I fail to understand you, sir."
"Could the area have been bombed?"
"Selend was not at war. The destruction was an isolated act and, in any case, how could anyone attack a city
unless they knew exactly where it was? And what reason could there be for such willful destruction?"
Dumarest pressed the point. "You haven't answered my question. Would you agree that the city could have been
destroyed by external forces?"
"It could have been," admitted the guide reluctantly. "But, equally so, it could have been destroyed in other ways.
An internal explosion, for example. An experiment which went wrong—there are a multitude of possible
explanations, but all of them must remain pure surmise. As I said, Korotya is a mystery." He looked at Dumarest.
"You have other questions?"
Dumarest made his decision. He had come too far not to ask even though he could guess the answer. But he had
nothing to lose.
"One," he said. "You mentioned that there were many rumors—did one of them have anything to do with the
Original People?"
"Sir?"
 "A religious sect maintaining a strict seclusion. Could Korotya have been their home?"
Blandly the guide said, "Anything is possible, sir, but I have never heard of the sect you mention." He raised his
voice. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will please follow me into the other chamber I will show you the
original coronation garments of the first ruler of Selend. We no longer have a monarchy, of course but Elhnan Conde
was a very unusual man and insisted on wearing a very unusual robe."
His voice faded to a murmur as he led the way, the others or the party following, the girl with the thin face
hesitating and then, shrugging, following the rest. Alone Dumarest stared at the enigmatic ruins.
He had arrived sixty years too late.
A rumor picked up on a distant world had brought him to Selend and it had been a wasted journey. Once again as
the image died he restored the illusion, looking intently at the harsh destruction. It had been too big for a monastery
and there was too much stone for it to have been a simple village tucked beneath sheltering trees. Those trees and the
topsoil would have been burned away, vaporized, exposing what lay beneath. Much of what he saw would have lain
underground but it was still too large for primitive commune. Art, skill and technology had gone into its construction
and now it was dead and those who had lived and worked in it must be dead also. And with them the knowledge he
had hoped to obtain.
He turned from the display as a fresh party led by a vociferous guide came towards him. It had stopped raining
and he hesitated at the doors of the museum, looking at the gleaming streets, slickly wet beneath the lights. It was
still early, people crowding the sidewalk, traffic thick on the pavements: a normal city on a normal, highly developed
world. A place in which he felt restless and had no real part. His skin crawled to the imagined touch of invisible
chains.
Casually he looked around. A cluster of young girls, their voices like the twitter of birds as they chatted, waiting
for friends. A tall, slim young man with a tuft of beard wearing orange and purple. A fat man arguing with his wife. An
oldster, stooped, coughing and spitting phlegm. Two thick-set types, artisans probably, standing side by side silent
and watchful.
A Hausi came running up the stairs, his face marked with tribal scars. He hesitated as he saw Dumarest as if
about to speak, his eyes curious, then he passed on into the museum. Dumarest turned, watching him through the
glass as he moved quickly towards the offices, wondering what such a man was doing on so remote a world. Hausia
rarely strayed far from the center of the galaxy where worlds were thick and their skills appreciated.
He moved as a crowd of adolescents thronged towards the doors, running lightly down the stairs and across the
street. He kept to the busy ways heading towards the edge of the city and his hotel. A tout called softly as he neared a
lighted doorway.
"Lonely, mister? There's plenty of fun inside. Genuine feelies of a thousand kinds. Full sensory participation and
satisfaction guaranteed. Why live it when you can feel it? All the thrills and none of the dangers. No?" He shrugged
philosophically as Dumarest passed, raising his voice again a moment later, falling silent almost immediately.
Dumarest frowned. A tout would not break his spiel without reason; win or lose he would try every prospect,
picking them out with the skill of long training, the lonely, the strangers away from home, those who looked as if they
could be lured into his parlor. Someone must be close behind, a person intent on business, not pleasure.
Deliberately he slowed, ears strained, listening for the scuff of feet. There was too much noise and he heard
nothing definite. He slowed even more; if the man were genuine he would maintain his pace and pass. He did neither.
Dumarest halted, tense, belated caution pricking its warning.
He felt the sting of something against the back of his head, the impact, and spun, left arm outstretched, the
fingers extended and clamped so as to form a rigid whole. Light from an overhead standard turned the stone of his
ring into a streak of ruby fire. He saw the man standing behind him, the face pale and startled over the tuft of beard,
then his fingers hit, catching the eye, ripping and tearing at yielding flesh. The man shrieked and fell away as, carried
by his own momentum, Dumarest continued to turn, his neck already stiff, his legs unresponsive.
The screams of the injured man followed him as he fell to the concrete an infinite distance below.

***

He awoke to a glare of light.

"All right, nurse," said a heavy voice. "The primary was successful." The light moved aside and was replaced by a
broad, dark face topped with a green cap bearing a medical insignia. "You've nothing to worry about," soothed the
doctor. "The danger is past and you're going to be perfectly well. Now I want you to cooperate. Please blink your
eyes, left first then right. That's it. Again, please. Once more. Good. Now follow the movements of my finger." He
made satisfied noises as Dumarest obeyed. "Now move your head. Excellent. You may give him the secondary now,
nurse."
 Dumarest felt something touch the side of his neck and he heard the sharp hiss as air blasted drugs into his
bloodstream. The reaction was immediate. Life and feeling returned to his limbs, his lungs heaved beneath his aching
ribs. He sat upright, fighting a sudden wave of nausea, resting his head in his hands until it had passed.
"To ask how you feel would be a stupid question," said the doctor conversationally. "You have been under artificial
stimulation for almost two weeks and the machines are not always gentle. But you are alive and the discomfort will
pass."
"Thank you," said Dumarest. "For saving my life."
"You were fortunate in more ways than one. The screams of the man you injured attracted the police. They
immediately summoned an ambulance. The medical orderly gave you quick-time to slow your metabolism and put
you in freeze." The doctor paused as if wondering whether to say more. "I found a dart buried in your scalp. It bore
traces of a substance which took our medical computer some time to isolate and more to determine a neutralizing
compound. The difficulty was in maintaining life while it took effect; hence the use of the machines."
"I understand," said Dumarest. "And the man?"
"The one you injured?" The doctor shrugged. "Dead. Not from his injury, you merely tore his eye, but from other
causes."
"Such as?"
"Cardiac failure." The doctor became brusque. "We have talked long enough. Now you had better rest for a while
in order to recover your strength. But do not be concerned. You have nothing to worry about."
Nothing, thought Dumarest as the man left followed by the nurse. Nothing aside from the fact that someone had
tried to kill him and would probably try again.
Rising from the bed he crossed to where curtains hid a window. It was no surprise to find it barred. He stood
looking out at the night, the reflection of his face limned against the clouded sky. It had been raining again and tiny
droplets made miniature rainbows against the panes. He touched the back of his head. The wound had healed; aside
from that he had no proof that time had passed at all.
He lowered his eyes. The room was set high in the building and the view stretched across an ugly cluster of
roads, stores and huddled buildings to where the space-field glowed beneath its circle of lights. As he watched a ship
lifted upwards, bright in the glowing field of its Erhaft drive as it reached towards the stars. Again he looked at the
city. Limitless space and worlds without number spread across the galaxy. Why did men insist on building their
habitations so close?
Turning from the window he studied the room. A bed, an empty cabinet, toilet facilities and nothing else. He
wore nothing but a loose hospital robe, his only personal possession the ring on his left hand. At least they had left
him that. The door was unlocked. He opened it and met the flat stare of an armed guard seated in the passage
outside. Slowly the man shook his head.
Closing the door Dumarest returned to the bed and eased the aching muscles of his body. He was a prisoner.
There was nothing to do now but wait.
They kept him waiting for two days and then returned his clothes and took him to the place of interrogation. It
could be no other than that, a room in which someone would ask questions and demand answers and, if there were
no instruments of persuasion to be seen, it was no proof that they did not exist or would not be used. Most probably
they had been used; a drugged man could retain few secrets.
"Dumarest." The man sitting at the wide desk was of indeterminate age, his face smooth, bland, his body almost
as slight as that of a boy. He picked up a card lying before him. "Earl Dumarest, traveler, arrived on Selend seventeen
days ago from…?" He paused, looking up. His eyes were gray flecked with motes of blue.
"Onsul."
"And before that?"
"Vington."
"Which you reached from Technos." The examiner smiled, his teeth very white and very pointed. "I am glad that
you are being sensible, Earl. I may call you that? My name is Cluj. Please be seated." He waited as Dumarest took a
chair. "What is your planet of origin?"
"Earth."
"A strange name for a world. There is no record of it in our files, but no matter, there are so many worlds."
Without change of tone or expression he said, "Why did you come to Selend?"
"To visit Korotya." If he had been questioned under drugs there was no point in lying and it was obvious now that
he had. Else why should Cluj have checked on Earth? "I had heard of the place, a rumor, and I wanted to see it."
"Why?"
"I was curious."
"About the Original People?" The examiner leaned back in his chair, smiling. "I know all that you have done since
your arrival. The guide at the museum remembers you well. A great pity that you traveled so far to learn so little. You
saw the ruins."
"I saw a hologram of ruins," corrected Dumarest.
"You are precise and wise to be so, but I assure you the depiction was genuine. Korotya, unfortunately, is lost to
us forever." Cluj picked up the card and began to rap the edge softly on his desk. "The Original People," he mused. "A
minor religious sect holding strange beliefs and conducting esoteric ceremonies. They claim that we all originated on
one planet." He looked at Dumarest. "Earth. Are you one of them?"
"No."
"And yet you seek to find them, is that it? If you thought they were here you were mistaken. We do not tolerate
such misguided fanatics on Selend. And the city, the ruins of Korotya, can you honestly believe that such people
could have built it and kept it hidden for so long? The thing is against reason."
Cluj threw down the card. "Now let us deal with a more important matter. The attack on your person is
something which disturbs me. It is a puzzle and I do not like puzzles. It was not a simple attempt at robbery and
neither was it a thwarted assassination. Later analysis has shown that the poison fed into your blood was not intended
to kill but to paralyze. A most sophisticated compound and one beyond the reach of any ordinary criminal. Its effect
is to render a person immediately helpless with all the apparent symptoms of death. Now why should you be
attacked in such a manner?"
"A case of mistaken identity, perhaps?"
"It is barely possible," conceded the examiner. "Such things happen. Unfortunately we cannot question the man
who fired the dart into your scalp. He is dead."
"So I heard," said Dumarest dryly. "The doctor told me the cause was cardiac failure."
"He did not lie."
"Maybe not, but there are many ways to stop a heart from beating."
"True, in this case it was a hole burned with a laser." Cluj leaned forward across his desk. "You realize what this
means? The man was not working alone. It was a planned attempt and if you hadn't been so cautious it would have
succeeded. You would simply have vanished without trace. A stranger, collapsing in the street—who would have
questioned either the incident or the disposal of the body? And if they tried once they could well try again." He
paused as if waiting for Dumarest to comment and, when he remained silent, added, "I will be frank with you. The
episode carries political implications, a potential danger we can do without. Selend must not become a battleground
for warring factions."
Dumarest said, quietly, "You over exaggerate the matter. I still think that I was mistaken for someone else."
"If you think that then you are a fool and I do not take you for a fool. I believe that you realize perfectly the
implications of what has occurred. You have enemies and you are not the type of man to suffer injury unavenged.
However, that is not my concern or will cease to be very soon. I will be blunt. You are no longer welcome on this
world. I have ordered your deportation."
Dumarest relaxed. "There is no need for you to take official action. I will leave as soon as I find a suitable ship."
"The matter has been arranged."
"Not to my satisfaction," snapped Dumarest. "I am not a criminal and this is a civilized world. I demand the right
to book my own passage."
"And how will you pay for it?" Cluj watched as Dumarest pulled back his left sleeve and revealed the tattoo on his
arm. The metallic imprint of his universal credit shone in the light. Quietly he said, "I would not leave any man totally
destitute. You have, perhaps, enough left to maintain you for a week in a modest hotel."
Dumarest lowered his sleeve. His face was hard, taut with anger. "I had cash, also. Does Selend put uniforms on
its thieves?"
Cluj was offended. "You were not robbed. There was a matter of paying certain expenses: the cost of your
hospitalization, the research needed to neutralize the poison, other things. The price of a long High passage for one.
The cash and credit barely sufficed. You will, naturally, receive a full accounting." He spoke into a grille on his desk.
"This interview is terminated. Collect the subject and deal with him as arranged." To Dumarest he said, "You leave at
dawn. Do not return to Selend."

***

They took him to the spacefield, to a small building set within the barrier, a place used for holding undesirable
transients. The cell was small, clean enough but cramping to a man used to open spaces. From the single barred
window Dumarest could see the field, the ships tall against the darkening sky. One of them would carry him from
Selend and dump him where? The guard either did not know or had orders to remain silent.
 "Don't worry about it, friend," he advised. "You'll travel just like an ordinary passenger. Quick-time to shorten the
journey and all the rest of it. What does it matter where the ship is bound?"
It mattered. Too many worlds were at the end of the line, dead ends without industry or offering any hope of
being able to build a stake. Such worlds were a traveler's nightmare. Stranded, without money to buy a passage, it was
almost impossible to escape. Death in abject poverty was the usual end. Had Cluj chosen to send him to one of
those? Or was he being even more direct?
Dumarest thought about it while sitting on the narrow bunk. His deportation had been planned, his money taken
while he lay unconscious in the hospital. Had someone suggested that course of action? Advised it? Used pressure to
win what they had tried to gain by the attack? Was he to be delivered, an unsuspecting parcel, into the hands of the
hunters?
It was a risk he dared not take. Somehow he had to break free of the suspected trap. From the window he studied
the vessels spaced on the field. Five of them; Selend was a busy world. One stood with gaping plates, obviously
undergoing overhaul or repair. He eliminated it. Another had just arrived, the loading ports open, cargo streaming
down the ramp to waiting vehicles. It was barely possible that it could off-load, restock and leave at dawn but he
doubted it. One of the remaining three must be the ship on which he was booked, but which?
Carefully he studied them. One was sealed, the cargo loaded and the ship apparently ready to leave. Captains did
not favor delay—once ready for space they seldom lingered—yet the crew could be enjoying a short leave now that
the work was done. The other two were still loading, one with a stream of heavy bales, the other with a trickle of
smaller bundles. Some men clustered at the foot of the ramp, poorly dressed, huddled as if for mutual protection.
Travelers hoping for a Low passage.
Thoughtful, Dumarest turned from the window and stared at the barred door of his cell. It was a minor barrier
compared to another. How to escape without money? Who on those ships would give him passage as a gift? He knew
the answer too well. Then he looked at his ring, the thick band and the flat stone which shone like freshly spilled
blood. Cluj had made a mistake.
He waited until dark and then hammered at the barred door. The guard came, grumbling, wiping his mouth with
the back of his hand. He was a big man, thickly muscled and inclined to be truculent. His manner softened a little as
he heard what Dumarest had to say.
"You want some wine and a good meal? Well, I guess it could be arranged if you've the money to pay for it."
"I've got credit." Dumarest displayed his tattoo. "If you've got a banking machine we could cash it and get
something decent to eat and drink. Look," he urged as the man hesitated. "What can you lose? I'll transfer the credit
to your account and you give me two-thirds in value."
"Two-thirds?"
"Make it a half. Just bring the machine here and well do it right away. I'm starving."
The guard rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "I can't do that, bring the machine here, I mean. It's a fixture in the
office. I guess I could take you down to it, though. A half, you say?"
It was a good profit and he would make more by bolstering the price of the food and wine. And it was safe
enough, a short journey to the office and then back to the cell. Five minutes, ten at the most; the opportunity was too
good to be missed.
"All right," he decided. "But don't try anything smart. We don't want to put you aboard with a busted head."
Unlocking the door of the cell he gestured down the passage. "Turn right at the end," he ordered. "And let's make this
fast."
Dumarest hit him on the jaw.
It was a hard blow, delivered with the full force of back and shoulders, and the man slumped as if he'd been shot.
Dumarest caught the sagging body, pushed it into the cell and slammed the door. Quietly he entered the office. It was
empty and he took time to glance at the papers littering the desk. The Lactiae was due to leave at dawn.
The rain had started again, sleeting drops making a curtain of silver beneath the glare of the circling lights. They
stung his eyes as Dumarest left the office and raced across the field. Ahead lay the two ships he had spotted earlier,
loading finished now, one with a savage red light winking from its prow. He reached it, climbed the ramp and met the
hostile stare of the handler.
"What the hell do you want?" The man was abrupt. "We're just getting ready to leave."
"Good. I want passage."
"The old man takes care of that."
"Low, not High." Dumarest looked around. He was in the lower section close to the cargo and freeze. A bench
stood to one side, a vice clamped to the surface. Slipping off his ring he tore the stone free with his teeth and put it
between the jaws. He threw the band towards the handler and, as the man examined it, tightened the jaws of the vice.
The stone shattered into a million crystalline shards.
 "Are you crazy?" The handler stared at the glittering fragments. "Ruining a stone like that!"
Dumarest was curt. "Forget the stone. Look at the band. It's worth a High, passage. It's yours if you'll carry me
Low."
The handler was well past youth, shrewd with much experience of men. He looked calculatingly at Dumarest as
he weighed the ring in his hand. "You're running from trouble, eh? Well, it's none of my business. We're bound for
Dradea. It's a hell of a long journey but that won't bother you the way you'll be traveling." He bounced the weight of
metal in his hand. "Just a warning, friend. If this is a phony you'll pay for it."
With callous indifference, denied the numbing drugs which would ease the pain of resurrection so that he would
scream his lungs raw with the pain of returning circulation. That and other things. Those riding Low had no defense
against a handler full of spite or turning sour.
"It's genuine," said Dumarest.
"And all you have?" The handler shrugged. "Well, that's the way it goes. You've ridden Low before? Good. Then
you know what to do."
To strip and lie in a cabinet designed for the transportation of animals. To sink into oblivion and ride doped,
frozen and ninety percent dead, gambling his life against the fifteen percent death rate. He had done it so often
before. Too often. Maybe this time would be the last. A man's luck could not last forever.

Chapter Two
Veruchia came late to the stadium, leaving it until the last possible moment when to delay further would be
beyond excuse and taken as a deliberate insult. That would be both stupid and unwise; policy dictated that she should
have been at her place in the high box long ago and yet, at times, personal feelings made it hard to be so calculating.
So she compromised. She would be there and would make certain that she was seen, but not even for the rule of a
world would she subject herself to greater degradation.
Trumpets sounded as she passed the guards, her footsteps loud in the following hush as she climbed the stairs.
She slowed a little, reluctant to witness what was taking place, conscious even here beneath the stands of the
anticipation above. But there was no escape. As she climbed the final steps and stood blinking in the brilliant sunlight
she heard the roar of the crowd. It was deafening, the sound of thirty thousand people yelling as one, and their voice
was the hungry scream of a beast: an animal gloating at the sight of blood and demanding more.
It was contagious, that demand. She felt raw, primitive emotions stir her blood despite her contempt for the
games and shook herself, angrily, making for her chair. Even so her eyes betrayed her, glancing at the arena where
men ran forward with nets and tridents, seeing the broken shape and the carmine pool. Quickly she looked at the
other occupants of the box, seeing what she had expected, a vague hope that others would have had the strength to
register their disapproval fading as she counted heads.
Chorzel was there, naturally, his great body crammed into the royal seat, his face that of a graven image,
unmoving, his eyes mere slits in the puffed contours of his face. She glanced at his hands, frowning as she saw the
thick fingers clamped to the arms of his chair, the skin taut over the knuckles. Quickly she glanced back at his face. It
was beaded with sweat, a tiny rivulet of perspiration running from his forehead down over one cheek to stain the
gaudy fabric circling his throat. Her frown deepened. It was hot, true, but Chorzel did not usually suffer from the heat
and he was most certainly not a man to bear discomfort without need. Was he so enamored of what lay on the sand
that he could not lift a hand to wipe his face?
It was possible and again she wondered what had made him turn the relatively harmless games into the present
disgusting spectacle. The given reasons she knew—she had heard them all too often and in too minute detail—but
still she refused to be convinced. Yet how could she be so certain that she was right and he and the others wrong?
The populace, at least, seemed to bear out his theories and so did their rulers. Vidda, for example; the woman looked
as if she had just left the arms of a lover, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glazed, her body redolent of sensual passion.
And Selkas? He looked as he always did, utterly detached, casual, bland in his armor of cynical amusement. The
smooth skin of his cheeks belied his age and yet he must be as old as Chorzel. Not for the first time she wondered
what had made him drop all aspirations to power and adopt the habits of a dilettante.
She tried to catch his attention, failed, and turned as a hand fell on her knee. The contact was distasteful and she
squirmed as she knocked it aside. Montarg, smiling without humor, lifted his voice above the noise.
"You look disturbed, my cousin. Is your stomach so weak that you cannot stand the sight of a little blood?"
Coldly she said, "I do not regard the death of men as amusing."
"But educational, surely? See how the people enjoy it. Listen to them shout. Does not that teach you something
about human nature, my dear?" He laughed, soundlessly like a dog, mouth wide to show the redness of his throat, the
gleaming whiteness of his teeth. "If you were more of a woman, Veruchia, you would not be so unmoved. Look at
Vidda, at Loris, even Nita finds within herself the capability to respond. But you look as if made of ice. Water must
flow in your veins. No wonder that when men talk of you they smile."
"At least they do not spit."
"Can you be sure of that, cousin?"
He was baiting her as he always did, as he had done when, as children, they had played in the gardens of the
palace. Then she had learned the mistake of displaying anger. He reveled in the fury of the helpless.
Quietly she said, "You are a sadist, Montarg. But from me you will get little pleasure."
"A sadist, cousin?"
"A sadist," she repeated. "And worse, a coward. You watch others die and gain pleasure from their pain. If you are
genuinely entranced by the mystique of combat why aren't you in the arena strengthening your skill? Could it be that
you are reluctant to put your manhood to the test?"
He refused to be annoyed. "Unlike yours, my dear, my sex is beyond question. And still you insist on missing the
point of the games, as you so willfully insist on missing much that concerns the welfare of Dradea. You have a limited
mind, cousin, but that is to be expected. A limited mind in a limited body. A lover, perhaps, could teach you
something. You should try one." He paused then added, with deliberate cruelty, "I'm sure you could find someone to
share your bed if you really tried. A cripple, perhaps, or a man unable to see."
He had beaten her as he always did. Eyes smarting, she turned from his smiling face as the crowd roared. An
attendant nursed an arm streaming with blood. Belev, Montarg's satellite, grunted his impatience.
"The fool should have taken better care. And all of them are taking too long."
Montarg said, lazily, "Then urge them on."
Belev grinned and moved away. The sharp blast of a trumpet followed his order, imperious, demanding. Down in
the arena they heard it and worked harder than before, ringing the crell with nets and tridents, taking wild risks as
they forced it back so that others could lift the body of the dead man and carry it away. Lithe boys flung themselves
at the stained sand, raking it smooth, burying the soiling blood beneath the golden grains.

***

In the comparative coolness and gloom of the preparation chamber the note sounded clear and threatening. A
medical attendant grunted and said, "They're getting impatient out there. Trust Montarg for that. He believes in
getting full value for his money. It's a wonder he didn't have us build a conveyor belt."
Sadoua scowled; at such times graveyard humor was out of place. Quickly he glanced at the waiting contestants;
some had responded with a shrug and a strained smile, a few laughed with forced bravado.
Dumarest did neither.
He sat on a bench, relaxed, eyes half-closed and breathing with a deep, controlled rhythm. The bones of his ribs
stood clear against his chest, his muscles limned beneath the hard whiteness of his skin. To many he looked as if half-
asleep but the fightmaster knew better. This was a man preparing himself for battle, a coiled spring ready to explode
into action: a man who had chosen to fight for money accepting the penalty of maiming or death if he failed.
Sadoua limped towards him. "You're next."
"Now?"
"Soon." The fightmaster was a squat man, a scar running over one cheek, more in parallel lines across his naked
torso. He was sweating, thick droplets clinging to the hairs of his forked beard. He stepped aside as the men carrying
the stretcher trotted past and swore as he looked at the mess it contained. "The fool. I told him to watch the feet. A
crell kicks forward, not back. Watch beak and feet, I told him. You all heard me. Why didn't the damned fool listen?"
Dumarest rose, stretching. "Maybe he forgot."
"Forgot!" The fightmaster spat. "You only forget once in the arena. He should have known that. He told me that
he'd fought before and promised a good show. A child could have done as well." He cocked his head at a roar from
the crowd. "Listen to that. They're getting ugly. They paid to see good fighting, sharp, clear action, not a bunch of
suicides. Do you think I like to see men walk out and dead meat carried in? Five so far, three more dying and four
who'll never be the same again. And not a crell to show for it."
"You'd like to see one hit the sand?"
"More than one." Sadoua scowled and spat. "I've no love for those damn things. Don't get me wrong, the arena's
my life, but in the old days it was different. Men against men, clubs, armor, that sort of thing. A man could get hurt,
sure, but no one ever left his guts spread over the sand. Then things changed. Animals came in, bulls at first and then
the big cats." Reflectively he rubbed the scars on his chest. "And then they brought in those damned birds. Even so a
man stood a fair chance at first. Then they began to breed for size, weight and viciousness and now—" He broke off,
conscious that he was saying too much. The morale of a fighter was important to his survival.
Gruffly he said, "A crell is just an overgrown bird. You can take it."
"If I don't it will take me."
"A good thing to remember." Sadoua glanced down the passage towards the arena. "Like a shot of something
before you go? Some figure that it helps."
Dumarest shook his head.
"You're wise. I never touched it myself before a bout. After, yes, but never before. No matter what they say it can
slow you down a little and that could be fatal." He led the way to where a door opened on the sand, halting at the
edge of sunlight. "Don't forget now, watch those feet. A crell moves fast so try and get some sand into its eyes and
slow it down. Don't stand facing it too long. Keep moving and—" He broke off as the trumpets blared. "Good luck!"
It was impossible to look away.
Veruchia sat on the edge of her seat, despising herself and yet trapped by the moment. The deadly fascination of
the games, she thought. The anticipation, the accelerated pounding of the heart, the tension of nerve and sinew as if
she herself were down there on the sand. The vicarious pleasure which filled the stands. The druglike euphoria which
caused men and women to act like beasts. Yet how could she really blame them? They merely took what was
provided, the danger faced by a surrogate, obvious, visible, while they sat safe and secure high above. As she was
sitting now.
She felt the pressure in her lungs as the trumpets died, the sigh rising from thirty thousand throats, the rustle as
bodies moved forward, heads craning towards the sand. And all of it was physical, a thing felt deep in bone and
muscle, the allure of the arena, the beast of which she was a part.
Beside her Selkas drew in his breath.
"I know that man," he whispered incredulously. "I've seen him before, years ago now, but I could never forget."
She felt the touch of his cheek, as light as a feather, the urgent whisper of his voice in her ear.
"Veruchia, trust me. This is a golden chance for revenge against Montarg. Take it. Bet all you own on the fighter.
It will be a wager you cannot lose."
Whispering she said, "Why are you so generous?"
"Why don't I make the bet myself ?" His voice echoed his amusement. "A shrewd comment, but I have all the
money I need. You need more than money. The taste of revenge is, I assure you, wonderfully sweet. Back the man
against the crell and do it quickly before they engage. I doubt if this bout will take long."
She hesitated, watching the lone figure walking slowly across the sand. Her eyes were good and details were
plain: his height, the scarred torso, the hard determination of his face—the face of a man who had long since learned
to live outside of the protection of House or Guild, Family or Organization. A loner as, in a sense, was she. Looking at
the man she felt a quick affinity. He like herself, faced tremendous odds. Perhaps if she backed him it might, in some
unguessable way, help him, give him strength. And she had never had cause to doubt Selkas's good regard.
"Quickly, Veruchia," he whispered. "Quickly."
Montarg's voice made her decision. "A thousand on the crell. A kill within three minutes." Belev laughed. "Make it
one and you're on."
"Three," Montarg insisted. "At his rate of progress he'll take all day to get within range." His voice grew hard. "I'll
have a word with Sadoua about this. His choice of cattle is too poor to be tolerated." Cattle! To talk so about men!
Veruchia turned and to Montarg said, "A wager, cousin?"
"You Veruchia? You want to make a bet?" His surprise was genuine then, recovering, he gave his soundless laugh.
"Could it be that the heat of the sun is making you human? Do you thrill to the anticipation of blood?"
"You have a large mouth, cousin," she said coldly. "And words are cheap. Will you accept my wager?"
"On the crell?"
"The man. You will give me odds?"
He pondered, looking down at the arena, seeing only a trained and vicious crell and a man walking towards his
destruction. The bird was from his own hatchery; he knew the strain and had no doubt as to the outcome. Veruchia
must be insane—perhaps the atmosphere had turned her brain. In any case it was not a chance to be missed.
"You have an estate to the north adjoining my own. Against it I will set three times its market value."
"Only three?" Her shrug was expressive.
"Five then."
"You are cautious, Montarg." Already she was beginning to regret her wildness. Aside from a house in town the
estate was all she had, apart from some land to the south, barren and of little value. Perhaps, if she pushed the odds
high enough, she would force him to refuse the wager. How high? Eight? Ten? "Give me twelve and I will agree."
"Done." He spoke quickly; the man was getting close to the bird, delay might mean a lost opportunity. And what
did the odds matter when the result was a foregone conclusion? "You are a witness, Selkas. And you, Vidda."
 "Be silent," snapped the woman. She was breathing raggedly, her hands clenched. "I am watching the conflict."
She and all the rest.
Dumarest could feel their eyes, sense the hunger, the savage desire for blood and action, the straining anticipation
he had known so often before. A small ring with men facing each other with naked blades or a luxurious arena with
men facing beasts, it was all the same. Aside from scale the audience never differed. All had the same hunger; all
made the same demand.
He ignored them as he walked slowly across the sand, eyes on the crell. He was naked aside from a loincloth, the
sun hot on his back and shoulders, burning beneath the soles of his feet. He carried an eight-foot spear as his only
weapon and he knew that the length had been carefully judged. He could throw it—once. If he missed or if the blow
did not kill he would never get a second chance. He could use it to thrust but that meant shortening the length to
allow for holding, and if he used it as a quarterstaff he would have to get within the range of beak and feet.
He slowed a little, halting as the crell moved. It stood five feet high, the long neck lifting the head another three, a
rounded ball of muscle coated with tough feathers, the claws like steel, the beak a living spear. It moved again,
hopping to one side, the dry rasp of the furrowed sand oddly loud in the hushed silence. It froze, watching, its eyes
close-set, reptilian, hypnotic in their stare.
It charged.
It came without warning, one second immobile, the next blasting forward as if shot from a gun, sand pluming
from beneath its feet, neck outstretched, feathers bristling on vestigial wings. Dumarest sprang to one side, landing
catlike, poised on the balls of his feet, the spear lifted in both hands. There was no time to use the weapon. Barely had
he landed than the crell charged again, turning, ripping the sand, one clawed foot slashing at the space in which he
had stood.
Dumarest ran for his life.
He heard the roar of the crowd as he raced down the arena, savage, angry at being robbed of their spectacle. He
saw the gaping mouth of the door leading to the preparation chamber, Sadoua's scarred visage, the men standing on
platforms to either side, spears poised to bring him down should he come too close. He leaped to one side, jumping
high, turning in the air so that he faced back the way he had come, the spear gripped in both hands, leveling as he
landed.
The crell had not followed. It strutted at the far end beneath the high box, head high, arrogant as it tore at the
sand. From the crowd came a storm of jeers at what they regarded as cowardice.
A girl, young and pretty, her face disfigured with ugly passion, screamed, "Give him the whip! Lash the dog until
he bleeds!"
Others took up the cry. Sadoua shook his head as an attendant touched his arm. "No. Not yet. That man is
fighting for his life."
"But the crowd?"
"To hell with them! They want blood, not skill. Can't they realize that he was testing the crell to see what it could
do? Now shut up and watch!"
Dumarest thrust the spear into the sand, dropped to one knee and rubbed his hands in the grit, his eyes never
leaving the crell. Still it strutted back and forth, beak weaving, shining in the sun. Snakelike it poised as Dumarest rose
and hefting the spear began to move slowly towards it.
Hushed, the crowd waited.
It was a thing, a beast bred for a certain task, natural attributes accentuated for a desired end. But it was still a
beast with a limited brain governed more by instinct than calculated decision. Dumarest concentrated on it as he
crossed the sand. There would be a point beyond which he could not pass without being attacked. An invisible line
which was the creature's territorial limit. Anything crossing it would be attacked, viciously, without delay or warning.
But, unless maddened by the scent of blood, the bird would probably not attack at a greater distance.
He remembered the girl, her screamed demands that he be whipped until he bled. A man could not hope to
escape by staying a safe distance.
If there were a safe distance. If the crell would be content to stay in one place.
Looking at the increasing movement of the feet Dumarest knew that it would not. It would strut the length of the
arena, its present domain, and inevitably he would get too close.
Still he advanced.
He had the spear, his hands and feet, his brain. He could think and calculate, the age-old advantage a man had
over a beast. He could anticipate and prepare and act when the moment came. His life depended on his judgment.
The crell twitched then froze as it had done before. Dumarest took another slow step forward, another, a third. He
dropped as the bird charged.
He fell to his left knee, the sole of his right foot hard against the sand, the leg twisted at right angles to his body.
He held the spear low, the butt set into the sand, hard against the side of his right foot. The point slanted upwards, the
glimmering tip four feet above the ground and aimed directly at the breast of the charging crell.
He saw it hit, the glimmering steel burying its length into the feathered breast as the running bird impaled itself
on the spear. A blow numbed his foot and he saw wood splinter inches from his face as a clawed foot ripped at the
shaft in his hands. He released it, feeling the wetness of jetting blood, rolling frantically to one side as the crell tore at
the sand, jumping to his feet as the beak stabbed where he had lain.
The roar of the crowd was a thunder to match the pulsing of his blood.
The crell was not dead. Bone had deflected the point from the heart, the pain of the injury driving it into a crazed
fury. It saw Dumarest and charged, the butt of the drooping spear hitting the sand and driving the point even deeper.
It halted, bewildered, then a clawed foot lifted and tore the spear from its breast.
Dumarest ran forward. He lunged with the full speed of his body, ignoring the pain from his bruised foot in the
desperate need of haste. As the crell readied itself to attack with feet and beak he jumped, caught the slender neck
and flung his legs over the rounded shape. Beneath him the bird exploded into savage fury, twisting, jumping,
reaching up with one leg so as to claw free the thing on its back.
The claws could not reach but the beak could. Dumarest ducked as it struck at his face, gripping the neck with
both hands, feeling the tense muscle and sinew, the throb of blood in an artery like a rope. His mouth closed over it,
his teeth biting through the tough skin, the gristle beneath, the muscle and flesh—biting until he choked on a sudden
gush of blood, a ruby fountain which jetted, glistening into the sunlight.
The rest was a matter of waiting.

***

It was something she would never forget.

Veruchia sat, bemused by the sound and fury, the blasting release of tension which had risen and was still rising
from the stands: men, red-faced, yelling, flinging coins in glittering showers; women, screaming, tearing the clothes
from shoulders and chest, offering their bodies to the victor. Emotion was a tangible cloud.
Hysteria, she knew, but knowing did not help. She had attended the games before, seen men die and, rarely, win,
but never before had she felt as she did now. She had won. The man she had backed with her wager had won. They
had won. They?
She looked at the man on the sand. He was upright, incredibly unhurt, staggering a little as strong arms led him
from the arena. He seemed oblivious to the shouts and cheers, the boys collecting the showered offerings, the
attendants busy removing the dead crell. How could he know that she had backed him against all logic? How could
he guess at the tension which had gripped her stomach as he had fought?
Selkas spoke quietly in her ear. "Look at Montarg. Have you ever seen him look so bitter?"
Her eyes remained on the arena. "He has lost. He hates to lose at anything. Will he pay?"
"He will have no choice. A wager made before witnesses, before Chorzel himself, how can he refuse?" Selkas
chuckled with soft amusement. "You should look at him, Veruchia, and enjoy your revenge."
She gave him one glance, seeing the fury, the scowl, then turned away before he could meet her eyes. It was not
in her nature to gloat.
"Twelve to one," murmured Selkas. "You played him well. He will be strained to find the money." He chuckled
again. "I told you that you could not lose."
"How could you be so certain?"
"I know the man, I told you that. It was on a world whose name I have forgotten, years ago, a little thing but it
stuck in my mind. I was bored. A fight had been arranged and I went to see what was offered. It was the usual thing,
men set against each other with knives, others gambling on the outcome, a means to pass the time, no more. One of
the contestants was young and a little nervous. A handler passed him a knife and, as he reached for it, let it fall. It was
caught before it touched the ground." Selkas shrugged. "It is an old trick, one designed to weaken the opposition, a
thing arranged so as to reveal a false speed. But this time the accident was genuine. The man was amazingly fast."
She looked at the figure at the far end of the arena. He had almost reached the door; soon he would have
vanished from her sight. "That man?"
"The same. I have seen many fighters, so many that their faces are blurred and their skill forgotten, but him I shall
never forget. He was young then, new to the ring, far from skilled with a blade, but he was fast. Incredibly so. A matter
of reflexes, no doubt, but he was a joy to watch. You noticed how he mounted the crell?"
She nodded.
"That took speed. Speed of decision and action. A fraction of a seconds delay and the beast would have turned
and torn out his stomach. A lesser man would have hesitated and paid for it with his life. And the rest? Surely you
noticed that?"
The racing fury, the charges, the leaping frenzy as the bird died. And even when dead it had continued to thresh
about the sand, giant muscles spurred by ungoverned reflexes. Yes, she had noticed.
"I knew that he would win," said Selkas. "A fighter who had managed to survive so long, a man so fast, how could
he possibly lose?"
He had gone now, swallowed by the door and, somehow, the arena seemed empty despite the crowd and the men
still working on the sand. Veruchia rose, unwilling to watch another bout, knowing that it could only be an anticlimax
to what had gone before. And there was no need for her to stay. She had attended the games, Chorzel had seen her; if
he protested at her early departure she would plead a sudden indisposition.
She glanced to where he sat, still apparently tense in his chair, his hands clamped on the arms. She sensed an
oddity, frowning as she turned, taking three steps before halting to look again. Sweat no longer dewed his face. In a
moment she was at his side.
"Quickly," she snapped at the attendants. "Bring something to shade the Owner. Hurry!"
The soggy fabric around his throat resisted her attempts to loosen it and with impatient strength she ripped open
the blouse. Beneath he wore a shirt of protective mail and she wondered at his lunacy, sitting in the open sun with
such a weight of metal. No wonder he had been so hot.
As the garment yielded to her fingers she snapped, "Summon medical help. Send for his personal physician and
bring some ice and water."
Beneath the mail the naked flesh was damp and clammy to her touch, unnaturally cold. Stooping she listened for
the heart, at first thinking it had ceased to beat and then catching a faint, turgid echo. She rose and found herself
ringed with faces.
Montarg thrust himself forward. "What is wrong?"
"Chorzel is ill."
"The Owner? Ill?" Vidda's voice was a strained flutter. "Will he be all right?"
"A stroke, perhaps?" Belev sucked at his teeth. "He was warned against undue excitement."
"Let me see." Izard craned his head. He was echoed by another.
"And me."
"Is he dying?"
They pressed close, predators eager to be in at the kill, still beneath the influence of the arena. Odd, she thought
with strange detachment, if the games he had instigated should be the cause of his death.

***

Sadoua was jubilant. "You did it." he crowed. "You won! Man, I'm proud of you!"
Dumarest straightened. The coolness of the chamber was refreshing after the baking heat outside. He sucked air,
filling his chest with deep breaths, oxygenating his blood. A boy came forward with a cup of wine. The fightmaster
dashed it from his hand.
"For the winner nothing but the best," he roared. "Bring the iced champagne in the special glasses." He grinned
as, his arm heavy around his shoulders, he led Dumarest to a couch. "You'll drink," he said. "And you'll rest. And I'll
have the best masseur rub every ache and strain from every inch of your body. Do you know what you've done?"
He snatched the glasses from the boy, handed one to Dumarest and drained his own in a gulp. "You've shown the
way to beat the damned birds, that's what. I was watching every second of the time and I can tell when a man
calculates his moves and when he's hoping for luck. You knew what you were doing every inch of the way. I guessed
it when you made your run and I was sure of it when you moved back. Did you hear the crowd? I thought my ears
would burst. Boy! More wine!"
It was cold and sweet and almost evaporated in the mouth.
Dumarest lowered his glass and, as Sadoua refilled it, said, "The money?"
"You'll get it, the tribute too, every coin of it. The boys are collecting it now and they know that I'll have the
fingers of any man trying to steal." He lowered his voice a little. "And you can have your choice of a woman too if
you want. There isn't a girl or matron out there who wouldn't be proud to take you to her bed. Pay you too. Nothing is
too good for a victor."
For a victor, but what if he had lost? Dumarest shrugged. "I can do without the women."
"How about that bitch who yelled for the whip?" urged Sadoua. "You could teach her a lesson. Take a whip to her
back and let her know just how it feels. No? Well, have some more wine."
He poured and sat down, his heavy weight depressing the soft padding of the couch.
"You've hunted," he said. "You know how the mind of a beast works. That was a good trick you did with the spear
but you aimed a little high. Six inches lower and you'd have speared the heart. You'll know better the next time."
"There won't be a next time."
"No?"
"I was lucky," said Dumarest. "Those spears are too short. If you want to see more men walk from the arena add
another foot. And train them. Rig up a dummy crell and teach them how to drop and hold the shaft. And give them a
knife." He touched his lips, his teeth. "With a knife I could have sliced that thing's head right off."
"I don't make the rules." Sadoua finished his wine. "But I'll tell you one thing. You'll be back. If you stay on this
world you'll have no choice. How else are you going to earn money? And you're good," he complained. "Too good to
waste. And it can be a good life. A few fights, money, all the women you can use. A victor gets taken around."
"Like a pet?"
"What's the difference? You'll eat well and live soft. Think about it, huh?"
Dumarest nodded.
"You're always welcome here any time you want a bout." Sadoua lifted his voice. "Larcol come and do your work."
Dumarest relaxed as the masseur began to rub his limbs. The oil was warm, the man skilled, his probing fingers
easing the strain from muscle and sinew. He took his time and Dumarest was almost asleep when he felt the hands
leave his body.
"My name is Selkas," said a voice. "Your own, I have been told, is Dumarest. Earl Dumarest. I would like to talk to
you."
"Later."
"Now. The matter is of some importance." Dumarest sighed and opened his eyes. The man was tall and smooth,
dressed in rich fabrics, a jeweled chain hanging from his neck. He smiled as Dumarest sat upright and extended his
hand, palm flat and upturned.
"A custom of this world," he explained. "I am showing you that I hold no weapon. You are supposed to touch my
hand with the palm of your own. It is a gesture of friendship."
"And your other hand?"
"That also." Selkas extended it. "Usually both hands are only displayed to intimates or declared foes if seeking a
parley. One in trust, the other to instill confidence. You find the custom amusing?"
"Strange." Dumarest touched the extended hands. The skin was smooth, without trace of thickening, the fingers
long and tapered: the hands of an artist, certainly those of a man who had never known physical labor. "And a little
pointless."
"Perhaps, but it is very old. Are you interested in ancient things?"
"At times, yes."
"But not at the moment," said Selkas. "Now you want to know why I am here." He glanced around. The couch
stood in a secluded corner of the preparation room, the masseur had withdrawn. They stood in a small area of
isolation. From outside came a roar and the distant snarl of Sadoua's voice as he cursed the fool who had just spilled
his blood on the sand. "The last bout of the day," he mused. "And for someone the last battle of his life. What are your
intentions?"
"To take my money and go," said Dumarest.
"To leave this world?" Selkas shrugged. "It could be done—your pay and tribute would just about buy a High
passage—but then what? Arriving destitute on another world? Not a pleasant future, my friend." He reached out and
touched the ribs showing clear against Dumarest's chest. "And it would not be wise for you to travel Low. Dangerous,
to do it again so soon. You have lost your body-fat and from Dradea journeys are long. It seems that you have little
choice but to fight again."
To face the sand, the sun and the savage crell; to hear the roar of the crowd and to pit himself against a beast,
trusting always to his own speed and skill. Some thought it a good life but Dumarest knew better. So many things
could go wrong: his foot could slip on a patch of buried sand, the shaft of the spear could break, a crell might not
blindly follow the expected pattern. On Dradea the odds against the fighters were too high.
Bleakly he said, "There is always an alternative."
"On a strange world with unknown opportunities?" Selkas shrugged. "Perhaps, but I think you know better. You
did not fight wholly from choice; necessity must have played its part." Abruptly he said, "I come to offer you
employment."
Dumarest had expected it. "Such as?"
"There is a woman who is dear to me for reasons you need not know. A person whom I hold in high regard. I
want you to protect her."
"A bodyguard?"
"More than that. I spoke of protection in a wider sense than shielding her from physical attack. She is alone and
almost friendless. There are those who have reason to denigrate her and it is important at this time that she appear
strong. She needs someone to bolster her courage and determination, a strong man who will be more than a servant.
I think you could be that man. Agree and you will have no cause to regret it."
Dumarest said, "Who is this woman?"
"You will see her tonight. I am inviting her to dinner with a few others. You will attend. I shall send for you after
dark." Selkas paused and added, "One other thing. I do not want you to let her know I have employed you. You will be
invited as a friend. But you will stay close to her, accompany her, insist if she objects. I leave it to you how best to
overcome any protest she may make. Do you understand?"
"I think so."
"And you agree?"
"I will tell you that," said Dumarest, "after I have seen the woman."

Chapter Three
She came running up the stairs, long-legged, lithe, a cloak streaming from her narrow shoulders. At first sight she
could have been taken for a boy, a young man still to reach maturity—then Dumarest saw the lips firm yet full, the
deep-set eyes of icy blueness, the softness of cheek and throat. He saw too the delicate pattern of ebon over the
whiteness beneath, an intricate tracing of darkness as if she had been tattooed in an intricate design. It reached from
the collar of her blouse to the roots of her hair, streaks of silver barring the liquid jet which fell rippling like a
waterfall almost to her waist.
A wild mutation, the melanin of her skin was concentrated instead of being evenly dispersed. It must spread all
over her body so that, naked, she would look as if encased in a spider's web. He saw nothing repulsive about it—the
suns of space caused greater distortions than the one she bore—but it was a thing to set any woman apart in a
normal society. No wonder the deep-set eyes held the bruised look of someone always on guard.
"Selkas!" She reached out as she came to the head of the stairs, both arms extended, palms uppermost. "How
good of you to invite me."
"You honor my house," he said formally, the palms of his hands touching her own. "Veruchia, allow me to present
Earl Dumarest."
"My lady." He repeated Selkas's gesture and caught the expression in her eyes at the unexpected familiarity. A
touch of red rose to her cheeks as she dropped her hands. Even her flush was extreme.
She was conscious of it, hating the betraying blood, alarmed at the lack of self-control. The touch of a man's
hands, no more, and yet she was reacting like a stupid girl. Vaguely she was aware of Selkas talking as he stood to
one side.
"You two have met before," he was saying. "Though I do not expect Earl to remember it. At the time he had other
things on his mind. You should thank him, Veruchia, for having won you so much."
So this was the man she had backed in the arena. She stared at him, wondering why recognition had been so
long-delayed. The face was somehow different, more relaxed, the hard lines of determination softened a little. And
the angle had been deceptive; he was taller than she had guessed, topping her by a head and she by no means short.
"My lady." Dumarest held out his arm. "Is it your wish that I escort you to dinner?"
Again the familiarity. She looked for Selkas but he had gone ahead as if expecting the man to attend her. Well,
why not? At least it would be a novel experience. She took the proffered arm and again felt the sudden acceleration
of her heart. A biological reaction caused by the proximity of a male, she thought bleakly. How childish can I get?
"You are new to Dradea?" At least she could make polite conversation.
"Yes, my lady."
"My name is Veruchia. We do not use titles here. Only the Owner. On this world all tenants are equal."
"And the rest, my lady?"
"Veruchia. You mean the landless ones? They too, but there are certain privileges they are denied. Have you
fought often?"
"This was the first time."
"On Dradea, of course, I understand." She was pleased that he did not boast or volunteer detail. A lesser man
would have bored and sickened her with tales of violence. A lesser man? Why did she set him so high?
Selkas had picked his guests with care. She nodded to Nebka, old and fussing as he took his place. To Wolin and
Pezia. Shamar she could have done without and she had no great love for Jebele, but both women held influence.
Dumarest, she noticed, had been placed at her side.
"To the Owner!" Selkas lifted his glass in the ritual toast.
 "The Owner!"
They drank and the meal commenced, a succession of dishes, spiced, bland, savory, sweet, meat and fish and
vegetables cooked and sauced to perfection. Conversation hung like a cloud: the state of the crops, the proposed new
harbor, the increase of rent to pay for the games. Nebka spluttered over his wine.
"A waste. A wanton destruction of assets. Oh, yes, I've heard all the arguments and reasons of those who back
the arena, but I still say that there must be some other way. You cannot restore the vitality of a race by subjecting it to
such disgusting spectacles. Right, Veruchia?"
"You know my feelings on the matter, Nebka."
"The same as mine. Wolin?"
"Are we having a vote?" Wolin touched a napkin to his mouth. "I think we all agree that the cost of the games is
far too high. The expense incurred in breeding crells, for example, is increasing all the time. The birds are
nonproductive and a continual drag on the economy. If the intention is to stiffen moral fiber why can't men fight
against men?"
"Why fight at all?" Shamar leaned across the table, upthrust breasts gleaming above the low neck of her gown.
"Personally I find our men virile enough as it is."
"You should know," snapped Jebele spitefully. "You have enough of them."
"Please, ladies." Pezia shook his head then added his contribution. "We must look at the basic claim that we are
weak. First, is it true? If it is, what is best done about it? Now I do not personally think that it is true. Weakness is
relative and depends much on the prevailing social culture. Any race will have peaks and valleys of achievement and
no one is arguing that we are at present in a valley. The birth rate is falling and development has slowed but this state
of affairs will not last. It is, if you like, a breathing space. A natural pause. Time will present its own cure without wild
experiments such as the games. They are wasteful and, I think, degrading. As I have said often enough before, and all
of you have heard me, we should tackle the problem in a more efficient manner."
"Yes," agreed Jebele acidly. "As you say we have heard you often."
"Truth is not diminished by repetition."
"What is truth?" Wolin leaned back in his chair, smiling. "You say one thing, Pezia, the Owner says another. The
difference between you is that he has acted while you have not. I agree that the games are wasteful, but what
alternative do we offer? Work and build, you say, but how to provide the energy, the will? Our race is sleeping and
perhaps Montarg and the others are right. Blood may awaken it and restore its vigor."
Veruchia shook her head. "No."
"How can you be sure?"
"I sense it. People come to the games to watch, not to participate. They want to see violence, not share in it. Not
really share." She fell silent, remembering her own recent emotions. Had she simply watched? Or had she been, in
part, down on the sand with Dumarest?
She glanced to where he sat beside her and, as if at a clue, Selkas cleared his throat.
"I think we can throw new light on this discussion. We have an expert among us, someone with far greater
experience than any of us. What do you think, Earl? You have heard the talk. Do you agree with the contention that
blood combat will re-energize the race?"
Dumarest glanced at Veruchia, remembering his instructions, the need to build an affinity between them. But he
did not have to pretend.
"No, I do not."
"Would you care to elaborate?" Pezia helped himself to wine. "After all, you have a vested interest in the arena. It
seems odd to hear a man decry the means by which he earns a living. Could you give us a little more detail?"
"Go into the arena," said Dumarest tightly. "Fight for your life. Listen to the roar of the crowd and watch as
cultured women offer their bodies to a stranger. Smell the stink of blood. That's detail enough. The games breed
barbarians."
"But you fight."
"From necessity, not from choice."
Jebele said, "Barbarians. But surely a barbaric culture is a viable one?"
Sellcas spoke from where he sat at the head of the table. "For a true barbarian, perhaps, but for civilized people to
play at being barbarians is decadence. And a civilized culture plumbs depths of depravity unknown to a genuine
primitive. You agree, Earl?"
"Yes, I agree."
Pezia smiled. "You hear that, Wolin? How often have I said it? We are trying to be what we are not. In that lies
danger."
"Yet surely there must be something to the mystique of combat?" Shamar displayed a little more of her breasts as
she smiled at Dumarest. "You of all people should appreciate that. The spiritual uplift gained by those who watch.
The psychological cleansing by the satiation of hidden urges. The wakening of slumbering energies. And it must
apply even more to those who actually participate. Don't you feel a rebirth after a bout? A tremendous release? A
new determination?"
"No, my lady. I am simply glad that it is over."
"You tease me," she said. "I wish Montarg were here. He could explain it all so much better than I can."
"Has he fought in the arena?"
"Montarg? No, but—"
"Then, with respect, my lady, he is hardly an expert."
She was sharp. "And you are?"
"He is alive," said Selkas quietly. "What more proof do you need?"

***

The dishes were cleared away and replaced by decanters of spirits, liqueurs and a variety of tisanes together with
tiny cakes crusted with seeds. Dumarest chose a tisane which carried the scent of flowers and held the taste of
honey. He sipped it, leaning back, half-listening to the blur of conversation. Casual words tossed back and forth
across the table: Montarg, Chorzel and his indisposition, the interplay of opposed factions.
Reaching for one of the tiny cakes he felt the touch of softness as his hand struck another. Like her face it was
skeined in black.
"Allow me." He proffered the dish of cakes and looked directly into her eyes.
"Thank you." She made her selection, finding it difficult to look away. Intently she searched his face looking for
the old, familiar signs, the tension, the forced politeness, the subtle veil which masked repulsion. They were absent.
Incredibly it seemed that this man could look on her as a woman and not as a peculiar monstrosity. For the sake of
something to say she said, "You have traveled far?"
"Yes."
"And for long?"
Too long. A forgotten number of worlds and endless reaches of space. Riding High when he could, the magic of
quick-time slowing his metabolism so that hours became seconds and months days. "Yes."
"Selkas also." She glanced to the head of the table. "He was away for years when he was young and again after I
was born. I think he was bored. Is that why you travel? Because you are bored?"
Deliberately he was casual. "No, Veruchia. I am looking for something. A planet called Earth."
"Earth?" She frowned. "Could a world have such a name? Earth is ground or dirt or soil. It must be a very odd
place."
"Not odd. It is old and worn and scarred by ancient wars, but the sky is blue and there is a great, silver moon." He
paused and added, "I was born there."
Immediately she understood. "And you want to go back home. That is why you fought in the arena, to gain
money for your passage. Well, you won't have to fight again. I won a great deal and some of it is yours. The next time
a ship lands we will arrange for it to take you home."
She had the impulsive generosity of a child.
"It isn't that simple, Veruchia." For the first time he used her name. "No one seems to know where Earth lies. They
do not have the spatial coordinates."
"But you came from there, you said. Surely you must know the way back."
"I left when I was a boy, scared, stowing away on a strange vessel. The captain was more than kind. He could
have evicted me. Instead he allowed me to work my passage. Later he died and I moved on."
Always moving towards the center of the galaxy where suns hung close and worlds were plentiful. Probing deep
into regions where the skies were full of glistening sheets and curtains of light. Years of moving until the very name
of Earth was a thing unknown.
"You're lost," she said with quick sympathy. "You can't find your way back. But someone must know where Earth
lies. Selkas, perhaps? I'll ask him."
Her voice was clear, sharp as it rose over the blur of conversation. A silence followed the question and Dumarest
felt himself tense. He looked down at his hand where it gripped the cup of tisane. His knuckles were white and
deliberately he eased his grip. It was stupid to hope and yet hope never died. Perhaps, this time, someone would be
able to tell him what he had to know.
"Earth?" Selkas brooded, his eyes sharp beneath his brows. "No, Veruchia, I don't know where it is. I've never
been there. But the name is oddly familiar. Earth," he mused. "Earth."
 "It has another name," said Dumarest. "Terra. And it lies in this region of the galaxy." That much, at least, he had
learned.
"And lost, you say?" Pezia smiled. "How can such a thing be possible? I think, my friend, that you hunt for a
legend."
Selkas lifted his head. "A legend! Now I have it! The Original People. They claim to have come from Earth." He
smiled. "They claim even more. They state that all men originated on one single world."
"Ridiculous!" Nebka spluttered over his liqueur. "The thing is beyond reason. How could all the varied races of
mankind have possibly been accommodated on one small planet? I've heard of these people, Selkas. I traveled a little
when young and the salon of every ship is a hotbed of rumor and speculation. It is a means of passing the time.
Earth is a myth exactly like El Dorado, Jackpot, Bonanza, Eden, a dozen others. Dreams spun out of nothingness."
"Perhaps not," Selkas was thoughtful. "Every legend holds a grain of fact, a fragment of truth which has become
overlaid and buried by a mass of elaboration. It is barely possible that mankind did originate from one point in space.
Not a single planet, of course, but a compact region." He stilled the rumble of protest. "Let me illustrate."
His hands moved, tipping the little cakes from their dishes, scattering them thickly towards the center of the
table, sparsely towards where he sat.
"Now imagine, for the sake of argument, that mankind originated in an area like this." He pointed to where the
cakes were few. "They invented space travel. Yes, I know that it is a thing we have always had with us, but imagine a
time when it was new. Mankind headed from their home worlds and where would they have headed? Not towards
each other. Certainly not towards the thin edges of the galaxy. They would have aimed their vessels to where worlds
without number waited to be exploited." His finger rapped the table where the cakes clustered thickly. "Towards the
center."
"And because the planets were close they would have continued to press deeper into the galaxy." Fazia nodded.
"You make a good case, Selkas."
Jebele shrugged. "Speculation without proof. An amusing theory, no more."
"But interesting." Wolin frowned at the scattered cakes. "It wouldn't have happened all at once, of course. There
would have been a succession of waves as the original worlds revitalized their energies. Diminishing waves, perhaps,
until those left lacked the means or will to follow. And time erases memories. The home worlds could have been
forgotten or become the fabric of legend." He smiled. "We have one of our own, remember? The First Ship."
"That is no legend!" Veruchia was sharp.
"So you say."
"As I know and so do you all." She stared around the table. "The ship is real, it exists and we know roughly where
it is to be found. It is a crime that while fortunes are being wasted it is neglected."
"Calm down, Veruchia." Shamar smiled like a cat as she reached for one of the little cakes. Her teeth gleamed as
they bit into it. "What does an old ship matter even assuming that it could ever be found? It's a part of history and, as
Wolin says, more a legend than anything else. Something built out of a supposed wreck and a wild hope. Personally I
think it a waste of time to dream of the past. You can have it. The present is good enough for me."
Her smile, as she looked at Dumarest, was a naked invitation.
"You claim too much, Veruchia," said Wolin. "We have no proof as to the whereabouts of the ship, assuming that
it exists at all. One rumor puts it among the Frenderha Hills, another in the great glacier of Cosne, a third at the
bottom of the Elgish Sea."
"Forget the ship," said Shamar. "I'm bored with all this talk of the dead past, old bones and stupid legends. The
present is good enough for me. What are your intentions, Earl? Will you fight again or are you interested in other
employment? If so it is possible that I may be able to help you to find it." The tip of her tongue wetted the ripe
fullness of her lower lip. "Very possible. There is always room in my household for a man with your attributes."
Veruchia said quickly, "He is already engaged."
"Really?" Shamar raised her eyebrows. "In what capacity, my dear?"
Trust the bitch to hit where it hurt! The implication was plain and Veruchia felt herself blush as she invented a
duty, praying that Dumarest would not show her up for the fool that she was. And why had she spoken at all? Did it
really matter if he took Shamar to bed?
"As my agent. I want him to check the potential of my southern lands."
"And you will pay him well, no doubt." Shamar's smile was loaded with venom. "For your sake, Veruchia, I hope
that he does not disappoint you."
"No, my lady," said Dumarest flatly. "I promise that I will not do that."
Veruchia sat back in her chair, relief making her weak. He had not let her down and, more, had played along with
the blatant innuendo. At least he had saved her pride.
A servant had entered the chamber during the exchange with a note for Selkas. She saw him read it, dismiss the
man with a gesture and rise as the doors closed behind him.
His tone was grave. "Veruchia, we must go to the palace at once. Chorzel is very ill."

***

He looked dwarfed in the great bed, his giant frame small against the expanse of sheets, defiled by the snaking
tubes and mechanisms of the life-support apparatus. Around him the medical attendants stood like green-clad ghosts,
silent, waiting. Hamane, white hair awry, face tense, looked up from where he checked a bank of dials. The old doctor
was curt: a sure sign of his anxiety.
"He's low, Veruchia. Very low. I doubt if he'll last the night."
"When?"
"He had a relapse a couple of hours ago. The idiot should never have gone to the stadium, I'd warned him often
enough to take things easy. He had a minor stroke, nothing too serious in itself, but bad enough for anyone, let alone a
man in his condition." Overweight, of course; Chorzel was known for his love of good food and wine. Hamane shook
his head. "I got him comfortable and then this happened. It shouldn't and I'm going to find out why. But it did and
there's an end to it."
"Is there no hope?"
"None. The brain is affected by massive hemorrhage and he is almost completely paralyzed. He would be dead
now but for the mechanisms." His voice softened. "I'm sorry, Veruchia, but these things happen. All things come to an
end."
An end to more than a single life. Veruchia crossed to the side of the bed and stood looking down at the helpless
shape. It was hard now to imagine him as he had once been: tall and strong and radiating a fierce vitality. She
remembered how he had picked her up and thrown her high into the air, grinning at her screams, catching her in his
big arms; how he had played with her on too-rare occasions, acting the father she had never known.
But all that had been long ago when she had been a child, before she had grown and they had drifted apart, she
into a protective shell and he down odd paths as he pursued misguided theories. Now he was dying and an era was
about to end.
She stooped over the bed as she caught the glint of his eyes in the puffed creases of his face. He seemed to want
to say something but could only manage a thin drone. She turned away as a nurse wiped the drooling mouth. It was
not good to see him so helpless when once he had been so strong.
Selkas had been talking quietly to the doctor. He stepped away to join her, standing before her, his voice low.
"There is nothing more we can do here, Veruchia. Chorzel is as good as dead. He will never speak again and
never move. Hamane is certain of it though he will continue monitoring until the last moment."
"Does Montarg know?"
"He was informed but hasn't bothered to attend. I doubt if he will bother and we can both guess why. Already he
must be busy making arrangements. Well, we can make our own but we have little time to waste."
"Why bother." The somber atmosphere of the chamber had depressed her. "We know what will happen. Montarg
will be accepted and my own claim dismissed."
"Giving up, Veruchia?"
"No." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. At least she would make a fight of it. "When are you
proposing to summon the Council?"
"At noon tomorrow. Chorzel cannot possibly last that long and so there will be no excuse for delay." His hand
tightened on her arm. "This is no time to be weak, girl."
"More advice, Selkas?"
"Was the last so bad?"
"No, but why are you so concerned? You have never shown any great interest before."
"I don't like Montarg. I think he would be bad for this world and that is reason enough for anyone to show
concern. It is a time to take sides, Veruchia, and I am taking yours." He urged her from the chamber. "You had better
go home now. Dumarest is waiting below, he will attend you."
"I don't need him. I can manage alone."
"Perhaps so, but he needs you, my dear. You employed him, remember?"
She had almost forgotten the stupid gesture. Now, it seemed, she was stuck with it.
"All right," she surrendered. "He can take me home."

***
 She lived in a small house at the edge of the city, a snug place with thick walls and a single floor. The door
opened beneath her hand; before she could swing it wide Dumarest had stepped before her, stepping ahead as the
door closed behind her. Lights bloomed automatically as they entered the hall and he halted, looking at it. It was
warm with carpets on the polished wood of the floor, bright with flowers set in vases of hammered metal.
"You must be tired," she said as he slipped the cloak from her shoulders. "If you're not then I am. It's been a
trying day."
He made no motion to leave.
"You have a lovely house, Veruchia. May I look at it?" Without waiting for permission he moved from room to
room, walking silently, acting with a deft precision.
She watched him for a moment then entered her study. It was her favorite room, the walls paneled in glowing
woods, old maps neatly framed, books lined in neat array. When he joined her she was pouring drinks, golden fluid in
goblets of decorated glass.
Handing him one she said, "Well, are you satisfied?"
"With the house?"
"That there is no one lurking in the shadows waiting to attack me."
"If there is I didn't see him." Dumarest sipped at the brandy. "Did you think someone might be?"
"Of course not."
"May I ask how you can be so certain?"
"Dradea is not that kind of a world. Don't judge us by the arena. That is an artificial growth planted by bad
advice. The people here are gentle and unused to violence. Chorzel hoped to change that which is why he instigated
the games. But you know all this, you heard the talk at dinner and you must have looked around. No, I do not fear
personal attack." Her voice became bitter. "And I am hardly in danger of rape."
He knew better than to make the obvious comment. The conviction of a lifetime could not be overcome with a
word. Instead he said, casually. "Call it a habit. I like to know my surroundings. I see that you are interested in ancient
things."
"The maps? It is a hobby and something more. I have a vested interest in the past." She gestured to a chair. "You
may as well finish your drink in comfort. Have you anywhere to stay? Tomorrow I will arrange for money to be given
you. If you haven't enough for tonight something can be arranged."
"I thought it already had. As your agent surely I must remain in your house."
"Impossible! I live alone!"
She caught his smile and realized that she was being stupid, reacting like a scared young girl to imagined dangers.
And the reaction had been too strong, too defensive, and she was too intelligent not to know why.
I'm in love with him, she thought bleakly. In love or falling in love and I can't resist it. She fumbled with her
brandy, remembering how it had happened before, the young man who had attracted her and who had seemed to find
her pleasant—toying with her, holding out the bait of his affection as he would dangle meat before a dog. Then the
dreadful realization as he had looked at her and laughed.
She had been fifteen and had never dared to feel tenderness for anyone since that time.
A long time, she thought drearily. Too long. And now it was happening again.
"Veruchia." She felt him close to her and turned to meet his eyes, seeing the strength, the understanding, looking
for the pity she dreaded to find. But there was no pity, she was thankful for that. "Veruchia, is anything wrong?"
"No." She turned away and reached for her goblet, the brandy stinging her throat as she gulped it down. "Nothing
is wrong. Nothing at all." She drank again and said, "I think you had better go."
"Is that what you want?"
"You know damned well it isn't." She spoke quickly, letting the words flow without restraint. "It's the last thing I
want, but for you to stay is the worst thing which could happen. The worst for me. Do you think I could sleep
knowing you are in the house? That you are somewhere close while I—" She broke off. "No."
"I shall stay," he said flatly. "I won't bother you. You will bathe and sleep and forget that I am here. But I am not
going to leave you alone."
He was too strong for her. Too strong. And then, surrendering, she thought, why not? Why not do as Shamar had
hinted? Why not, just for once, know what it was to be a real woman?
If he stayed she would not sleep alone.
The phone rang before she could tell him that. The soft hum died as he hit the button. Hamane's face showed on
the screen.
"Veruchia," he said. "I am letting everyone know. Chorzel is dead."
 Chapter Four
Nothing had changed. Striding into the palace Montarg felt as if he had been cheated. The Owner had ruled so
long that it seemed incredible that things should continue as before. Yet the city hummed with life in the morning sun,
the subtenants and landless ones indifferent to the events of the previous night. So much for greatness. The ruler of a
world died and no one seemed to care.
But he cared and Veruchia would care but then, of course, they had reason.
He mounted the last of the stairs and strode down a passage to where an elevator wafted him high into the
building. Chorzel had lived here, loving to stand at his window and see the activity below. He had had the entire
section redecorated with barbaric splendor, bright hues and suggestive carvings, shields, swords and helmets set
against the walls: a childish extension of his love of the arena.
A scarlet shadow rose before him.
"My lord?"
One of the cyber's acolytes, always on guard, a youth dedicated to his master's welfare and the organization to
which he belonged.
"I am Montarg. Surat is expecting me."
"A moment, my lord." The shadow drifted away and returned silently. "You may enter, my lord."
The cyber occupied a suite of rooms, spartan in their stark simplicity, containing only the essentials of living with
no space given to items of luxury. He rose as Montarg entered and stood by his desk, a living flame in the scarlet of
his robe, the seal of the Cyclan glittering on his breast. The room was warm despite the conditioning and Surat had
thrown back the cowl of his robe. In the light streaming through the windows his shaven head had the appearance of
a skull.
"My lord." He bowed, waiting.
Montarg said, "Congratulations, cyber, your prediction was one hundred percent correct. The Owner is dead."
"An easy prediction to make, my lord."
"True, all men must die, but you stated the very hour of his passing."
"A matter of simple extrapolation, my lord." The cyber's voice was an even modulation devoid of any irritating
factor. "I knew his physical condition and I had information from the life-support apparatus to which he was attached.
To predict his death was a thing any acolyte could do with as great an accuracy. I trust the prediction was of value?"
"It gained me time, cyber. I must thank you for that."
"And now, my lord?"
"Hamane is suspicious He insists on conducting an investigation into the Owner's death. What will be found?"
"The prediction that he will discover traces of assassination is of a probability factor of sixty-eight point seven.
He will be swayed by his own inability to account for the unexpected relapse and eager to shift the blame. The
evidence will be insufficient to convince others."
Montarg nodded, relieved. "There is little doubt that I shall inherit The question now is are you willing to serve
me as you did Chorzel?"
"I serve the Cyclan, my lord. If you wish to engage their services it could no doubt be arranged. Would your
policy be the same?"
"I don't know. I must think about it. Chorzel had some good ideas but I'm not sure that he operated with the
highest possible efficiency." His tone sharpened a little. "I hold you to blame for that, cyber. He relied on your services
a little too much. A man should make his own decisions."
"I advise, my lord, nothing more. I do not judge, condemn or take sides. My duties lie in offering you the logical
outcome of any proposed course of action, to help you arrive at a decision by presenting you with the inevitable
result of any sequence of events."
To take a handful of facts and from them to extrapolate a hundred more. To take what was and to predict what
must inevitably be. A living computer with a machine for a brain.
"Power," said Montarg slowly. "Chorzel wanted power. But he owned a world, what greater power could a man
have?"
"What is power, my lord? Wealth? Money can only buy the things which are available. Force? Always there is the
danger that a greater force may arise to crush your own. Influence? That is determined by the shift of circumstance.
True power lies in only one thing: the ability to make others do as you dictate. Once achieve that and the rest will
follow. But a civilized man is rarely loyal in the truest sense of the word. His mind is diversified, his energies
unchanneled, lost in a web of opposed ideals. The late Owner knew that."
Montarg knew it too well. He remembered the long talks, the theories, the empty yearning in Chorzel's voice
when he had spoken of other cultures: how a thousand men had willingly died at their ruler's word; how old chieftains
had been buried with a hundred warriors who had slain themselves in order to follow their leader into death. Loyalty
of such a nature was rare.
"He wanted to be a king in the truest sense," he said. "To sit on his throne and know that he had the world at his
feet."
"And you, my lord?"
The temptation was irresistible: to sit in the high box at the arena, to occupy the royal seat and to hold ultimate
rule. He remembered the roar of the crowd and imagined what it would be like for them to roar, not at the spectacle
of death, but at the sight of his living presence. To own a world, not of tenants and landless ones, but of slaves.
He blinked, conscious of the cyber's watching eyes, aware that his imagination had been led down selected paths.
But still the temptation remained.
"We must discuss this once I have inherited. What is your prediction as to that?"
"The probability that the Council will recognize your claim is eighty nine percent."
"It should be a hundred."
"That would be certainty, my lord, and nothing can be certain. Always there is the possibility of an unknown
factor and any prediction must allow for that. And I must warn you that my prediction is based on my present
knowledge as to the situation. If there is anything you know which could affect it you would be wise to keep me
informed."
Montarg glanced at the papers neatly piled on the desk, a mass of reports and associated data, trivia some of it,
but every scrap holding meaning to the cyber.
Dryly he said, "Your own sources of information seem adequate."
"There is a time-lag, my lord, impossible to avoid. An event could be taking place at this very second which
would completely alter the value of my prediction. An assassin waiting to kill you, for example. If he was successful
how could you inherit?"
"You suspect that?"
"The order of probability is very low, but still it exists and must be taken into account. Therefore, my lord, if you
have any information of recent origin, do not hesitate to let me know."
"Selkas has been unusually active." Montarg glowered. "Who would have guessed that he would take such an
interest? Episko could not be found, his servants said that he was on a hunt, and Boghara has demanded a promise
that, if I inherit, I will close the arena. And Veruchia has a lover," be added as an afterthought. "A fighter from the
arena."
"A lover, my lord?"
"Incredible, isn't it? A day ago you would have predicted it an impossibility. Anyone would who knew her. But the
fact remains, I have the news from those who saw them together, and there can be no doubt. They said she was
acting like a stupid girl. Probably paying him off for having won her so much money." His face darkened at the
memory. "Dumarest," he said. "Earl Dumarest. I shall remember that name."
"It would not be wise to pursue what you have in mind, my lord."
"Why not? Veruchia made me look a fool and to rob her of her lover would be a sweet revenge."
"He is a trained fighter. You could hire assassins but they could fail and they could be made to talk. I must
emphasize the delicacy of any predictions I may make at this time, my lord. Small events can have far reaching
consequences and could easily upset the present pattern. Perhaps you would be interested in studying certain
extrapolations I have made based on varying courses of action suggested by the late Owner. They may serve as a
guide to your own decisions."
Later, when Montarg left the cyber's chamber, he halted before the barbaric decorations, his head swimming with
golden concepts. Chorzel had been more devious than he'd guessed; the future prospects as displayed by Surat were
intoxicating in their promise.
He let his eyes drift over the shields, the swords, helmets and spears, the suggestive carvings. Now they did not
seem as childish as they had before.

***

Alone Surat stood for a long moment beside his desk and then, sitting, allowed his mind to integrate the recently
acquired data, Montarg was no problem; the man was like a child easily bribed with bright toys, unable to see the
hand offering the bait. He could be swayed and influenced and led in the path the Cyclan wished him to take. When
he became the Owner he would have all the trappings of rule but the real power would reside, as always, with the
organization of which Surat was a part.
He pressed a button and, as an acolyte entered the room, said, "A man fought in the arena, yesterday. His name is
 Dumarest. Obtain all available information."
The young man bowed. "Yes, master."
"At once. The matter is urgent."
He returned to the papers on his desk, scanning them with trained speed, assimilating a thousand items of
information, his brain, even as he read, correlating them into a whole. Crops had failed in the Tien province, a tidal
wave had destroyed a village on the coast, fissures had been seen at a point far to the south. In the city a man had
been murdered, apparently attacked without reason and his body viciously hacked with knives. Two new shops had
opened dealing in the sale of defensive clothing. A proposal stood before the Council for the construction of a larger
arena. Attrition among those taking higher education had once again shown a marked increase. The police were
demanding greater mobility and higher pay.
The communicator hummed and he pressed the button. It was the acolyte making his report.
"Master, the man Dumarest arrived on Dradea five days ago. He had little credit and used it all to pay for lodgings
and a high-protein diet. Apparently unable to obtain suitable employment he volunteered to fight in the arena. At
present he resides in the home of High Tenant Veruchia."
"He is to be kept under surveillance. Attend to it."
"Master."
The young face, already hard in its determination, vanished as Surat broke the connection. Another, almost its
twin, met Surat's eyes as he entered his inner room.
"Maximum seal," he ordered. Even command did not harden the soft tones of his voice, but there was no need for
aural emphasis. "No interruption of any nature is to be permitted."
As the acolyte left to stand guard at the closed door of the chamber, Surat touched the thick bracelet locked
around his left wrist. Invisible forces flowed from the mechanism to set up a field which no spying device could
penetrate.
Lying supine on the narrow bed he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formula His heartbeat
slowed, his breathing became shallow, his temperature dropped as if he were asleep. Gradually he lost all sense of
feeling; had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. He rested, detached, unstimulated by external reality, only
his individual awareness locked within his skull remaining alive. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements
become active.
Surat entered another world.
It was a place of shifting rainbows, a wondrous kaleidoscope of varying colors, crystalline, splintering into new
and entrancing formations. He seemed to move through a maze of brilliance, shafts and spears and arching lines of
the purest color reaching endlessly to all sides. Planes shifted and he caught glimpses of unguessable truths, all the
mysteries of the universe trembling at the edge of discovery. And the colors were alive, throbbing with intelligence
and personal awareness. He was one with them, of them, sharing and giving in a universal gestalt, feeling his ego
expand even as it was taken and used to expand that of others.
And somewhere towards the center of that dazzling complex of light was the pulsing heart and brain of the
Cyclan. Buried deep beneath miles of rock the central intelligence was the nexus from which flowed the tremendous
power which spanned worlds. It touched his mental presence and absorbed his knowledge as light swallows darkness.
There was nothing as slow as verbal communication, only a mental communion in the form of words—instantaneous,
organic transmission against which the speed of supra-radio was the merest crawl.
"Dumarest! On Dradea?"
Affirmation.
"Incredible that previous predictions could have been so incorrect. There is no possibility of doubt."
Negation.
"The possibility of error remains. Until it is resolved give him your full attention. The importance of this man
cannot be overemphasized. All care must be taken. Keep me informed."
Agreement.
"Accelerate plans as regards new Owner. Time permitted for fulfillment reduced by one-quarter."
A question.
"Under no circumstances. You will be held personally responsible."
That was all.
The rest was an ecstasy of mental intoxication, the nearest thing to sensual pleasure a cyber could ever know.
Always after rapport, during the time when the grafted Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the
machinery of the body began to re-associate itself with the mind, came this period of supreme revelation. Surat
drifted in an endless limbo while he sensed alien memories and unremembered situations, caught flashes of eerie
thought, experienced strange environments: scraps of overflow from other minds, the residue of powerful
intelligences, caught and transmitted by the power of central intelligence, the vast cybernetic complex which was the
power of the Cyclan.
One day he would become a part of it.
He rose to full awareness, opening his eyes and looking at the sunlight painting bright patterns on the ceiling of
his chamber, tracing in the symmetry of light and shadow the lines of his own future. His body would age and die but
his brain would be salvaged, taken and incorporated into the body of central intelligence, there to remain living and
aware until the end of time. He would become a part of a superior being, a massed complex of living brains, sharing
and experiencing always the gestalt he had just experienced.
His reward. The reward of every cyber if they obeyed and did not fail.

***

She was young and lithe and full of passion. She had come to him with a burning intensity, throwing aside all
restraint. In the darkness the skein of ebon she wore had been invisible; in the daylight he saw only that it added to
her beauty.
"Lover!" She clung to him as water gushed over their heads, sharing her shower as he had shared everything else.
"Earl, you wonderful, wonderful man!"
She snuggled against him as his hand stroked the barred mane of her hair. Her finger traced the thin cicatrices on
his torso.
"You're marked too. We've a lot in common."
"Does it bother you?" He smiled down into her upturned face, liking the way she screwed up her eyes against the
impact of the water.
"That you're scarred? Of course not." She lowered her face, her voice muffled against his chest. "Earl, it wasn't
just a hunger? I mean, you didn't stay with me because I was just a woman?"
"No."
"I believe you," she said. "I want to believe you. But more than that I want the truth. You don't have to be afraid to
tell me. I'd rather know than guess and, well, men do these things, don't they? Have casual relationships, I mean.
Have you?"
"Yes, but this wasn't one of those times."
"You knew that I wanted you to say that." She turned off the water and they felt the warm blast of scented air
drying their skins. "You're kind, Earl, and gentle and wonderfully understanding. I suppose you think I'm talking and
acting like a fool. Well, maybe I am, but it was the first time and I've never felt like this before."
Happy, she thought. This must be what is meant by happiness. To feel all soft and romantic and really alive. A
woman in love and who is loved in return. If he did love her. If he hadn't just used her. Firmly she shook her head.
Such thoughts were destructive and had no place now.
She reached up and wound her arms around his neck, pressing herself close as she kissed him on the lips. If this
were madness then let it rule. The hum of the phone seemed to come from a great distance.
"Damn!" She wanted to let it ring but the tone was imperious. "I'd better answer it, it could be important. Don't
vanish now. Promise?"
Dumarest smiled as she ran from the shower. Dried, he began to dress, adjusting the tunic as she returned.
"It was Selkas, he's coming right over." Naked, she closed the distance between them. "I don't know what he's
going to think when he sees you here. He'll probably call me all kinds of a bitch and not want to see me again."
"No," said Dumarest. "He won't do that."
"I don't suppose that he will. I don't think I could shock him if I tried." Stretching, she looked down at herself.
"You know, if anyone had told me yesterday that I would be standing like this in front of a man I would have called
him a liar. But it seems so natural. Earl?"
"You had better get dressed."
"But, Earl—"
"And you had better do it fast." He had caught the tension in her voice.
"Yes." She bit at her lip, conscious that she had trodden the edge of danger. Almost she had demanded the
reassurance of his love. "Yes, I suppose I had. Selkas will be here soon and there's a lot to do before we go to the
Council meeting. Have some breakfast if you want. Don't bother to cook anything for me, I'm too excited to eat."
"You'll eat."
"Bullying me, Earl?"
"Advising. An empty stomach is no one's friend. Eat while you have the chance." He smiled. "That is traveler's
philosophy, a good rule to live by when you can never be sure where the next meal is coming from. Now get dressed
while I cook some food."
Selkas arrived as he was clearing the dishes. He followed Dumarest into the kitchen and watched as he disposed
of the soiled containers. "Veruchia?"
"In the study. Alone."
"Good, she has much to do and little time in which to do it." Selkas helped himself to a cup of tisane. "Have you
anything to report?"
Dumarest shook his head. She had sat quietly for a while after Hamane had phoned and then had gone into her
study. Later, after he thought her asleep, she had come to him. He remembered her initial tension, the way she had
clung to him as if seeking strength. A woman afraid, needing to restore her self-confidence.
"Good." Selkas sipped at the tisane. "A man of many achievements," he mused. "You fight, you cook and you can
act the servant. And it seems that you have a great attraction for women. Shamar called me early this morning. She
wanted to know if I would use my influence to persuade you to enter her household. Naturally I told her that you
were not available. However I suspect that the main reason she called was to let me know it is common knowledge
that you stayed here the night."
"You object?"
"Certainly not. Veruchia can do as she pleases. In fact I must congratulate you on the skillful execution of your
duties. How else could you take care of her should the need arise? But if she told me then she has told others. You
must take extra care to protect her."
"Protect her from what?" Dumarest looked at the modest appointments of the kitchen. "A woman alone, of no
great means and no apparent position, who could possibly want to harm her?"
Selkas raised his eyebrows. "You don't know? She hasn't told you?"
"No. I can understand how she could be hurt by sadistic comments, but any bravo could take care of that. You
promised me high pay and I assume you had a reason. But I fail to see it."
"There are two heirs to a fortune and one is ambitious. Is that reason enough?"
"Perhaps, if the fortune is large enough. And if the ambitious one is sure to get the other's legacy. Is it large?"
"Very large." Selkas set down his cup, he had hardly touched the tisane. "The entire world, in fact. Veruchia stands
to inherit the whole of Dradea."

***

They glided high over the city, the raft steady in the still air, a sprawling mass of streets and houses, business
premises, factories, the open mouth of the arena like a gaping sore. Beyond lay neat farms and rolling countryside,
hills looming on the horizon. A nice world with tremendous possibilities and she stood to gain it all.
Dumarest watched her as she sat against the cushions. She had changed, closing in on herself, her face a mask of
cold determination. No wonder that she had needed strength. He hoped that he had given it to her.
"We shall be late," said Selkas. "Never mind. We can afford to be a little impolite for the sake of a good entrance."
Others had the same idea. A raft landed seconds after their own and Montarg came towards them. He was
smiling.
"Veruchia, my dear, how good to see you. You are looking well. The medicine you took last night seems to agree
with you. You should take more."
Selkas said, "Enough, Montarg."
"You find the truth unpleasant? Well, that cannot be helped. I am pleased that Veruchia has followed my advice
and taken a man to her bed. She was lucky to have found one willing to cooperate. However, there is no accounting
for taste."
Dumarest stepped forward. "You will apologize. At once."
"Apologize? To you?"
"To the lady Veruchia."
"And if I do not?" Montarg's eyes reflected his rage.
"You have regular features. It would be a pity to spoil them, but if you do not apologize I shall see the color of
your blood."
Selkas said, "He means that he will break your nose, Montarg. I am sure that he will do it. I should apologize if I
were you. After all, the remark was in very bad taste."
"You ask the new Owner to apologize to a dog from the arena?"
"You aren't that yet, Montarg. And the apology is to Veruchia, not Dumarest."
He was not going to apologize. Dumarest could tell it and he moved a little closer as Montarg's fingers twitched
at his sleeve. At the first sight of a weapon he would act, one hand gripping the wrist, the other striking at the throat.
 "Never mind, Earl." Veruchia laid her hand on his arm. "I am used to Montarg's pleasantries. And this is no time
to quarrel, the Council is waiting."
They sat at a long table, the High Tenants of Dradea, men and women both, all solemn as befitted the occasion.
Dumarest watched them as he took his place in the gallery. Next to him a plump merchant sucked at a sweetmeat
with liquid enjoyment.
"This is the biggest thing I've seen," he whispered. "Chorzel ruled so long that I never thought it would ever
happen. Are you interested in politics?"
"I thought this was just a formality."
"It should be. A man dies and his heir inherits, but it isn't as simple as that. Chorzel had no children and it is up to
the Council to decide which aspirant has the better claim." He shoved another sweet into his mouth. "Are you a
betting man?"
Dumarest smiled. "I've been known to gamble."
"I'll give you two to one on Montarg. Is it a bet?"
"Do you think he'll win?"
"I hope not, but I'm afraid he will." The plump man craned forward over the rail as an usher called for silence.
"Well, here we go."
Andreas was the Chairman. He stood, old and dressed in somber fabrics, his dry voice rustling through the
chamber.
"This meeting of the Council was summoned by Selkas. Are there any objections?"
It was ritual; no one could possibly object.
"Chorzel is dead. Dradea is without an Owner. The custody of the planet resides with the Council until we
determine the lawful heir."
A man said, "There is no doubt as to his death?"
More ritual, but the correct procedures had to be followed.
"None. The physician Hamane and three others have signed sworn testimony and the corpse has been viewed by
seven members of this assembly. Their statements and names are on record." He paused and took a sip of water. "We
are faced with an unprecedented situation. Chorzel died childless. He was the eldest of three brothers and inherited in
the normal manner. The other two brothers, twins, each had one child, Veruchia and Montarg. Each lays claim to the
inheritance."
Lounging in her chair at the foot of the long table Shamar said, "Surely one must have the greater right?"
"That is what we are here to determine. Montarg?"
He rose, tall and arrogant, jewels making bright glimmers on fingers and throat. He said, "As my father and that
of Veruchia were twins the question of precedence does not arise. However I am older than she by a year and so
have the greater claim."
"Veruchia?"
"Admitting that Montarg is the eldest I still have the greater right. My mother was in direct line of descent from
the First Owner."
"That is a lie!"
"Montarg!" Andreas slammed his hand on the table. "How dare you raise your voice in Council?"
"It is still a lie. Lisa was of the family Chron. Everyone knows that the name of the First Owner was Dikarn." His
shrug was contemptuous. "It shows how weak is her claim that she has to rely on a thing so false."
"Not so." Pezia rose to his feet. "Chron was the First Owner. If her mother was in direct descent then she has
made her case. Veruchia should be the next Owner of Dradea."
"Dikarn was the First!"
"No, Chron!"
Dumarest heard the plump man give a soft whistle as a storm rose in the chamber. "Well, this beats the arena
hands down. Wait until I tell the wife! See Montarg? If looks could kill Veruchia would be dead. What a battle!"
"I don't understand. What's it all about?"
"It's an old argument, but I never thought it would come to this. When the First Ship landed the owner, naturally,
claimed the planet as his own property. Most think that his name was Dikarn and every Owner since then has
claimed the right by direct descent. Fair enough, but there is a strong rumor that Dikarn wasn't the true owner at all
but that Chron was the real claimant. It hasn't mattered up till now because no one has been in a strong enough
position to argue. If Chorzel had had a child, for example, this couldn't have happened. But he didn't and Montarg
and Veruchia are running neck and neck. He is the oldest, but a lot of people would rather see Veruchia inherit. With
things so close they're doing their best to see she does."
"Do you think she will?"
 "I doubt it. Montarg has the edge. They may not like him but they can't dismiss his claim. And you know how it is,
there are always those ready to back the winning side." He grunted as the clamor died. "I hope she wins."
Andreas rose from his seat at the head of the table. He was shaking with anger and his voice echoed his disgust.
"In all my years as Chairman I have never seen such a spectacle as I have been forced to witness. You are the
High Tenants of Dradea and, at this time, the custodians of the welfare of this world. The matter we have to
determine is too grave to permit such emotional behavior."
Montarg snapped, "We can do without your speeches. I demand that my claim be recognized."
"Montarg forgets himself." Selkas rose, his voice silky. "He is not yet the Owner and I will be frank, I hope that he
never is. His conduct at this assembly has left much to be desired. On the other hand Veruchia has shown herself
capable of restraint under extreme provocation. As she can claim direct descent from the First Owner of her
mother's side then I suggest that we allow her to inherit."
He glanced around the table. Now? There would never be a better time. "Shall we put it to the vote?"
"I protest!" Montarg was quick to recognize the danger. "Selkas is playing on the emotions of those present. The
inheritance is not decided on the basis of popularity but of fact. I have the facts on my side. I am the eldest I should
inherit."
"But if her mother was descended from Chron then she has the right."
Montarg sneered. "If ? Have you any proof that Chron is more than a legend? Are we to give value to folklore?"
"I can prove it," said Veruchia. "Give me time and I will."
Andreas relaxed. He had been tense, afraid of putting matters to the vote, knowing that unless the Council were
of a mind any such decision could only lead to later trouble. Once before, a century ago, there had almost been civil
war. Then a younger brother had collected a cabal and only the swift employment of an assassin had prevented the
danger. But the girl had shown him the way out.
"We are heated," he said, and, with a sharp glance at Montarg, "I do not intend to make a speech. However, in all
fairness to both aspirants and for the good of Dradea I announce that this assembly be adjourned for a period of one
hundred days. Unless Veruchia can provide proof that she is in direct line of the First Owner then Montarg will
inherit." His hand fell heavily on the table. "This session is over."

***

Selkas said, "Things have turned out badly, Earl. Now, more than before, Veruchia needs protection."
"You fear assassination?" Dumarest glanced at the closed door of the study. She had remained silent all the way
home, running into her room as soon as they arrived. To cry, he thought, to find release in the woman's anodyne of
tears. "Montarg? Two can play at that game."
"It wouldn't do any good. Montarg has a child and he would inherit."
"Would the Council allow it if Veruchia was to die?"
"They would have little choice. She must be kept close and watched at all times. It would be better if she were to
go off-world. Would you travel with her, Earl?"
"There's nothing to hold me on Dradea."
"No, I suppose not. Well, let us see if she agrees."
She hadn't been crying. She sat at her desk behind a litter of papers, frowning as she studied graphs and writings.
"Selkas, help yourself to brandy. You too, Earl." She accepted the glass he placed in her hand. "A hundred days. It isn't
long."
"It will pass." Selkas looked at the papers. "Tidying up, Veruchia? It is just as well. There's no point in leaving
loose ends around when you leave."
"Leave?"
"I think it best that you take passage to some other world."
"Why?"
"You can't inherit. I know that many of the Council are with you but Montarg still has the right on his side. I had
hoped that your own claim would receive greater acceptance, but you saw how things went. Andreas did the best he
could but a hundred days is the maximum period the Council can delay. Montarg will be the new Owner at the end of
that time."
"I'm not leaving," she said. "And Montarg will not inherit. Not if I can find the necessary proof."
"Does it exist?"
"Maybe not," she admitted. "But I feel sure that it does. All we have to do is to find it."
Selkas frowned. "Where?"
"In the First Ship."
 He made a soft noise, something between a grunt and a sigh, a sound composed of disbelief and pity. "Veruchia,
are you serious? Do you honestly expect to locate and excavate that old vessel? If it exists at all. Girl, the thing is
beyond all reason."
"You talk without thinking, Selkas. We settled this world, correct? We must have come here in a ship, correct?
That ship is said to still remain on Dradea, correct? Right, now give me one good reason why we can't find it?"
"Because it's lost. Because no one knows where it could be."
Dumarest said, "If it wasn't lost there would be no need to find it."
Selkas ignored the comment. Setting down his glass he began to pace the floor, his face concerned. "Veruchia,
this is madness. Aside from anything else you haven't the time to search this planet for a thing so small. And, for
another, you haven't the money."
"I will have when Montarg pays what he owes. And you misjudge me. I've been working on this for years. I've a
good idea where the ship is to be found." Paper rustled as she jerked maps from a drawer and threw them on the
desk. They were covered with little marks, crosses and checks in red and black, circles and squares. "These are places
I've checked in the past. Old settlements, mostly, some deposits of rubbish and a few discarded workings. This is a
mass of iron ore and this an underground stream. I tried to retrace the progress of the original settlers. We know
there was a city to the north which is now covered with ice. The climate is constantly altering and there was, and is,
considerable volcanic activity."
"Well?"
"Let us imagine what must have happened. The First Ship landed and we know there was trouble at that time.
The settlers would have had to take steps to survive, choose a place to build and so on. After a generation or so the
ship would have lost its importance. Then, maybe, something happened, an earthquake, perhaps. The people had to
move and start again. After a while they would have forgotten the location of the ship. How long does it take, Selkas,
for memories to fade? Three hundred years, five, a thousand?"
She looked at Dumarest as he made no comment.
"What do you think, Earl? You've lost a planet—is it so strange that a planet could lose a ship?"
"No, Veruchia."
"I can find it," she said. "I know that I can and in it will be the proof I need to prove my right to inherit this world."
"You can't be sure of that, Veruchia." Selkas halted his pacing. "I think you're clinging to a dream. You could
squander a fortune and end with nothing."
"Earl?" She stepped from behind the desk and came towards him, halting, lifting her hands to rest on his chest.
"Advise me, Earl. You spend your life searching for a forgotten world. I want to spend a hundred days looking for a
ship. You gamble your life for a little money. I want to spend a little money in order to win an entire planet. Am I so
wrong?"
The odds were right and he had gambled too often for some of the lure not to have entered his blood. Yet it was
not for him to guide her decision.
"You must do as you think best, Veruchia."
"I do what I must." If she were disappointed at his lack of support she didn't show it. "I don't think Montarg will
be good for this world and I don't think any decent person will want to see what he does with it. Perhaps I can
prevent that, at least I must try. Will you help me, Selkas?"
His urbanity had returned. Smiling he picked up his brandy. "How can I refuse? I'll see that Montarg pays what he
owes and do anything else you require."
"And you, Earl?"
Her eyes were pleading, hurt dimming their brightness as he hesitated. Womanlike she could only think of one
reason for his slowness.
"I'm sorry. It seems that I ask too much."
"It isn't that. I hadn't intended to stay long on Dradea and I should be on my way."
Taking ship, moving on to some other world to earn the price of a passage, moving again in order to lose himself
among the stars and to continue his search for the world he needed to find. But she would never be able to
understand. He saw the movement of her hand as it rose as if to touch her face, then lowered with conscious effort.
"Veruchia." He caught the hand and pressed it, the strength of his fingers hard against the flesh. "Come with me.
Do as Selkas advises. There are a thousand worlds on which to find happiness."
"Earl!" For a moment she wavered and then, blinking at the smarting of her eyes, firmly shook her head. "You will
never know what it meant to me to hear you say that. But I can't, Earl. Not yet. Not until I have tried to find the First
Ship. A world, Earl. An entire planet for us to share if I win and a hundred days lost if I lose." Then quietly, she added,
"It is a very old vessel, Earl. Very old. Who knows what it may contain? Something to help you, perhaps. Information
on the place you seek."
 Navigational tables, ancient and with coordinates based on a different system to that now used; the center of the
galaxy could not always have been the determining point. Tables carried, if legend held truth, long ago when men
had first reached for the stars: such tables would show him exactly where Earth was to be found.
It was a gamble but one he had to take. Like Veruchia he had nothing to lose.

Chapter Five
Against the sky the raft was a black mote topped with a glistening bubble, the rays of the setting sun turning the
transparency into a glowing ruby. Dumarest watched it as it almost vanished from sight, seeing it turn, realign and
grow as it came towards him. Three times he watched as it traversed the area and then, cold beginning to penetrate
his clothing, he turned and entered the hut.
Inside it was warm and bright with glowing tubes. Veruchia looked up from where she sat at a table poring over
her maps and associated data.
"Has it landed yet, Earl?"
"Not yet."
"Why do they take so long?" She was, he noticed, beginning to show the strain. Weeks of intense effort had edged
her temper and thinned her face. "If they increased the speed they could cover the area that much faster. We haven't
time to take things easy."
"Izane knows what he's doing." Dumarest looked over her shoulder at the sheets on the table. A contour map of
the region was covered with a mass of tiny marks, some in clusters, most widely scattered, "Is this the preliminary
scan?"
"Yes." She watched his face. "All right, you don't have to say it. I'm wasting my time."
"I didn't say that."
"But you thought it. You all think it. Earl, am I being a fool?"
"No, just impatient."
"For success, yes." Her hand slapped at the papers. "I was so sure the ship would be found in this region. I would
have gambled on it. Centuries ago this was a warm area and a logical place to have founded an early settlement. The
weather changed. The cold would have driven them further south towards where the city is now. The ship, left behind,
would have become buried with snow. The snow would have turned to ice. Logical, isn't it?"
It was more logical that those who had arrived in the ship would have torn it apart for needed materials, but he
didn't say that Legend claimed that the vessel had become a shrine, an object of veneration, but who could trust
legend? Facts became distorted over the passage of years.
"You're tired," he said. "You should sleep."
"Later. Hasn't Izane landed yet?"
"He will report when he does." Dumarest studied the map again. The raft held an electronic device which sent
pulses into the ground. Reflected they revealed any distortion in the material below. With careful calculation both the
nature and size of any buried object could be determined. "Did they check on that object found at Wend?"
A second raft had reported a find.
"It was a subterranean storage compartment. Empty, waterlogged and about three hundred years old. It was the
only possibility we found. I've sent the raft over to the Elgish Sea."
"The site you decided was the lowest in order of probability?"
"Yes." She looked at him curiously. "That's an odd way to put it. If I didn't know better I'd think you were a cyber.
That's the way they talk, always so carefully precise. You've met cybers?"
"Yes," he said bitterly. "Too often."
"And you don't like them?"
"I've no reason to love them. Is there one on Dradea?"
"Surat. He lives in the palace and used to advise Chorzel. I suppose he advises Montarg now. I saw him a couple
of times when I was working on my maps. I asked him to help me determine where the First Ship could be lying and
he picked Wend and the Elgish Sea. I remember that he said the sea was lowest in order of probability—" She
shivered. "An odd person. He gave me the creeps. He looked at me exactly as if I were an interesting specimen."
Which, to him, was exactly what she was. No cyber could ever feel emotion; an operation on the thalamus
performed at puberty had made that impossible. They moved through life as living, thinking machines, utterly
incapable of experiencing love and hate, hope and fear, their only pleasure the mental gratification of making
successful predictions.
"Is something wrong, Earl?"
 "Nothing." He had been lost in thought. A cyber on Dradea: it was to be expected and it was certain that the man
knew of his presence on this world. He should have left after the fight in the arena. Now it was too late.
"There is something wrong." She rose, immediately concerned. "You're worried, Earl. Is it about the cyber? Does
the Cyclan threaten you in any way?"
"I have something they want, that's all." He forced himself to smile. "Forget it. They can't hurt me here and, once
you find the ship, I'll have your full protection." He cocked his head at the soft crunch of feet. "Here's Izane."
He was a short man of middle age, his hair gray and his face impassive. A lifetime spent with electronic devices
had taught him the value of patience and determination. He set a sheaf of papers on the table.
"Anything?" Veruchia couldn't wait. "Did you find the ship?"
"We found two possibilities." He selected a sheet and rested his finger on the mass of flecks. "Here and here. The
first is buried about two hundred feet below the surface, the second about half that. You realize, of course, that this is
just a secondary survey and the objects could be anything. My guess is that they are accumulations of rock
compressed beneath the ice."
"But you can't be sure?"
"As yet, no," he admitted. "Tomorrow I will make a more precise scan of both areas using equipment more finely
calibrated for the discovery of metal."
"Tomorrow?"
"It is getting late and the temperature is falling. By the time we leave it would be dark."
"That doesn't matter," said Dumarest. "We have lights and the cold won't bother us in the raft. Well leave as soon
as you have adjusted your equipment." His tone sharpened as Izane hesitated. "Get on with it, man. If we find
anything we can have a crew out there by dawn ready to start excavations. Veruchia, you had better put on some
warmer clothing."
The technician frowned. "You are coming with us? The raft will not hold both you and the regular crew."
"I can handle a raft," said Dumarest. Anything was better than more of the empty waiting. "Leave a couple of men
behind. You can check the apparatus and Veruchia will be able to decide what has to be done. Hurry now."
It was dark when they left. Dumarest sent the raft lifting high and fast towards the position Izane had marked.
Beyond the canopy the stars glittered with an icy brightness, the blobs of nebulae showing like patches of glimmering
mist. Below the ice caught the starlight and reflected it in a milky sheen. As he neared the selected point he switched
on the searchlights and illuminated the area. The light was strong, penetrating; in its beam he could see vague shapes
buried deep in the ice. The ship could be one of them.
"Rubbish," said Izane as he stood beside his machine. "Masses of accumulated detritus, trees, rocks, natural
objects caught and buried over the course of years. The deeper they are the older they will be. Slow down now,
please. Jarg, I think you had better take over." He looked at Dumarest as his assistant sat at the controls. "No
disrespect, but he is far more experienced in this work. It is important that we maintain a constant elevation. If you
will stand by the feedout you can stack the record sheets as they emerge." He pressed buttons and the screen of his
apparatus flared to life. "In position, Jarg? Good. Now let us see what lies below."
Veruchia looked at the dancing motes on the screen. "Is this the preliminary scan?"
"Yes. Before trying to get greater definition I must determine that we are at the correct point. Minimum velocity,
Jarg. A little to the right. Hold!" He made a series of adjustments. "There, you can see it quite clearly now."
It was an irregular mass about three times as long as it was wide, a crumpled shape which defied recognition. A
ship? Dumarest doubted it though it was barely possible. The pressure of ice could have distorted the proportions
and damage have occurred long ago.
He was not surprised when Izane said, "The mass is homogeneous and the metallic content is far too low for it to
be a mechanical fabrication. There are traces of iron, but that is to be expected in this region. The mountains to the
north are heavy with mineral deposits."
Veruchia was disappointed. "It couldn't be the ship?"
"I would stake my reputation that it is not. The material has all the attributes of solid rock." Izane made another
adjustment. "Lower, Jarg. Lower. Right!" He gestured at the screen. "This is the highest definition possible with this
apparatus. You can see the surface structure and the sonic probe reveals that the consistency is exactly the same as
other rocks found in this area. I'm sorry, but this cannot possibly be anything else than a large deposit of natural
stone."
Another failure. How many would there have to be before she gave up the search? She wouldn't give up; watching
her face Dumarest knew that. She would go on looking until there was no time left. He smiled as Jarg sent the raft
gliding towards the other selected point.
"Never mind. You didn't expect it to be easy."
"I was wrong," she said. "This area is not where the ship is to be found. We'll check the other point to make sure,
but I expect nothing." She frowned, thoughtful. "Earl, does a cyber lie?"
"They don't always tell the entire truth."
"Could they ever be wrong?"
"They could be. The accuracy of their predictions depends on the availability of data. Even a cyber needs facts to
work on. You're thinking of what he told you about the Elgish Sea?"
"Yes, the area with the lowest order of probability. Earl, I wonder if he said that just to make me look elsewhere?"
"How long ago was it you asked?"
"A couple of years. No," she decided. "He couldn't have lied. There would have been no point in it. He couldn't
possibly have known that I would ever seriously need to find the First Ship."
"You're wrong," said Dumarest. "Never underrate the Cyclan, and always remember that a cyber doesn't think like
a normal person. To them everything is a matter of varying probability. Everything. He would have assessed your
value and extrapolated a series of sequences of probable events stemming from a range of varying circumstances. It
was inevitable that Chorzel would die. The only random factor was the time of his death, and even that could have
been determined by appropriate action. At his death you stood in line to inherit. That was of such a low order of
probability that it could almost have been ignored. If it had been higher you would be dead now."
"Assassinated?" Her face tensed. "Earl, are you serious? The cyber wouldn't do that."
"He wouldn't have to. A hint in the right ear and the thing would have been done. Montarg is ambitious and would
do anything to gain the Ownership. Of course Surat considered the possibility that you might press your claim.
Naturally he took into account the chance that you might need to search for the proof which could lie in the First
Ship. The probability would be so low as to be negligible but still it would be there. And if the Cyclan wanted Montarg
to rule then he would have misguided you."
"He lied to me?"
"He didn't have to lie. He merely took two regions and told you that it was less likely the ship would be found in
one than the other. Wend is a barren desert. Isn't it more probable that a thing could be found on land rather than in
sea?"
The raft came to a halt. Izane worked his apparatus but Dumarest was sure what he would find. Another mass of
rock or a compressed mound of frozen trees. Yet it was wise to be sure.
He moved away as Veruchia talked with the technician, standing close to the canopy as he looked at the stars. So
many stars, lying in a thick band across the sky, some forming vague patterns; countless numbers of them, most with
habitable worlds. For him some held memories; Derai with the hair like silver, Kalin with the hair like flame, Lallia and
the strange woman he had met on Technos—steps on a journey it seemed would never end.
"Which of those blazing suns shone on Earth?"

***

Montarg said, "Now!" and watched avidly as boys ran at each other with swords and shields. The swords were of
wood, the shields of wicker; no great damage could be done, but they would learn. They would learn.
"A noble spectacle." Selkas was ironic. "Is that why you asked me here. Montarg? To watch youths revert to the
beast?"
"They are in training." Montarg kept his eyes on the struggling boys. "And they are learning to shed an imposed
artificiality. It is in the nature of man to fight. For too long we have denied that. What you see, Selkas, is the birth of a
new culture."
"The resurrection of one long buried, Montarg. Teach violence to the subtenants and landless ones and where
will it end? Dradea is a civilized world and I, for one, would like to see it remain so."
"Civilization is a relative term, Selkas. I choose to call it decadence. Those boys will grow into men who do not
shudder at the thought of violence. They will be accustomed to it, the better for having experienced the mystique of
combat."
"Thugs, bravos, swaggerers who will regard all that is gentle as weakness. I have seen it on many worlds,
Montarg. There are places where a person dare not walk undefended at night. You should visit them."
"I've no need to travel. Dradea is good enough for me."
"For you, perhaps." Selkas looked at the struggling boys. Several had fallen, some nursed bruises, many were
crying with pain. "But what of those lads? What of the ones who desire to learn? We have only one biological
laboratory on this planet, only one physics institute, only one small department of pure science. Compared to other
worlds we are a village locked in ignorance. And you are encouraging that ignorance. Already ships are few and
commerce low. Another generation and we shall be a forgotten world ignored by the rest of the galaxy."
"Perhaps," Montarg shrugged. "But better to own a viable world than one which has lost its pride. I would rather
rule a dozen men than a million sheep."
"A laudable ambition—if true."
"You think I lie?"
"I think that you are a man obsessed," said Selkas deliberately. "A fanatic blinded by a misguided dream. This
nonsense of the mystique of combat is not new. I have heard it before on other worlds and I have seen the inevitable
result of those who have followed it. Men strutting like cockerels, armed, ready to kill at a word. Rigid formality and a
stultifying of the intellect. Such cultures cannot breed scientists and have no resources to spare for education. When
every rich man needs to surround himself with retainers what chance is there for his money to build schools?"
"We could have both."
"Not with the state of our economy. Progress depends on a constantly expanding availability of funds which can
be used for the development of art and science. Unless we have that surplus of wealth we can only regress. If you
really want to help this world, close the arena and use the money to import teachers. A child can be taught at the cost
of breeding a crell. A crell can only die—a child can grow to add to the wealth of this planet. Logic, Montarg. At
times it is inescapable."
"Your logic, Selkas, not mine. But I did not invite you to join me to talk about that. I learn that Veruchia is now
busy exploring the Elgish Sea."
"That is correct."
"Three hundred miles north at the village of Zem."
"Yes."
"Her and that scum from the arena." Montarg sneered. "Odd what steps some women will take to gratify their
lust. It refutes your argument, Selkas. Veruchia, surely, is a cultured woman. She hates the games and all forms of
violence and yet, despite that, she threw herself into the arms of a fighter, a transient who is snatching what he can
get. When her money goes then so will he."
On the field, attendants moved among the injured, while others picked up the discarded swords and shields. One
boy with a broken arm waited as they carried him away. Another had lost an eye, his face a mask of blood as he
stumbled over the ground.
"They will know better the next time," said Montarg casually. He returned to the attack. "But don't worry, Selkas.
Dumarest will not be able to gloat at having duped a foolish woman. I shall take care of that. You will be indebted to
me for having saved your honor."
"Mine?"
"You threw them together. You provided the fire at which my cousin was burned."
"A fire need not burn," said Selkas quietly. "It can warm. For a lonely person it can be a great comfort."
"You care for her. Now I am sure of it and I wonder why. You defend her and support her in her stupidity. Two
rafts, trained personnel, supplies and equipment without regard as to cost. Why, Selkas? Never before have you
shown concern about any living thing. I am curious as to the reason."
"It's your money, Montarg."
He saw the scowl, the sudden blaze of fury, and tensed as Montarg lifted his hand, the fingers reaching for his
sleeve. Then he shrugged, a man content to bide his time.
"The money you helped her to win. Yes, I know that, Selkas, you advised her to make the wager. She would never
have done it alone. But you betrayed yourself then as you have betrayed yourself since. What is Veruchia to you?
How could a man of your attainments be attached to a sullen, mutated freak?"
"Montarg! You go too far!"
"Do I, Selkas?" He gave his dog-laugh, soundless, horrible. "The truth is plain for all to see. But, I wonder, what
caused the mutation? Both Lisa and Oued were of clear strain and neither had traveled off Dradea to where radiating
suns could have disturbed their chromosomes. But you, Selkas, you traveled much and far. And, if old gossip is true,
you and Lisa were very close at one time. Perhaps more than close."
"You're vile, Montarg. Despicable. It requires no courage to slander the dead."
"No greater courage than it takes to seduce the wife of a friend." He stepped back as Selkas moved forward, his
fingers jerking at his sleeve, rising to show the metallic gleam of a laser. "Come closer and there will be a most
regrettable accident. I was showing you this little toy when, somehow, it discharged itself into your face. I shall be
most sorry—but you will be dead." His voice rose a little. "I warn you, Selkas!"
The field was deserted. They stood alone well beyond earshot of the others, the groups of parents and staff who
had watched the battle. His word would be accepted and who would dare to antagonize the potential Owner? Selkas
drew a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Incredibly he managed to smile.
"You flatter me, Montarg. Lisa was a beautiful woman. Do you think that if she had granted me her favors I would
have kept silent? And is it really wise to impinge the ancestry of the next Owner?"
 "Veruchia?" Montarg showed his amusement. His teeth gleamed in the sunlight as he bolstered his weapon.
"You're an optimist, Selkas. She has ten days left of the hundred granted by the Council. A short time in which to
search an ocean."
"She could still be lucky."
"She could, but I doubt it. Miracles do not happen to order. In ten days time I shall be the new Owner of Dradea."

***

The weather was oppressive, the sun scorching as it hung in the air, the air heavy and still. Below where he stood
on the cliffs Dumarest could see the water spread below, dark blue and green patched with the brown of drifting
weed. Boats made creamy wakes as they headed outwards, the sound of their engines high and spiteful, thinned by
distance. Closer to the shore other boats, powered by arms and sail, looked like fragile toys. From them men dived
into the sea after mollusks, weed and marine growths of value.
Raising his eyes he could see the pair of rafts moving slowly a hundred feet above the water, following a carefully
determined search pattern. Veruchia was on one, safe enough with the technicians and, Dumarest was convinced,
safe enough until she found the proof she needed. There was no point in assassinating her before then.
"They won't find anything." The man at his side was thick and toughened by the sun. "My boys have scouted
every inch of that area for shellfish and if anything laid on the bottom they would have found it. Right, Larco?"
His partner nodded. "That's right, Shem. From here to the edge of the continental shelf. But would those snots
from the institute listen? Not them. They wouldn't take my word it was raining if they stood in a downpour."
"How do you work?" asked Dumarest. "Naked or with apparatus?"
"It depends how deep. Close to shore we go down straight but further out we use artificial lungs." Shem pointed.
"See? About two miles. That's my boat and it's working the Coolum Bed. About a hundred and twenty feet. You could
go down raw but with lungs you can really search the area. Some good stuff down there but it takes time to collect."
His arm swung towards the north. "You don't get too much up there. The bottom's rough and the shelf comes in
close. Further north still we don't bother."
"Why not?"
"Too dangerous. There's some big things out there, decapods, jellyfish, eels as thick as your body with jaws that
could bite a man in half."
"The decapods are the worst," said Larco. "I've seen them big enough to pull down a ship. A fifty-man galley with
outriggers."
"Bigger," said Shem. "Remember after that big storm? One of them got washed ashore and it took a week to get
rid of it. The flesh isn't good for eating," he explained. "We had to grind it up small and sell it as fertilizer. They grow
big, all right." He squinted at Dumarest. "You figure to go searching up north?"
"Maybe. Would you help?"
"To go down to the bottom?" Shem pursed his lips. "I don't know about that. Maybe, if the money was good, but
only maybe. It's too chancy down there. Life's hard enough as it is without looking for trouble. We'd like to help, but
you know how it is."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I know."
A boat took him out to where one of the rafts drifted high. It lowered at his signal, Izane complaining as he
climbed aboard.
"You're disturbing the pattern. If you'd have waited another two hours we would have finished searching this
area."
"We haven't got two hours." Dumarest was curt. "As far as I can see you're wasting time."
"I know my job."
"Admitted, but the fishermen know this area. Why didn't you take their advice?"
"Earl." Veruchia had been standing beside the scanning apparatus. She came forward and rested her hand on his
arm. "We haven't time for quarrels."
"We haven't time to follow the book, either." Dumarest stared at the technician. "The fishermen know the bottom
here as well as they know their own faces. I suggest we accept their word that the ship isn't in this area."
"They can't be sure of that," said Izane. "They could see it and never recognize it for what it was. By this time it
would have accumulated a thick growth of mollusks and weed. The shape would have become distorted, other things.
Before we can eliminate this region we must check every inch."
He pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer and ran his finger over a mass of lines.
"See? We are on the edge of a continental fault. We know this area is prone to earthquakes and tremors and we
know that a few centuries ago the coastline altered. If the ship had been close to the edge of the sea at that time, and
there had been an earthquake, it is highly probable that both the land and the ship would have become submerged.
Of course we can't be certain exactly where this happened, but this area shows the most promise."
The cold logic of scientific detachment pitted against local knowledge and the workings of intuition. Izane could
be right and most probably was, but there was no time to make certain. For days they had scanned the area and time
was running out.
Dumarest said, "There is a region to the north which remains unexplored. I think we should check it out."
"Random searching?" Izane's shrug expressed his contempt at the unscientific approach. "I can't agree that it
would be wise. We could try a thousand spots by guesswork and miss what we are looking for. In order to be certain
we must be precise."
An ocean to search, following the thin trail of rumor, geological maps and unreliable history. A lifetime could be
spent inching along the coast alone.
Dumarest turned to face the woman. "Veruchia?"
He had thrown her the necessity of making a decision and she hesitated, reluctant to take the gamble.
"I don't know, Earl. We could be missing the only chance we have. Couldn't we speed up the search, Izane?"
"We are going as fast as we can. Faster and we may as well not bother at all. I advise that we continue the present
pattern. Of course I must do as you decide. You are paying for the service."
His tone was peevish with fatigue. They were all tired and numbed with constant failure, brains slow to function,
tempers on edge. A bell chimed on the apparatus. Jarg checked it and shook his head.
"A mass of rock, large but of natural origin."
Veruchia sighed and then, womanlike, appealed to her lover. "I don't know what is best to do, Earl. Can't you
decide?"
Without hesitation he said, "Well go both north and south and scan the regions to either side of the fishing
grounds out to the limits of the continental shelf. I suppose there is no point in extending the search beyond that
point?"
"Not with our present equipment," said Izane. "The fall is sharp and the bottom deep. There is too much
distortion to gain a clear picture. If we had a submersible I would advise it, but without—" He broke off, seeing no
need for further explanation. "We go north then?"
"Immediately. Send the other raft to the south and report anything of interest." Dumarest took Veruchia by the
arm. "You are going ashore. There's nothing you can do here and there's no sense in knocking yourself out Izane
knows what has to be done."
"How can I rest, Earl?"
"You'll rest." Drugs would take care of that and give her a dreamless sleep. "Jarg, signal a boat."
Veruchia relaxed, finding comfort in the touch of his hand, his obvious concern. It was good to have someone so
close, a man to worry about her and see that things were attended to. Now there was nothing she need do but wait,
no action to be taken but to sleep and hope that, this time, they would find the ship.
They had to. There was so little time.

Chapter Six
As he ran over the beach, Dumarest felt the quake, a minor tremor but enough to cause Veruchia to stumble. She
would have failed had he not caught her arm.
"Earl!"
"It's nothing." Shem was casual as he came towards them. "Just a twitch, and we get them often." He looked at
Dumarest. "About that gear you asked me to have ready. You want me to put it aboard?" He gestured towards a heap
of equipment, the waiting raft.
"No, there isn't room." Dumarest looked towards the south. The air was heavy, carrying a metallic taste, the sea
leaden. "The other raft will be here soon. When it arrives throw out all the personnel aside from the driver and load
your gear. How many men did you get?"
"Only me and Larco."
"Is that all?"
"I told you, the boys don't like that part of the coast. Neither do we but you made a fair offer and we're willing to
take a chance. We might be able to get the Ven brothers when they come in but I can't promise."
"Get them," said Dumarest. "Send them after us with the biggest boat they can get and with all the salvage
equipment you can find. And don't waste time about it."
"Earl." Veruchia gripped his arm. "We can't be sure. All this could be a waste."
 "We can afford to waste money," he said. "But not time. Let's move!"
Izane rustled papers as the raft lifted and headed towards the north. His normal impassivity had dissolved in the
excitement of discovery.
"There!" His finger tapped a mass of flecks on the paper. "It is the only thing in the region we examined which
holds any promise. Notice the shape? The metallic reading is far too high for it to be natural and it is not
homogeneous."
"Are you certain?" Veruchia fought to maintain her composure. "Have you checked?"
"Three individual times." Izane sobered a little. "Of course it may not be what you are looking for, and I must be
frank, the chances are against it. The object could be another vessel or a large surface craft wrecked during a storm.
It could even be a land installation which became submerged through the action of a tidal wave. It could even be a
submarine construct or an accumulation of discarded material. Metal drums containing unstable compounds," he
explained. "As yet we cannot be certain."
Dumarest was curt. "You made no investigation?"
"No. The object lies well below the surface and we had no undersea gear with us. I marked the position and came
in to report. Incidentally, I must congratulate you on your foresight. I didn't think you would have had men and
equipment organized."
Too few men and too limited equipment, but it was all that was locally available. Dumarest moved to the front of
the raft and looked at the sky, the sea. He felt restless, his skin prickling with tension. The raft slowed as a yellow float
came into sight and halted just above it. Izane's voice echoed above the hum of his apparatus.
"You see?" He gestured at the screen. A mass of flecks marred the surface, some moving, others fading only to
regain prominence.
"Background noise," said the technician. "Fish and particles of drifting weed." He made adjustments. "I've raised
the level so as to eliminate minor objects. That solid mass there is the edge of the continental shelf, you see how
sharply it falls away. That is a mass of jumbled boulders and those are smaller ones. Note the irregularity. But here we
have something unusual." His finger traced a longitudinal shape. "There!"
Somehow it was wrong. Dumarest studied it, trying to fit it into a familiar context. The ships he knew were longer,
slimmer, far more graceful than the thing lying beneath the waves. But it would have become crusted with marine
growths, he realized, and who could tell how spaceships had involved from a time long ago?
He heard the sharp intake of Veruchia's breath. "Earl! We've found it!"
"We've found something." His tone was deliberately flat, it would be cruel to lift her hopes too high. "As Izane said
it could be anything. There's only one way to find out." He called to the driver. "Take us down low. Get as close to the
water as you can."
Veruchia frowned as he stripped and threw open the canopy. "What are you going to do, Earl?"
"Go and see what we've found." He retrieved the knife from his boot and looked around. "I want something heavy.
Something we can afford to lose." He picked up a box of provisions. "This will do."
The weight cradled in his left arm, the knife gripped in his right hand, he stood for a minute, breathing deeply,
hyper-oxygenating his blood. Then he jumped from the raft into the sea.
The water was warm as it closed over his head, rapidly chilling as he plummeted towards the bottom. To one side
he saw the thin cable of the marker and he kicked himself towards it, staying close to the guideline as he dropped. A
patch of weed caught his foot, streaming upwards as he kicked it free, and tiny fish darted wildly in all directions.
Pressure built in his ears and he swallowed, moving so as to fall head first, eyes strained in the thickening gloom.
A shape loomed vague and forbidding, crusted, wreathed with weed. He kicked himself towards it, releasing a
thin stream of bubbles in an effort to ease the pressure which seemed to clamp him like a vice. The provisions fell
away as he gripped an obtrusion with his left hand and pulled himself close. The blood pounded in his ears and his
eyes felt as if they were being pressed back into his skull. He moved the knife forward, driving the sharp point against
the crusted growths, trying to find a crack or fissure. The steel slipped into an opening and he wrenched, throwing his
weight against the tempered metal. For a moment it resisted, yielding suddenly as a patch of shell fell aside. He
struck again and felt the jar as the blade hit a denser medium. Scraping at it he caught the rasp and gleam of metal.
Bubbles streamed from his mouth as he rose to the surface. He kicked desperately in order to increase his speed
of ascent, feeling the growing pain in his chest, the near-uncontrollable urge to open his mouth and gasp at the
nonexistent air. The thing lay too deep and he had stayed too long.
The water brightened, a shimmering roof appearing above, a roof which broke in a shower of glistening droplets
as he broke the surface. He rolled on his back, gasping, barely conscious, unaware of the blood which streamed from
nose and ears. A shadow blotted out the sun and hands gripped him, hauling him aboard the raft.
Veruchia's eyes were bright, her face anxious. "Earl! Earl, my darling! You were down so long. I thought you were
dead!"
 He turned to rest face downwards, his weight supported on hands and knees. Gradually, as he sucked air into his
aching lungs, his strength returned.
"I'm all right. But we'll need help to get down there."
"Is it—"
"It's something, and I'm sure that it's a ship. It could be the First Ship, but it's crusted and we'll need men and gear
to work on it." Dumarest rose to his feet. "We'll get at it as soon as the others arrive."
Shem said, "You were lucky. The bottom here is too deep for natural diving. One of the boys could have done it
but he'd have been trained from a child. You're strong," he said. "Tough, but you've got to respect the sea. If you don't
it will kill you for sure. Have you used diving gear before?"
"I have," said Veruchia. "I spent a lot of time underwater when I was at university. We had a class in marine
biology."
"You won't be coming down," said Shem curtly. He looked at Dumarest. "Well?"
"Once."
"Good, then I don't have to tell you what to do. Don't hold your breath on the way up, don't surface directly from
the bottom, take your time and don't panic." He glowered at the water. "I don't like this," he said. "It's a bad area.
We've lost too many boys around here. Right, Larco?"
"Right." His partner tightened a strap. Like Shem and Dumarest he was wearing bulky coveralls grotesque with
added padding. Tubes from air cylinders on his back ran to a mouthpiece. A goggle eyemask contained radiophonic
equipment. Each man was armed with a heavy knife and a gun firing explosive darts.
Dumarest said, "What about the others? Are they coming?"
"The Ven brothers are on their way. It will be easier to work from a boat but I guess you don't want to wait for
them. One other thing." Shem nodded at Izane's apparatus. "I guess that thing can tell if anything big moves through
the water, right?"
"Yes," said Izane.
"Then if you see anything let us know at once. Don't wait to find out what it is and don't be curious. If you see
something big moving our way give us the word."
The technician looked puzzled. "What do you expect?"
"The worst." Shem was grim. "There's some nasty creatures in the deeps and quakes tend to unsettle them.
There've been a few twitches and they could be restless. Damn it," he exploded with sudden violence. "I must be
crazy to do this!"
"You don't have to," said Veruchia. "I can take your place."
"That's what I'm afraid of. If I let a woman go down because I was scared I'd never be able to look my wife in the
face again. Well, let's get on with it."
It was different from the last time. Now he drifted down, weightless, almost floating, gliding through the water
without effort. Dumarest could hear the rush of bubbles from his mouthpiece and see them rise from his companions,
the goggles giving perfect visibility. Within minutes they were on the bottom. He heard a voice in his ear.
"Hell, look at that! The damn thing's poised on the edge."
Shem's voice was distorted by his throat-mike. Larco answered.
"It's ready to fall. One good twitch and it'll be over. It's a long drop if it does."
Dumarest kicked himself upwards and circled the area. The vessel hung poised on the edge of an undersea cliff,
part of its mass suspended over the rim. They were at the limit of the continental shelf.
He glided over an unknown depth of water as a bird would circle the edge of a precipice, kicking his legs so as to
come close to the massive bulk. An opening gaped along one side: the open port of the cargo hold, he guessed. It was
easy to guess what must have happened.
The ship would have been on apparently firm ground. There had been an earthquake; the sea had withdrawn to
return in an overwhelming flood. Water had gushed into the vessel and it had been carried back into the sea by the
retreating tidal wave. It would have rolled for miles before coming to rest. A little further and it would have been lost
forever.
"All right, Earl," said Shem. "You're the boss. Where do we start?"
If the ship still contained anything of value it would be in the control room. Dumarest kicked himself forward to
join the others and stood looking at the crusted shape. The cargo holds were always towards the base of every ship
he had known and it was logical to assume this one would follow the pattern. The control room would be towards the
nose. He measured the proportions, baffled by the odd dimensions. Here? A little further back? More forward? There
would be an emergency airlock which would give direct access if he could find it.
"We've got to strip the crust," he said. "Start from about five yards back from the end. How will you do it?"
"Smash it loose with hammers." Shem stooped over the heap of tools dropped down from the raft. "We should
have powered equipment," he grumbled. "Heavy-duty lasers. It'll take a long time using muscle."
Selkas was bringing more equipment from the city, but until he arrived muscles were all they had. Dumarest
picked up a heavy hammer and swung it at the encrustation. The thing moved slowly, hampered by the water, the
head landing with deceptive force. He swung again, then a third time and calcareous matter crumpled.
Shem grunted. "It could be a lot worse. In more shallow water it would be yards thick. This shouldn't take too
long." He picked up a hammer. "Keep a sharp watch, Larco."
Larco patted his gun. "I'm watching, Shem."
Dumarest's arms began to ache. It took tremendous effort to swing the heavy hammer through the crushing
water and the coveralls and padding hampered every movement. He was relieved by Larco, relieving Shem in turn,
chafing at their slow progress. The deposit had to be pounded loose and scraped free but eventually a cleared section
of metal was exposed to the light.
"Ten minutes and we head upwards," said Shem. "The tanks are getting low."
"Just a minute." Dumarest was studying the cleared area. Fragments of paint clung to the surface and he tried to
fit them into a recognizable pattern. Identifying marks? A guide for external forces to reach the emergency port in
case of need? He cleared away more of the deposit and saw the rim of a port.
"Come on, Earl." Larco drifted beside him. "It's a ship right enough," he mused. "Maybe we should try getting in
from the inside. The hold's open, if it is a hold, and maybe—" He broke off as the ground heaved beneath their feet.
"A quake!"
It came again, and then a third time far more intense than before. Dumarest felt himself gripped by invisible
forces and thrown high to one side, spinning, buffeted by shifting masses of water. The ship lifted, slowly, seemed to
hesitate for a long moment and then fell back on the ledge. It slipped a little towards the edge of the chasm and then
came to rest.
From the depths something rose like a plume of smoke.
It was an eel, attracted by the hammering, frightened by the sudden quake. The sinuous body was thirty feet long
and spined like the edge of a saw. The barrel-sized head was crested, the gaping jaws lined with rows of gleaming
teeth. It poised, watching the three men. Larco was the closest.
"Shem! For God's sake!"
A streak of fire spat towards the creature and missed, the dart exploding against the hull of the ship. Again Shem
fired, this time managing to hit the end of the long body. It did nothing to slow the beast down. Like an arrow it sliced
through the water, intent on its prey.
"Shem!"
Larco screamed as the jaws closed on his body, the teeth shearing through the padding and coverall. Blood rose
like a mist.
Dumarest twisted, fighting to gain control of his movements. He kicked himself towards the giant eel and raised
the squat barrel of his gun. Sighting was difficult and the weapon strange. His first shot missed; the second tore a
great hole in the flesh a third of the way from the head. The next followed it and almost cut the creature in half.
Larco screamed again. "Shem!"
Shem was aiming for the head. He swam close, his gun extended in both hands, his finger clamped on the trigger
to empty the magazine in a burst of continuous fire. The screaming died as head and man dissolved into pulp.
"Up!" His voice was harsh over the radio. "Up before the blood attracts more of the things." He was choking as
they neared the surface. "Larco. Dear God, how shall I tell his wife?"

***

Izane lifted his hands in a protective gesture. "I didn't know. You've got to believe that. The quake disturbed my
instruments. I didn't see anything to warn you about."
"You bastard!" Shem stepped forward, his face ugly. "I've a mind to smash your face in. I told you to watch. I
relied on you, we all did, and you let us down. Larco's dead. I killed him, you understand? I had to kill him. A friend
and my partner and I had to kill him."
Dumarest said, "You had no choice."
"You think it was easy?"
"I know it wasn't, but if you hadn't done it I would have."
"You should have," said Shem. He looked suddenly old. "Then I wouldn't have had to live with it. You could have
saved me from that."
"And left you wondering if you lacked the guts?"
Veruchia looked from one to the other, not understanding but aware they lived in a different world than the one
she knew: men of action, facing danger, each relying on the other for help if it could be given, merciful death if it
could not. And it had been Shem's right and duty to make the decision.
She wondered if she could kill Dumarest if the need ever arose. She had no doubt that he could kill her.
Such thoughts were depressing, casting a shadow over their success, adding to that already thrown by Larco's
death. She moved to Izane's side and looked at the screen of his machine. It was alive with movement. Even as she
watched a blotched shape came moving in from the deeps, a gross body wreathed with many arms. Narrow lines
darted from its approach.
She called to Shem. "Something's happening. Could you explain?"
He grunted as he joined her. "A decapod and more of those damned eels. Trust the scent of blood to bring them
on the run. I told you this part of the coast was dangerous."
"But they won't stay there, will they?"
"No," said Dumarest. "They'll leave when they find no food." He could sense and understand her anxiety. Now
they had found the ship further delay was intolerable, but it could not be helped. To reassure her he said,
"We've found the airlock. Once the area is clear we'll go down and burn it open."
"We?" Shem scowled and shook his head. "Not me and I doubt if you'll find anyone else. If you want to go down
there you'll have to go alone. I'm not following Larco."
"Izane?"
The technician frowned. "My men are not used to undersea work. And, to be frank, they would not be willing
after what has happened. We could hire experienced divers, of course, but I doubt if we have the time."
"We have time," said Veruchia. "There are still a few days left."
"I wasn't talking of the contractual time," said Izane. "We are in an unstable region and on the edge of an
intercontinental fault. There have been several minor tremors in the past few hours and there will be more. At least
one far more severe. The ship is poised on the edge of an undersea cliff. Any serious disturbance will cause it to lose
equilibrium and, if it does, it will fall into the chasm. I predict that such a shock will occur within a matter of hours."
Dumarest took a deep breath, remembering how the ship had lifted, settled and slipped towards the edge. "Can
you be certain?"
"That the ship will fall? From what you have told me, yes."
"That there will be a major shock within a few hours."
"I am a geologist and have studied volcanic activity and earthquakes. The pattern is a classic one for regions like
this. The only doubt is as to the exact time."
Another gamble. Dumarest weighed the odds as he looked at the screen. The Ven brothers had a laser and they
would arrive shortly. It wouldn't take long to burn open the outer door, then a little more time to get inside and search
the control room. They could carry lights if it were dark, so nightfall would be no problem. But lights could attract the
beasts from the deeps. If they did they could be used as a defensive weapon; eyes accustomed to darkness would be
vulnerable to a brilliant shaft of light. And there were other measures which could be taken.
"Get back to the village," he told Shem. "I want all the nets you can lay your hands on. The strongest you can find.
Cable too. And floats. We'll rig a screen around the ship."
"It won't work." The fisherman was emphatic. "You saw that eel. We haven't a net in the village that would hold it.
And you'd still need me to set them in position. I'm sorry, Earl, but it can't be done. Given time and the right
materials, maybe, but not as things are."
Nets were out then. Dumarest looked thoughtfully at the screen. "You say blood attracts those creatures. How
about taking the raft and moving out a little way? Catch a fish and use it for bait. Spill the blood of whatever comes
after it. Could you do that?"
"Sure. That's how we catch the decapods. Not that we ever want to, but sometimes a few rich people fancy going
on a hunt. When they do we set a ring of boats, lay some bait and they sit high and safe in a raft to shoot it down.
Once we actually caught one for the Institute. Stunned it with sonic shock. God knows what they did with it or why
they wanted it alive."
"For export," said Veruchia. "I remember the incident. A museum ship arrived and wanted a specimen for Game.
That was years ago."
"That's what we'll do," Dumarest decided. "Well go back to the village, get men and boats and return. We can tow
the boats so as to save time. When you're all set I'll go down to the ship."
"Alone?" Shem snorted. "That's a sure way to commit suicide. How are you going to keep watch while you're
working?"
"I'll go down with him," said Veruchia.
Shem stared at her. "You'll do what? After what happened to Larco? Are you raving mad?"
"I've no choice," she said flatly. "I can't expect you to understand but I've got to get into that ship. If this is the
only chance I have then I must take it. You'll hire me your gear?"
"No."
"The Ven brothers will have some. I'll use theirs."
She met his eyes, sensing his indecision, knowing better than to offer him more money. If he agreed to help it
would be because she was a woman and desperate and needing his skill and strength. His pride would not permit him
to remain on the surface while she went below. And she was going, he knew it.
His shrug was surrender. "All right, I'll help you. But just one thing. If anything happens to me be sure and take
care of my family."

***

The night had brought eeriness, turning the bottom into a place of brooding mystery speared by the brilliance of
their lights. Colors followed the beams, bright reds and yellows, unsuspected greens and aching blues. Fronds of weed
drifted like menacing ghosts and tiny fish gleamed like living jewels as they moved towards the ship.
A jellyfish drifted close, tendrils set to sting. It died beneath Shem's crushing hand.
"Damn things," he muttered. "Is everything all right up there?"
Izane's voice replied. "No movement in your vicinity of any kind. The second raft reports intense activity in the
region of the assembled boats."
That was miles away where the Ven brothers had spilled barrels of bait and the carcasses of slaughtered beasts.
So far everything was going according to plan.
Dumarest reached the cleared portion of the ship. Veruchia, bulky in her protective clothing drifted at his side.
"The lock, Earl."
"I think so. In fact I'm sure of it." He had picked up one of the discarded hammers. "I'm going to knock the rest of
this stuff off the panel. Stand watch while I do it and Veruchia, be careful."
She set down the laser and hefted her gun. A flashlight had been set along the barrel. A second light was strapped
to her head and a third hung at her belt. "I'll be careful."
She moved aside as he set to work, standing with the vessel at her back, head moving as she scanned the area.
Shem stood at Dumarest's far side. He was uneasy, regretting his decision, weakened by his knowledge of the
threatening sea. If an eel should come darting from the gloom there would be little time to spot it before it attacked—
no time at all to escape. It would be a matter of centering in the beam of the torch mounted on the gun, blinding it,
and shooting it to death before it could recover. And a decapod would be worse: slower, but harder to kill and slower
to die.
He shuddered at the thought of arms closing around him, crushing him to death.
What had Larco thought when the jaws had gripped him? A moment of unbelief, perhaps, until the teeth had
started to bite and the blood to flow, and then there could only have been horror, the terrible realization that he was
going to die and that nothing could save him. Had he welcomed the darts which had ripped him apart?
Shem moved uneasily, not liking such thoughts and knowing they were dangerous. This was no time for brooding.
A moment's inattention and he could follow his late partner. Would Marth grieve for long?
He heard the rasp of Dumarest's breath and said, "Best take a break now, Earl. I'll take over."
It was good to lose his anxiety in work. He slammed the hammer against the hull, knocking away sheets of
encrustation. The deposit came away easier now; the jar the ship had received must have loosened the coating and
soon the entire port was clear. He hit it a few times to knock away the crusting over the handle and hinges. Maybe
they wouldn't have to use the laser.
Izane's voice whispered in his ear: "Something long and narrow approaching from the depths."
Another eel! Shem dropped the hammer and snatched up his gun, the beam of light flashing from side to side as
he traversed the weapon. Beneath the goggles sweat stung his eyes.
Dumarest said, "Veruchia, stand beneath the port with your back to the ship, have your gun ready and look
towards the shore. Shem, you stand to her right and look beyond her to your left. I'll take the other side." And then, to
Izane: "How close and from which direction?"
"About three hundred yards and to the southwest. It's moving very slowly."
"The lights have made it curious," said Shem. "That and the hammering." He swung his gun in a wide circle, its
beam joining that from his helmet. "We've got a blind spot. It could come up behind the ship and be on us before we
know it. We should have had another man at least."
Another dozen would have been better, but he had been the only fool in the village. He squinted at the air-gauge,
a reflex action quickly learned by all divers, but there was no need for concern. They carried extra tanks and had
plenty of air. Guiltily he returned to his vigil: that moment of inattention could have cost a life.
 Dumarest said, "Izane?"
"It's still drifting, no, it's turning in a circle and heading towards the depths."
Veruchia relaxed, conscious of the strain, the tension of bone and muscle. She had stood concentrating on the
area before her, afraid even to blink. "It's gone, Earl."
"It could come back," said Shem. "Those things are fast." He hesitated, wanting to suggest they return to the
surface but knowing the woman would never agree. And, if she stayed, so would Dumarest, and how could he desert
them now? He compromised. "Let's give it a little longer. It could come back with others."
They waited five minutes and then got back to work. Dumarest ran his fingers around the edge of the port, eyes
close to the surface, the beam of his helmet light reflected in a glowing halo so that he seemed to be limned with
radiance.
"We may not have to burn it open," he said. "It would save time if we didn't." More important a sudden rise in
local temperature could attract unwanted visitors. "Izane?"
"Nothing is moving in your immediate vicinity." The technician sounded worried. "But there has been another
tremor to the south. A minor one, the shockwave dampened before it could reach you. I suggest that you waste no
time."
Dumarest gripped the handle of the port, pulled and felt the grate of metal. He rested both feet to either side and
used the full force of back and shoulders as he pulled again. The handle rose. He jerked at it but lacked traction, his
pull causing him to glide forward over the lock.
"Use a hammer," advised Shem as he regained his position. "Here, let me." He swung the massive tool against the
edge of the uplifted metal. Again, a third time. At the next blow the handle yielded, swinging down to the open
position. "Right," he said. "That's freed the catch. Now let's see if we can get it open."
Among the tools was a crowbar, three inches thick, twelve feet long, curved so as to give maximum leverage, one
end flattened. Shem grunted as he rammed the thin edge under the rim of the port.
"Help me, Earl. Use the hammer to drive it in. Once we get a grip we can lever it up." He swore as the panel
resisted. "Damn it, what's holding it now?"
Veruchia said, "It must still be watertight. The interior's full of air. We'll have to burn a hole and equalize the
pressure. Earl?"
"A minute. Izane."
"Still clear. Two narrow shapes about a quarter of a mile towards the depths. One closer but very deep."
The laser was designed for surface use, inefficient below the waves. It would work but it would take time to burn
a hole. And the water would absorb the heat and diffuse it. Dumarest studied the port. The weight of water pressing
against the panel would hold it shut but the merest crack would allow the escape of the air inside, the entry of water
to equalize the pressure. He gripped the bar and swung his feet so they rested on the hull.
"Join me, Shem. Together now." They heaved, muscles cracking beneath the strain. "Veruchia."
She added her strength, straightening her legs so as to gain the advantage of the long muscles of thighs and
calves, the bar across her shoulders, back and loins adding extra pressure. A long moment broken only by the rasp of
labored breathing and then she felt a slight movement, another… then a gush of bubbles rose from the edge of the
port.
"Once more."
This time it was easier. A moment of strain and then the water boiled with a great stream of released air. She
drifted to the bottom as the two men swung wide the port. It moved easily; ancient science had known the use of
noncorrosive alloys and inherent lubrication.
"Earl!" Excitement made her voice shrill. "The inner port's intact. I could close the outer one and go inside. Think
what this means, Earl! Everything inside is just as it was. Nothing could have been spoiled by the water. Earl!"
Success was intoxicating. She dived towards the open port intent on getting the proof she needed, for which she
had searched so long. Izane's voice was an irritating buzz.
"Danger!" Two shapes approaching fast from the depths!" His voice rose a little. 'They are now very close!"
"Watch it, Earl!" Shem crouched on the bottom, beams of light swinging from helmet and gun. He swore as a
glistening shape lanced like a living jewel above and to one side, his darts vanishing harmlessly into the murk. "Damn
it! We haven't a chance!"
A second eel joined the first, attracted by the disturbance of the escaping air, cautious of the lights. There was no
time to take up their previous positions. Veruchia was at the mouth of the port, almost inside the lock itself, and
Dumarest flicked at the panel, closing it behind her. At least she would be safe beneath the protection of the thick
metal.
"Earl?"
"Stay where you are." Dumarest threw himself towards Shem where he crouched on the bottom. Their only hope
of survival was to work in harmony, each covering the other. "Watch my back," he snapped. "I'll do the same for you.
Wait until they attack then fire. Don't waste darts on bad targets."
"The woman?"
"She's safe." Dumarest tensed as an eel lunged towards them. He raised his gun, finger on the trigger, forcing
himself not to fire. The distance was too great and the chance of missing too high. As he watched the eel twisted
away from his lights, the sheen of its body a ribbon of silver.
Izane's voice echoed in his ear: "Another two shapes moving from the west. A third rising from the depths."
"Earl!"
"Quiet and concentrate!" There was no time for conversation, no concentration to spare. They had to sit and wait
for the eels to attack, for the great heads to come directly towards them, jaws wide, eyes gleaming, then and only then
to fire, sending the explosive darts down the gullet, through the roof of the mouth and into the brain.
"To the left, Earl. The left!"
Shem's left. Dumarest twisted to his right and saw the monster in his lights. A second shape came from one side
in a concerted attack, both coming from towards the land.
"Take the one to your left," snapped Dumarest. "And wait."
Wait until they were too close to miss, until the heads grew huge in the cold beam of the lights and they could
feel the pressure of the water sent ahead. Shem fired, his darts lancing high, lowering as he depressed the barrel of
his gun. Dumarest followed, clamping his finger tight, seeing the darts hit the sloping upper jaw and vanish between
the teeth. Blood, skin and shattered bone flowered in the lights and rushed towards them. The eels were dead but still
had their original momentum, dying reflex adding to their speed.
Dumarest felt the surge of water as they passed over him, the lash of the current as it threw him to one side.
Shem cried out, incoherently, his lights pinwheeling in the darkness.
Both bodies slammed against the vessel at the same time.
"Earl! What has happened?"
"Veruchia!" Dumarest turned so as to throw his lights on the vessel. "For God's sake, girl! Get out of there!"
The ship was moving. The slamming impact of both dead eels had disturbed its balance, massed tons tipping the
scale. As Dumarest watched it rolled a little and then, with deceptive slowness, began to slip over the edge.
"Veruchia!"
He dived towards it, feeling the encrustation beneath his fingers, pulling himself towards the port. Shem's voice
screamed in his ears.
"For God's sake, Earl, let's get out of here! More eels are coming!"
Dumarest ignored the warning, kicking himself towards the port, fighting his own buoyancy as the ship gathered
speed. It was a losing battle. He felt the scrap of metal as he caught the rim and then the ship had vanished, falling
from beneath him as its inert mass carried it like a stone to the bottom far below.

Chapter Seven
It was early dawn, the canopy pearled with light, the bowl of the sky tufted with fleecy cloud. Dumarest lay
watching them. He felt oddly detached as he had once felt in an arena when his foot had slipped and he had fallen
waiting for death. That had been many years ago now, too many for him to remember the name of the world. A friend
had saved him then as a friend had saved him now. He moved and felt the ache of his lungs, recognizing the taste of
blood in his mouth.
Selkas moved towards him as he sat upright. He looked older than Dumarest remembered, lines dragging from
nose to mouth, shadows deepening his eyes. Even his voice had lost its undertone of cynical amusement.
"How do you feel?"
"Not good." Dumarest looked at his naked body. One leg was torn, the wound clear beneath a transparent
coating. "When did you arrive?"
"While you were below. I saw them pull you from the water."
"And Shem?"
"You were the only one."
Dumarest had known it, memory was all too clear: the frantic need to escape and reach the safety of the rafts
before the other predators should arrive, more drawn by the scent of blood. They hadn't made it. Shem had fired all
his darts too soon. His screams had been mercifully brief.
Another gamble, thought Dumarest bleakly. Life was full of them. Two men in the sea and one had to die. Even
odds and again he had won. Shem had lost and Veruchia.
 "She should never have gone below," he said. "I should never have permitted it."
"Could you have stopped her?"
"Yes."
"By force, you would have had to use that. Izane has told me of the need for haste. The shock he predicted came
minutes after you surfaced. Nothing could have prevented the ship from falling over the edge."
"She gambled for the ownership of a world," said Dumarest. "And she lost. A little time, she said, a hundred days
and some money. She never thought to risk her life."
"She isn't dead, Earl." Selkas looked like a ghost in the pearly light. "She radioed on the way down. She managed
to open the inner port and the control room was intact. After all these years under the sea it was still watertight. They
built well in the old days." His tone became bitter. "Perhaps too well. It would have been better, perhaps, for the
plating to have collapsed beneath the pressure. It didn't. And now she's down there, locked in an ancient tomb.
Waiting to die."
Waiting? Dumarest frowned. Even if the air in the compartment had been breathable it couldn't have lasted long,
not even with the air she had carried in the tanks. Already the carbon dioxide content must be at a level dangerously
high. Then he remembered that the air would have lasted longer than he was calculating. She would be under normal
pressure, not crushed beneath tons of water with the need to compensate.
"No." Selkas had read his thoughts or followed the inevitable train of reasoning. "We can't save her. Izane?"
"The ship is far too deep." Like Selkas the technician showed his fatigue. "There is a limit to what unprotected
flesh can stand and the vessel is far beyond it. With appropriate armor a man might just stand a chance but he would
be weighed down, helpless, and what could he do? Once the hull is opened the girl will be crushed to death. It might
be possible to attach buoyancy devices to lift the vessel but, again, that would take many men and we have no armor
or equipment. Getting them would take too much time; even in her present condition she would be dead long before
we could begin."
Dumarest looked at Selkas. "What does he mean?"
"She has taken quick-time, Earl. She found some vials of drugs, old but she thought still fit for use. She knew the
air could not last and she hoped—" He broke off, biting his lips. "There is no hope. She has merely delayed the
inevitable and extended her agony."
Extended it by a factor of forty-to-one. Even if the air would normally last only a few hours she had stretched it
to more than a week. Yet still there wasn't enough time. It would take longer than that to construct armor, arrange for
large surface vessels, find men and begin the salvage. And the predators lurking in the deeps would still make rescue
impossible.
But she was alive and waiting, hoping, perhaps, for a miracle. Dumarest looked at his hands, thinking of others
skeined with black, of a face similarly marked, of the lovely lines of a body beautiful in its natural adornment—
thinking too of the child within the woman. She had given him her trust and he had failed her. If he hadn't shut her in
the airlock… if he had taken a little more care in killing the eels… if he had insisted that she stay on the surface…
"Earl." Selkas gripped his arm. "Stop tormenting yourself, man. It wasn't your fault."
Dumarest shrugged off the hand. "Get me the Ven brothers. Hurry!"
"What—"
"Get them!"
He dressed and stood looking down at the assembled boats—the fast raft Selkas had ridden, the others loaded
with equipment they could not use. The rising sun gilded them with touches of red and gold, the sea with green and
amber. Against the water the sound of voices was thin and distant.
To the hard-faced men who later boarded the raft he said, "I want you to catch a decapod for me. A big one. Can
you do it?"
One of the twins said, "Sure. But we'll need some equipment and it won't be cheap."
"I want it alive. Stunned."
"That won't be easy," said the other. "Those things are hard to handle."
Dumarest was curt. "You've done it before. If you haven't, find those who have. Izane will help you to track one
down and you can use our equipment. And you'll be well paid. I want one caught, stunned and waiting by the time I
get back." To Selkas he said, "now take me to the city. Fast!"

***

The director of the Dradean biological laboratory said, "I understand from Selkas that you have a problem you
wish to discuss. I trust that it is important; there are experiments which need my attention."
He was old, like his desk, the chairs, the curtains at the window. The building itself showed signs of neglect and
Dumarest could guess the rest: an institution lacking financial support; a home of science out of favor with those in
power at present—or those who had been in power. The late Owner had left his mark. The equipment would be old,
the personnel few, materials scarce. But it was all that was available.
Dumarest said, "I need your help, director. You are the only man on Dradea who can give it to me. I understand
that you are familiar with the life sciences and I want you to give me the use of your facilities, your training and your
skill."
Amplon frowned, uneasy at the unusual request. He had anticipated a demand for a subtle drug with which to
capture the favor of a woman or something to give amorous strength to a male. Such requests were common, so low
had the laboratory fallen.
"You can help me? You do have the skill?"
Amplon said, dryly, "As a young man I studied on Atin and later on Orge. I was the head of my class and was
permitted to instigate my own projects. Yes, I think you can say that I have a little skill in my profession."
"I was referring to the technicians available."
"I have a very clever young man. In fact he is brilliant. If things were different he would now be a director of his
own institution. However, that is beside the point. Just how can I help you?"
Dumarest reached for paper and pencil and drew fifteen symbols in random order. "Are these familiar to you?"
Amplon studied them. "They appertain to the life sciences?"
"Yes."
"Then they are the symbols for molecular units. I am familiar with the coding. The construction of such units is a
normal part of any biological laboratory." He looked curiously at Dumarest. "How is it that you are conversant with
the life sciences?"
Dumarest ignored the question. "Are you equipped to manufacture these units?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then please do so and please do it as fast as you possibly can."
"You didn't let me finish," said Amplon. His dignity was offended. "This isn't a shop or factory where you can
demand instant service. The equipment necessary for the construction of these units is at present engaged on a
series of experiments. It will require time to complete them and more time to do as you request." The director
paused, then added, "That is, if I agree to cooperate at all. As yet you have given me no reason why I should."
Time! Dumarest looked at the window, bright with sunlight. It had taken hours to get to the city from where the
ship had fallen and it would take as long to get back. More time to construct the units and even more to assemble
them. How to convince the director of the need for haste? The truth? He could have no love for the present situation
and must know what to expect if Montarg should inherit. The truth, then, but not all of it.
Amplon looked puzzled as Dumarest told him the facts.
"But I can't see how these units could possibly help."
"Isolated, no, but formed into a chain they might." Dumarest forestalled the obvious question. "I am not going to
tell you how and I am not going to tell you the order in which they must be assembled. All I want you to do is to
construct them. I shall assemble them myself."
"You have the skill?"
Dumarest remembered the long hours he had spent learning the necessary manual dexterity, the longer months
spent at a handful of laboratories where the resident technicians had considered him a dabbling amateur.
"Yes," he said. "I have the skill."
"Redal will help you if you need assistance. He is the young man I spoke about. I shall put him in charge of the
project."
"And you will start at once? Selkas will meet all expense," urged Dumarest. "Perhaps that isn't important to you; if
not, remember this. Once Montarg inherits, your skills will be devoted to the breeding of beasts for the arena. This
building could become a training school for fighters. If you and your profession hope to survive on Dradea then you
dare not waste a second."
Once decided, Amplon was a man of action. "I shall commence at once. Give me twelve hours and—"
"Twelve?"
"It will take that to construct the units. They need time to grow and formulate their characteristics and they must
be checked to determine whether or not they have developed undesirable traits." Amplon rose from behind his desk.
"Even with speeded techniques it cannot possibly be done in less. Twelve hours."
Dumarest glanced through the window at the sun. It was almost noon. Allowing time for the assembly and the
return, it would be as late before he could be back where the ship rested on the bottom of the Elgish Sea. If the Ven
brothers did their job it would leave less than a day before the hundred allowed by the Council had expired.
Time enough if Veruchia remained alive. If she had found the proof she needed. If nothing went wrong.
 Selkas was waiting outside. He fell into step as Dumarest strode down the shabby corridor, the sunlight harsh on
his face as they stepped outside. A bench stood beside a small pool in which floated waxen flowers. A fish leapt from
the surface as they sat, golden, dripping rubies.
"Earl?"
"If Amplon isn't a liar and if he does as he promised, Veruchia can be saved."
Selkas drew in his breath. He had followed Dumarest blindly, obeying his orders for want of a better course of
action, but he could not understand what a biological laboratory had to do with salvaging a vessel lying on the
bottom of an ocean.
He watched as another fish sprang from the water, vanishing in a glittering spray of droplets.
"Earl, I must know what you intend to do. I can't sit here, doing nothing, while Veruchia waits for death."
"There is nothing you can do, Selkas."
"Do you think I don't know that? For God's sake, Earl. If there is hope let me share it!"
Dumarest sensed his pain. Quietly he said, "You love her?"
"Not in the way you mean, but yes, I love her. To me she is the most important thing on this world. I would give
all I possess to see her standing in the sun, alive and well, smiling calling me by name." Selkas fought to regain his
composure, conscious that the mask, had slipped, the armor behind which he faced life, had slipped. "Please, Earl. If
there is a chance let me know."
Dumarest hesitated, weighing the need for secrecy against the other's need for reassurance. It would be too cruel
to remain silent.
"There is a chance," he said abruptly. "On a world remote from Dradea I came into possession of a special
technique devised in a hidden laboratory. It is the construction of an artificial symbiote named an affinity-twin. It
consists of fifteen molecular units and the reversal of one makes it either dominant or subjective. Injected into the
bloodstream it nestles in the base of the cortex, meshing with the thalamus and taking control of the entire nervous
and sensory systems. In other words the being with the dominant half of the affinity-twin takes over the body of the
host which has the subjective half. Need I tell you what that means?"
Complete domination; the intelligence of one man placed in the body of another—or the intelligence of a man
being placed in the body of a beast. Selkas drew in his breath.
"The decapod?"
"Yes."
"But will it work?"
If it didn't Veruchia would die and Dumarest with her. He looked at his hands, the bare fingers of the left, thinking
of the ring, the love-gift of Kalin. Kalin with the green eyes and flame-red hair. Brasque had given her the secret he
had stolen from the Cyclan and died. She had given it to him and died—not the shell she had worn but the real
woman whose personality had given it life. The ring had held the secret of the correct sequence in which the units
should be assembled. The ring was gone now but the secret remained locked fast in his mind—
—The secret the Cyclan would give worlds to possess because, with it, they would own the galaxy: their puppets
in every position of power; the mind of a cyber in every ruler and person of influence. No wonder they hunted him
with growing desperation.

***

The driver said, "God, look at that thing! The size of it!" His voice was shrill with disbelief.
Below the sea was alive with boats of every size. To one side Dumarest could see the rafts moving slowly as they
scanned the water. One changed course as they approached and headed towards them—Izane, probably, coming to
make his latest report. Dumarest concentrated on the scene below.
The Ven brothers had done their job. In a wide circle of boats, lying flaccid on the surface, a bloated shape spread
multiple arms in the afternoon sun.
It was huge, the body a hundred yards in length, the arms doubling the expanse, a tremendous mass of flesh and
sinew a dull blue in the sunlight, the arms covered with suckers and wreathed with spines. As he watched the arms
quivered, lifted a little, slamming down on the water and sending showers of spray high into the air. It fell quiescent
as the sharp bark of sonic explosions rent the air.
Selkas said, "Earl, you can't. Not in that thing. It isn't possible."
"It has a brain and a bloodstream. It's possible." If he had assembled the units correctly. If they worked on
creatures of differing species. If the hastily constructed units had formed true.
There had been no time for checks or testing. Dumarest closed his eyes, fighting the waves of fatigue dulling his
brain. It had been a long night with him working with Redal and the director, urging them on, forcing the pace,
making certain that no time was wasted. And then he had locked them out of the laboratory as, alone, he had put his
learned skill to the test. Afterwards he had destroyed all trace of his activities. If he should die the secret of the
correct sequence would die with him.
A jerk of the raft snapped him awake and fully aware.
Izane had come alongside and he had the Ven brothers with him. They scowled as Dumarest followed by Selkas
jumped on the raft.
"How long do you want us to hold that thing?" one demanded. "We expected you before this."
"We were delayed. Is everything under control?"
"For the moment, yes." The other stared down at the stunned creature. "We lost two boats and three men getting
that. And if you don't hurry there won't be anything left. Those damned eels will tear apart anything which can't
protect itself. What the hell do you want it for anyway?"
"That's my business. Can you get any men who are willing to go under?"
"Divers?" One of the brothers stared his disbelief. "After what happened to Shem and Larco?"
"Try and find some. Report to Selkas if you do," Dumarest waited until they had left, dropping from the raft into a
waiting boat. To Izane he said, "You have the ship spotted?"
"Three markers set as close as I can determine. It was impossible to be more precise, the ship is very deep."
"And Veruchia?"
"Nothing as yet."
It was an added complication. Dumarest drew Selkas to one side and said in a low voice, "Keep trying to contact
her. With any luck at all the quick-time she took would have lost some of its potency and she could recover her
normal metabolism at any time. Don't let her take more. If she gets in contact tell her to wear her breathing gear and
to burn a hole in the outer lock when Izane gives the word. That will equalize the pressure and allow her to escape. I'll
try to get the ship back on the continental shelf. If I can't I'll get it as near to the surface as I can. If she doesn't
recover you'll have to get divers to go down after her. Offer them a fortune if you have to, but get them."
"If I can't I'll go down myself," Selkas promised. "Do you honestly think this will work, Earl?"
"It will work. Now tell Izane to set down on the back of that thing."
He had come prepared, the subjective half of the affinity-twin loaded into a large hypodermic with the longest
needle obtainable. Dumarest jumped as the raft lowered, feet slipping on the moist skin of the decapod. It was like
standing on the slick hull of a spaceship. He ran towards the head and the buried brain. While he had worked in the
laboratory Selkas had obtained a chart of the creature's anatomy; Dumarest knew just where to dig in order to find an
artery.
When he returned to the raft he was covered with blood and slime.
"Tell them to clear the area," he ordered. "Every boat and man away, fast!" He wiped himself clean with a mass of
tissue. "If you lose track of this thing, Izane, I'll have your life."
The technician was offended. "There is no need of threats. I know my responsibilities."
"Just don't get careless." Dumarest moved to the rear of the raft and stripped off his tunic. "All right, Selkas."
Selkas picked up the second hypodermic. "Now?"
Dumarest looked down at the water, the sun bright on the waves, the scurrying boats looking like toys worked by
miniature people. He breathed deeply, fighting his inward tension, the fear of the unknown.
"Now!"
He felt the sting of the needle.

***

It was a dream, a confused jumble of disassociated impressions, an incomprehensible mass of unrelated data. He
was flying, no he was floating, no he was swimming, no he was drifting in clouds of limpid smoke. He was moving yet
stationary, unable to distinguish fact from impression. He was afraid.
Light hurt his eyes and he tried to close them, lifting his hands to shield them when the brightness persisted. He
had no hands. Instead a great veil of shadow seemed to bring relief and he felt a dull concussion. He tried again and
this time the hurtful brightness vanished to be replaced by a comforting gloom. He moved again and felt a peculiar
relief. Again and he saw long, prehensile arms stretching before him. Arms? His arms?
Again he knew fear.
Deliberately he fought it.
I am in this creature's brain, riding it as a man would ride a horse, yet I am not really here at all. Nothing can
harm me. I am safe in the raft with Selkas. Nothing can hurt me. I am safe in the raft with Selkas. I am not really here
at all.
 It didn't help. Because he was here. He could see the thing he had become, the reality of a dreadful nightmare in
which his body had become grotesquely distorted and trapped in a totally unfamiliar environment. And he wasn't
alone. He could sense another entity close by as a man would sense the presence of an animal in a room: a dull
bewilderment as primitive survival instincts failed to function as they should, an increasing terror as Dumarest tried
to consciously control his new body.
It was the wrong method. He was a man, used to two arms, two legs, the pull of gravity. He lacked the necessary
coordination to manipulate a machine with multiple limbs and a different set of responses. Given time he could have
learned a certain control but there was no time and there was no need. He could dominate but he didn't have to
replace. The essential habit patterns were already built into the creature's brain; he could use them merely by thinking
the appropriate instructions.
He thought, "Go down!"
The gloom increased yet he could still see clearly, the decapod's eyes adjusting to the diminished light. A school
of fish appeared before him and he swept them towards his mouth with automatic reflex, tasting nothing, not even
aware of the rush of water which carried the food. And it was a normal response: how often does a man consciously
direct the act of breathing?
He headed towards the shore. He didn't know in which direction it lay but the decapod did. The water lightened
and Dumarest felt a growing uneasiness. The warning mechanisms of survival reacted as they should. This region of
the sea was dangerous to the creature he had become.
He overrode the cautionary signals, turning at the edge of the shelf where a wall of rock reared high before him.
Eels darted from undersea caverns, jaws wide, snapping at his limbs and falling back as he lashed at the sinuous
shapes. He dove deeper, trying to leave the pests behind. The gloom deepened and objects lost their sharp definition.
He moved onwards looking for the cables which would mark the position of the vessel. He found one and dived for
the bottom.
It looked smaller than he remembered, almost a toy as it lay in the thick ooze, and then he remembered that it
wasn't small at all—it was just that the decapod had a different value of size. He approached it, sending the tentacles
questing over the surface, trying to get a firm grip. Twice he failed and then the tip of one of the arms found the open
port of the cargo hold. This time, when he lifted upwards, the ship came with him. He rose faster, hugging the wall,
ignoring the eels which came darting to tear at his flesh. Blood streamed from a dozen places but he felt no pain.
More eels appeared attracted by the scent and he rose as if surrounded by a swarm of flies. The water lightened and
the edge of the shelf came into sight. He moved towards it, up and over, ship and arms scraping the bottom, higher
still until the great bulk of his body scraped the bottom and the dazzling light of the sun burned his eyes.
It was impossible to get the vessel on dry land. Its weight was too great once it had lost the support of the water
and he had no room in which to maneuver. He left it and pushed himself back towards the depths. Now he felt the
sting of his wounds, a nagging ache from where flesh had been ripped away. He moved faster, drawing the predators
away from the vessel, trailing a stream of blood and a horde of voracious eels. Undominated the decapod would have
lashed at them, defending itself, finding safety in flight it it were possible or battle if it were not.
But Dumarest had no reason to keep it alive.
Trapped in the mind of the creature, it had to die before he could escape. And he had to experience every
moment of its passing. He watched as the eels tore at his arms, severed portions floating past his eyes, felt the jaws
rip deeper and deeper into his body, the pain mounting until it became a red tide—waiting, suffering, longing for the
final dissolution.

***

Selkas said, "I was worried, Earl. I didn't know what to do. At first I thought you'd died and then, well, I had to use
restraints."
Dumarest looked at the bruises on his arms, the welts on his body.
"You were all right at first and then you really began to struggle." Selkas wrung a cloth out in water and handed it
to Dumarest. Slowly he laved his face and neck.
"Veruchia?"
"We got her out as you planned. I managed to get a couple of divers, the Ven brothers; I think they'd do anything
for money. They were only just in time. The air had run out and she was unconscious, dying. They fed her air from
their own tanks and got her up immediately. Izane is with her. He knows something about medicine."
"Did she find what she was looking for?"
"I don't know. I told you, she was unconscious and Izane gave her something to make her sleep. An anti-shock
capsule. He said that she had probably accepted the concept of death and the trauma had to be overcome. But she'll
be all right, thank God."
Dumarest looked at Selkas and then beyond him to where the stars shone bright against the canopy of the raft. It
had been afternoon when he had entered the body of the decapod, night when he returned to his own. He leaned
back, eyes misted with thought. The beast had been a long time dying. The great bulk had taken tremendous
punishment and, towards the last, the primitive mind had fought with a savage intensity to stay alive. Some of that
energy must have been transmitted to the subjective half of the affinity-twin. It would account for the necessity of
restraints.
"I should have had you drugged, Earl, but I was afraid it might do more harm than good. I didn't know how the
compound might affect the thing you had injected into your brain. I was afraid to take the chance. At times I wished
that I had because you looked scarcely human. And then when Veruchia was carried to the surface and I knew that
she was alive and well and would walk and talk and smile again… Earl! How can I thank you? What can I do?"
Dumarest rose to his feet. "The job isn't finished yet."
"What do you mean?"
"We didn't go through all this for nothing. We have until noon tomorrow for Veruchia to prove to the Council her
right to inherit. Let us find out if she has that proof."
She looked very small lying on a heap of nets in a hut close to where the waves sent ripples over the sand. The
ebon tracery on her face blended with the mesh of the nets so that it seemed they covered her with their delicate
strands. The bars of silver in her hair caught the light and reflected it in gleams of brightness.
Selkas looked at her, his arms aching to hold her as they had ached when she had been just a child. He resisted
the temptation now as he had then. If Lisa had lived! But she had died and her memory was not to be sullied. In that
bad time he had found refuge in flight, visiting a dozen worlds and thickening the armor of his assumed cynicism.
Now he had to be stronger.
"I have given her a neutralizing drug," said Izane. "She will awake soon but I must repeat my warning that this is
most unwise. There is a danger of disorientation and later relapse."
"Leave us." Selkas was sharp; the fool didn't know the strength of his patient. As he left Selkas dropped to his
knees, one hand stroking the shining mane of hair. "Veruchia, my dear. Veruchia. Wake up, my child. My child." His
words betrayed him.
"Selkas?" She smiled, sleepily. "Is it you?"
"Wake up, Veruchia."
"I had a most unusual dream," she murmured. "I thought that I had found something wonderful and then,
suddenly, everything went wrong and I was alone again." Her eyes widened as memory returned. "Earl?"
"He is alive and well and looking at you this very moment."
"Earl!" She surged upright, arms extended. "Earl, my darling. You saved me. I knew that you would save me."
He felt the pressure of her lips, the heat of her body as it strained against his own. She was full of demand, a
woman resurrected and filled with the desire of life. How often had he experienced the same euphoria when riding
Low: the heady intoxication when the journey was safely over and he had risen from the cabinet as from a coffin.
Gently he freed the grip of her arms. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Earl?"
He remembered that she must still be a little confused. Patiently he said, "Was that the First Ship? Did it contain
the proof you need in order to inherit?"
"Yes, Earl. Yes!" She looked wildly around. "I had a book. It was tucked under the straps of my breathing
equipment. Where—"
"It will be with your equipment," said Selkas. "The Ven brothers left it in the next hut."
"Get it. Don't let it out of your sight. It is the logbook of the First Ship. Selkas, Earl, I was right! The old legends
did not lie. The owner's name was Chron, not Dickarn. Dickarn was the captain but he didn't own the ship. And he
wasn't the First Owner of this world. Chron died just after landing and Dickarn took over full command. He married
Chron's widow and that's how the confusion began. But Chron was the First Owner. It's all in the book. I had time to
read it while I was waiting."
"Before you took the quick-time?" Selkas frowned.
"After. While I waited for the ship to lift and rescue to arrive." She sighed, happily. "We won, Earl. We took a
gamble and we've won. I am the new Owner of Dradea."

Chapter Eight
Montarg heard the news at dawn and within an hour was at Surat's door. Early as it was the cyber was at his desk.
He rose as the visitor rushed towards him, gesturing at the acolyte who moved to step between them. Montarg was
furious but there would be no need for defense. Even in his rage the man knew better than to offer violence to a
servant of the Cyclan.
"You've heard?" Montarg glared at the cyber. "That bitch has found what she was looking for. Even now she is on
her way to the Council and everyone expects that at noon she will be the new Owner." Rage made it impossible for
him to remain still. His feet thudded on the floor as he paced the chamber. "So much for your predictions, Surat. The
meanest fool in the city could have done as well."
"I do not foretell the future, my lord. I merely predict the most probable outcome of any series of events but
never have I claimed to be infallible. Always there is the unknown factor."
"Excuses, cyber?"
"Facts, my lord."
"I trusted you to advise me. You predicted that I would be recognized by the Council, and what happened? Your
prediction was wrong and Veruchia gained a hundred days. Again you predicted that she would not discover the First
Ship, yet she did. And when she fell to the bottom trapped in the hull it seemed certain that she would die. Yet she
lives. Three predictions, cyber, the last of the order of ninety-nine percent probability."
Surat's even modulation was in sharp contrast to Montarg's raving. "The decision of the Council was your own
fault, my lord. Your conduct antagonized them and made them agreeable to grant the woman time to prove her
claim. The discovery of the vessel was pure chance. As you will remember my prediction was ninety-two percent that
she would not."
"And the last? Ninety-nine percent that she would not survive?"
"Ninety-nine percent is not certainty, my lord. Nothing can ever be certain. There is always—"
"The unknown factor," snapped Montarg, interrupting. "In this case a man called Dumarest. He saved her. I think
I shall kill him for that."
"That would be most unwise."
"Why? What is that man to you? Scum from the arena, a traveler, I should have arranged his death long ago."
Montarg dropped his hand to his belt. He wore a dagger in an ornate sheath. Drawing the blade he looked at the
bright steel. "I ordered a thousand of these," he said. "To be given to graduates as a symbol of the new culture of this
world." Abruptly he threw the weapon, the blade quivering as it buried its point in the desk. "Veruchia," he said. "That
bitch will never be the Owner."
Surat looked at his desk. The knife was inches from where his hand rested on the surface but he had no effort to
move it, predicting the path of the blade even as Montarg had thrown it. A stupid, emotional gesture without logic or
reason, typical of the man and typical of all those who were slaves to glandular secretions. How could such people
hope to control the destiny of worlds? How could they formulate policies and determine actions when, at any
moment, they could fall victim to hate and fear and anger? Emotion was insanity.
And yet it could be used. Surat pondered. Would it be best to allow the man to kill Veruchia? The Council would
take revenge, true, but his son would inherit and regents be found to hold the planet in trust—the Council, perhaps,
there were precedents. But such an arrangement would complicate matters. One man was easier to guide than many
and the central intelligence had ordered a speeding-up of the program. So Montarg must inherit.
He watched as the man retrieved his dagger and thrust it back into its sheath. The act of throwing it seemed to
have acted as a catharsis and when he spoke it was in a tone calmer than before.
"Make me a prediction, cyber. What is the probability that Veruchia will inherit?"
"If she has the necessary proof, my lord, and my informants tell me she has, the probability of her becoming the
new Owner is almost certain."
"Wrong." Montarg gave his silent laugh. "Her ancestry is in doubt. I have reason to believe that Oued was not her
father. A biological examination of her genetic factors could prove it beyond question. Amplon could do it. The old
fool would have no choice if the Council made a direct order. I'll get on to him now. Where is your phone."
He reached the instrument before Surat could object, punched a number, spoke, waited with a frown. Again he
snapped into the instrument, his voice rising with mounting impatience. When finally he turned away his eyes were
puzzled.
"Amplon is dead."
Amplon and Redal both, the one as a precaution, the other because he had failed. Placed in the laboratory for one
reason only, he had missed the chance when it came. He had failed to obtain the correct sequence of molecular units
and the Cyclan had no time for those who did not succeed. His body was in the pool weighed with lead.
"It is no loss, my lord," said Surat evenly. "He would not have been able to help you."
"There are others. We can send for a biotechnician if necessary. I'm convinced that Selkas fathered Lisa's child."
"Even so it makes no difference, my lord. Her claim is based on the maternal, not the paternal side. Lisa was in
direct descent from Chron and there is no doubt that Veruchia is her child."
"Then she must die. And the man Dumarest with her."
"No, my lord. Not the man."
Surat could not feel emotion and his voice was always evenly modulated but, even so, Montarg sensed a peculiar
strain. Curiously he studied the thin face, the hard, almost stonelike features beneath the shaven skull, his innate
intuition jumping gaps of logic and arriving at an instinctive conclusion.
Surat kept insisting that Dumarest remain unharmed.
Why? What possible reason could the cyber have for protecting such a man? What connection could there be
between a common traveler, a fighter in the arena and the world-embracing organization of the Cyclan?
Quietly he said, "Dumarest. The unknown factor. There is a mystery as to how Veruchia was rescued. Dumarest,
somehow, seemed to have managed to control the actions of a decapod. Yes, I have my informants, too. I was kept
notified." He frowned, thinking. "Both Dumarest and Selkas visited the biological laboratory. A series of experiments
was discontinued and the entire resources of the building concentrated on the manufacture of fifteen molecular units.
A member of the staff thought I should know, he was eager to maintain good relations with the next Owner." He
scowled. "The next probable Owner. I thought him a fool, but now I am not so sure. And now Amplon is dead and his
assistant nowhere to be found. A mystery, Surat, don't you agree?"
"A series of unrelated incidents, my lord."
"Such talk from a cyber? Can any series of incidents be unrelated?" Montarg stood, brooding, unaware of the
acolyte edging close, ready to send a poisoned dart into his flesh if Surat should give the signal, a poison which would
kill, not immediately, but in a hour when he was safely away and no suspicion would be aroused.
"Dumarest has something you want," he said abruptly. "A secret of some kind. I can think of no other explanation
why you insist he must remain unharmed. Fifteen units—assembled in a certain order, perhaps? Is that it?"
His intuition was incredible; somehow he had stumbled on the correct answer. A guess, perhaps, but one which
would normally have earned him immediate death. A gesture and the thing would be done, but Surat did not give the
signal. Montarg was more fortunate than he could ever suspect.
The Cyclan had made plans for this world and he was a part of them. The need for haste dictated that he inherit
and Surat was a devoted servant of the organization which he served. Yet if he became certain that Dumarest was of
prime importance to the Cyclan he would have a weapon against them. It was a dilemma which had to be resolved.
"Fifteen units," Montarg said again. "But no, if it were simply a matter of finding the correct order you could try
them all."
Any mathematician would reveal his error.
"The possible number of combinations of fifteen units runs into millions, my lord. If it were possible to try one
new sequence each second it would take four thousand years to test them all."
"Then he does have the secret?"
It was time for a little truth. "Yes, my lord. A thing stolen from the Cyclan."
"And you want it back." Montarg threw back his head as he gave his silent laugh. "A bargain, cyber. See that I
inherit and I will tell you how to get what you want."
His intuition had failed him. He did not realize that he was offering to give away the greatest power a man could
know.

***

The house was as she remembered. The flowers wilted, dead in the vases, but otherwise everything was the
same. Veruchia stood for a moment in the hall, relaxing in the familiar embrace, little things sharply clear: a toy she
had cherished as a child; a picture framed and hanging a little askew on a wall; a dish made of shells collected on a
bright day when, as a child, she had first seen the awesome expanse of the sea.
Selkas caught her arm as she made to run from the hall into the rooms.
"A moment."
"But this is my house! Surely I am safe here?"
"You haven't inherited yet," said Dumarest. "There are still two hours to noon. Wait here until I check."
She frowned as he moved from room to room. Was it always going to be like this? Fearing every shadow in case it
had a lurking assassin? Did every ruler have to be surrounded by guards and watchful eyes? She relaxed as Dumarest
returned, throwing off the momentary chill. This was her home and in it she was safe, as she would always be safe
while he was at her side.
Selkas watched as she left the hall, seeing her smile, her undisguised pleasure.
"She is happy," he said. "I have never seen her so radiant. Not even when I called to take you both to the Council.
She was happy then, but this is something I have wished for all her life."
Dumarest said, "Your daughter?"
"You guessed." Selkas drew in his breath. "She must never know. Lisa was a wonderful woman and Oued was my
friend. There was a time of sweet madness—I make no excuses. Do you love her?"
"In a matter of hours she will own a world."
"And you are a man and you have your pride. But I think that you love her, Earl. Why else did you risk your life?"
"For information."
"Only that?" Selkas smiled his disbelief. "Well, no matter. Shall we wait in the study?"
The book Veruchia had found lay on the desk, old, stained with water, the writing cramped and precise. Dumarest
leafed through it as Selkas poured two glasses of brandy. He shook his head at the offered drink.
"No thank you."
"Disappointed, Earl?"
The book contained nothing but the record of the journey, the account of the first few years. The navigational
tables he had hoped to find were gone, carried away by the gush of air when the port had been opened, perhaps, or
taken out of the ship years ago. Yet there were clues.
"This world was settled from a planet named Hensh," said Selkas. "There is mention of Quell and Allmah, but
nothing of Earth."
Three planets. Dumarest hunted through the book looking for their reference. The captain had been stringently
precise. Each world carried a set of figures after the name.
"Selkas, is there a planetary almanac here?"
"I don't know. Shall I ask Veruchia?"
"Never mind." Dumarest was at the shelves, searching. He pulled a thick volume from where it rested and carried
it back to the desk. Quickly he leafed through it. "Hensh," he said. "Selkas! The coordinates are not the same!"
"Are you certain?"
"Look for yourself." Dumarest's finger stabbed at the almanac and then at the notation in the log book. He riffled
more pages. "Quell and Allmah, both the same. Neither has a modern reference." He leaned back, thinking. "The ship
must have used the original navigational tables. That is why the coordinates given are not the same as those now
used."
"In that case—" Selkas broke off what he was about to suggest. "No, Earl. It must be a mistake. A private code of
the captain, perhaps. They needn't be coordinates at all."
Dumarest wasn't listening. He looked at the stained pages and the three sets of figures the long-dead captain had
left. Had that man known Earth? Had he been able to look at the sky and single out the star which warmed the planet
he yearned to find?
Three sets of figures; three items of information which could be fed into a computer for the machine to devise an
analogue of the tables from which they must have come, tables which would have used as their zero-point the region
he needed to find—the planet Earth, perhaps, it was possible.
Home!
Dumarest looked at his hands. They trembled a little and he reached for the brandy Selkas had poured, warming
the goblet between his palms. A journey to a planet selling computer services; a wait while the analogue was
constructed and comparisons made and then, at last, his search could be over.
Success made him dizzy.
No, not success.
He looked at the untouched brandy in his hands, at the figure of Selkas slumped in a chair, and surged to his feet.
"Veruchia!"
"What is it, darling?" She was casual, unaware of danger. "Earl?"
She reached the study as men burst into the hall.
"A neat little house," said Montarg. "Small and snug and nicely warm. A fit setting for a pearl even if it is flawed."
He moved restlessly about the hall, alive with bursting energy. "A neat trick as I think you'll agree. A hole bored
through the wall and a gas fed into the atmosphere. Simple, quick and efficient. The men were hardly necessary but
Surat insisted that I use caution. Right, cyber?"
"The unexpected must always be anticipated, my lord."
"So we brought men with us just in case your tame dog could do without breathing, Veruchia." Montarg paused
behind her chair. "Are you comfortable, cousin?" He tightened the strap a little. "Better now?"
She refused to give him satisfaction, sitting with tight lips as the strap binding her body and arms to the back of
the chair dug into her flesh. He scowled, taking up another notch.
"Well, scum of the arena? Aren't you going to plead for your slut?"
 Dumarest ignored him, looking about the hall. Like Veruchia he was strapped to a chair, the broad leather band
holding his upper arms close to his body, his body tight to the wooden back. Selkas was nowhere to be seen. Aside
from Veruchia and Montarg the hall was deserted but for the cyber and one of his acolytes. The men who had rushed
into the house had been sent away. The gas which had robbed him of strength dissipated.
"Answer me when I speak!" Montarg stepped forward, the back of his hand lashing across Dumarest's face. A ring
he wore caught the lip and sent blood into his mouth.
Dumarest said, "Is this what you call the mystique of combat?"
"You mock me?"
"To torture a helpless woman and to beat a helpless man." Dumarest spat a mouthful of blood. It landed on
Montarg's foot. "You are a brave warrior, my lord."
Rage drew Montarg's face into a livid mask. He raised his hand again and sent the ring to tear a furrow across
Dumarest's check. As it landed he kicked at the floor and sent the chair slipping across the polished wood to slam
against the wall. Montarg followed and the acolyte moved forward a little as he raised his hand to strike a third blow.
"My lord." Surat's even modulation was like water thrown on a fire. "We waste time. The Council is due to assemble in
an hour. It would be most unwise to keep it waiting."
"They will wait. They have no choice."
"Even so, my lord, we have no time to waste."
Montarg sneered. "What you really mean is that you don't want me to hurt your property. All right, cyber, I
understand." He looked down at Dumarest. "Listen, you filth. You have a secret the cyber wants to learn. You will tell
him what he wants to know or the girl will suffer."
Dumarest glanced to where Surat stood like a living flame in the scarlet of his robe. He and Montarg working in
partnership? It was impossible, the Cyclan admitted of no equal. Montarg was being used, then, manipulated to the
cyber's ends. He tensed the muscles of arms and shoulders. The chair felt like a rock. Flatly he said, "Why should that
worry me?"
"Because she is soft and helpless and you are a fool."
"Because you are in love with her and would hate to see her flayed alive."
Dumarest shrugged. "She is only a woman. My secret is worth a million of them."
It was logic the cyber could appreciate. Montarg's promise had depended on the power of emotion and Surat had
no means of calculating the power of love. He had never known it and could never know it. And now there was no
need of Montarg's further help. He had Dumarest and what was in his mind could be learned.
"My lord, this has gone far enough. With your permission I will take the man and go."
"If you do you won't get far, cyber." Montarg was grim. Also he was curious; if the secret were so important he
wanted to know it. "I've men outside and they have their orders. If you leave without me they will hold you. They
might even kill you and the man you value so much also. We'll do this my way, as we agreed."
"Your way is not working, my lord."
"It'll work. Don't be deluded by what he said. I know better and so does the woman. Once she begins to scream,
he'll soon talk."
"Earl?" Veruchia was puzzled. "What's this all about? What is it he wants to know?"
"Shut your mouth," snapped Montarg.
Dumarest rammed him in the stomach.
He threw himself forward, using the weight of the chair to accentuate his own, his head landing just above the
groin. Before Montarg had fallen he had jerked backwards, slamming the chair against the wall. The construction was
solid. It did not break though he felt the joints yield a little. Before he could try again the acolyte had run forward,
holding him firm with irresistible strength.
Montarg was strangely calm. He rose, breathing heavily, a thin patina of sweat shining on his face. He walked
towards Veruchia flexing his hands. He gripped.
She screamed.
The screams rose to shrieks interspersed with a frantic pleading. "Don't! Please don't. Earl, help me!"
He strained, feeling the strap yield a little, the back of the chair begin to break.
The shrieks became a raw sound of agony. Dumarest felt the sweat on his face, the sting as it touched the gash on
his cheek and the cut on his lip. The acolyte stared at him with detached interest and he forced himself to be patient.
Too soon and they would be suspicious. Too late and he would have caused the girl unnecessary pain.
Montarg stepped away from the chair and looked at Veruchia. She slumped, whimpering, the sound of an animal
hurt and not knowing why.
"I think you must be enjoying this, Dumarest." His face held a satiated expression. "But unless you talk soon she
will never be normal again. I am giving her a respite, otherwise she will faint and so escape my attentions. In a short
while I will begin removing the skin from her face and body. The design she carries will make it interesting. Alternate
patches, yes? An art form of red and white edged with black. But now there is a little something I have often wanted
to try."
Her shriek tore the air.
"No!" Dumarest surged against his bonds. "Leave her alone. I'll tell you what you want to know."
"You see, cyber?" Montarg was triumphant. "The power of love. It is strong enough to overcome even his
reluctance to yield the secret."
"That we shall see, my lord."
"You doubt it?" Montarg smiled. "He knows better than to lie. If he hopes to gain time or a respite for his woman
he will regret it. The next time I shall not stop so soon. Well, Dumarest? What is this precious knowledge."
"The sequence of the molecular units forming the affinity-twin," said Dumarest quickly. Had he known? From his
expression Dumarest guessed he had. But the rest? "It enabled me to control the decapod."
"Some form of hypnotic chemical?" Montarg shrugged. "Well, tell the cyber and get it over with."
He didn't know. For a moment Dumarest was tempted to try and set one against the other, to bribe Montarg with
golden promises, but he knew that it would be of no use. He would be suspicious of such an obvious attempt to win
his support.
Instead he said, "And afterwards? What happens then?"
"Nothing. Both you and the woman will be set free."
He was lying. Veruchia would be killed and himself taken by the Cyclan. Surat would never trust him to give the
correct sequence. He would be held while tests were made, his brain probed for the true information. The cyber must
have his own reasons for this farce.
"I'll have to write it down," said Dumarest. "You'll have to free my arms."
"That will be unnecessary. You have movement enough." Surat nodded at his acolyte. "Give him paper and
something with which to write."
It was a stylo, long, slender, the point tapering to an ink-loaded ball. Dumarest scrawled the symbols in random
order, accentuating his difficulty.
"Show me." Montarg moved close as Surat studied the paper. "Is that the secret? I want a copy."
"Certainly, my lord." Surat had anticipated the demand. "He will write you one."
Dumarest crouched over the paper. Surat was being subtle. It was hard to remember fifteen units scrawled at
random. If the second copy did not match the first it would prove it false. If it did he would have a point to work on
should anything happen to rob him of his source of information.
"Let me see!" Montarg snatched the paper. "Are they the same?" Both men concentrated on the scrawled
symbols.
It was the moment Dumarest had waited for. He surged, the soles of his feet hard against the floor, the muscles of
loins and back cracking as he fought to straighten against the cramping bulk of the chair. Wood shattered, weakened
by the previous blows, the chair disintegrating into its various parts.
As the acolyte grabbed at him Dumarest's hand rose, the stylo resting against his palm, the point shearing into the
eye and the brain beneath.
"No!" Surat jumped before Montarg as he clawed at the laser in his sleeve. If Dumarest should be killed his life
was ended, his future, the reward of being assimilated into central intelligence.
"Stand aside, you fool!" Montarg had the gun out, the barrel leveling as Dumarest tore free the hampering strap.
"Stand aside!"
He swore as the cyber still blocked his aim and ran to where Veruchia sagged against her bonds. Dumarest
lunged towards him. He saw the gun steady its aim, the whiteness of Montarg's knuckle as he pressed the trigger.
The first shot missed. The second burned a groove on the slope of his shoulder and then he was on the man, his
left hand flashing out to grip the weapon, to raise and turn it as Montarg fired again. He heard the hiss of seared flesh
and twisted, seeing Surat fall, a charred hole in the shaven expanse of his skull.
Dumarest dropped his free hand to the dagger in its ornate sheath, lifted it, held it so the light shone on the blade.
"No! Please, no!"
"For Veruchia, Montarg," said Dumarest.
And slammed the dagger into his heart.

***

The city was celebrating. Lights shone on every building and the streets were full of people, men and women
dancing to the tune of wandering musicians, wine and food free at every intersection. Riding high above the noise
and confusion Veruchia could hardly believe that it was all for her.
"An old tradition," said Selkas. "Each new Owner is expected to squander some rent in providing a feast. When
Chorzel inherited he offered land to every man who could run to the Ulam Depression and back in a day. Three
managed to do it." He fell silent, thinking. "That was before he instigated the games."
"What made him do it, Selkas?"
"Send men to die in the arena? You've heard all the reasons many times."
Dumarest said, "He was guided by the Cyclan. You need no better reason than that."
He sat beside the canopy, not looking at the others, not wanting to be with them, but Veruchia had insisted. She
had been Owner for a day and had still to learn that rule carried responsibility. And she had still to realize the danger
which lurked and would always lurk, waiting to trap the unwary.
"Surat gave him bad advice," said Selkas. "Is that what you mean?"
"I mean that the Cyclan deliberately tried to ruin this world and they've almost done it. Had Montarg inherited
they would have succeeded. You don't need me to tell you that. You have a civilized culture here and it has been
contaminated by barbaric influences. You've traveled, Selkas, you know. It takes little to veer the course of a planet's
progress. Without commerce, ships don't call and without ships there is an inevitable indrawing and stagnation. It's
your job, Veruchia, to alter the trend. Shut the arena or, better, let it be for honest sport. Real games, not festivals of
blood."
Dumarest thought of Sadoua. His life was the arena. Well, life was a constant struggle. He would survive.
"But why?" asked Veruchia. "What possible reason could the Cyclan have for wanting this world to become so
isolated?"
Dumarest looked at the stars; they were dimmed by the brilliance from below. But the question had started a train
of thought. The Cyclan did nothing without reason. Their iron logic dictated that everything they did moved to a
determined end and he knew how devious they could be.
He said, slowly, "This is a theory, nothing more. What happens when a world progresses? Commerce increases,
the population grows, ships are plentiful and, if there are suitable worlds nearby, they too will share in the expansion.
It could be that the Cyclan didn't want Dradea to become viable to prevent that very thing."
Which meant the organization did not want this sector of space to become too well-traversed. Did they have
something to hide? A sector they wished to keep isolated? A world which had to remain untouched?
Earth, perhaps?
He sat brooding as the raft sloped across the sky to settle at the edge of the city before familiar walls.
"Home," said Veruchia. "My home."
Not the palace: that was too large, too overwhelming as yet, and for reasons of her own she wanted the privacy
of familiar surroundings. Selkas knew what was in her mind and was smoothly diplomatic.
"I'll call for you tomorrow," he said. "There's a lot to be done and you'll have to move into the palace in order to
do it. Then there is the Council to meet and decisions to be made. I'll see you too, Earl. There are certain matters to
be settled."
Money, his pay and, perhaps, other things.
"We can do it now," said Dumarest. "I'll come with you."
"Tomorrow will do. Tonight Veruchia needs you."
Dumarest looked at the girl where she stood before the open door of her house. She turned, smiling before
passing inside. Around the walls inconspicuous men stood quietly on watch. There was no longer any need for him to
guard against assassins. The Owner of a world did not lack bodyguards.
"She loves you," said Selkas evenly. "Surely you know that. And she needs strength and reassurance if she is to
rule this world and guide it the way it must go. You can give her that strength, Earl. You must."
"Must?"
"Have you never been in love, Earl? Don't you know what it is to have one person fill your world? To think of
your future always with that one person in mind?" Selkas caught Dumarest's expression and was suddenly contrite.
"I'm sorry. I've wakened hurtful memories. You must forgive me."
Dumarest looked at the house, the canopy, the hard lines of his reflection. The dead should not be able to hurt so
much—not when they had loved so deep.
"When Lisa died I thought I would go mad," whispered Selkas. "I couldn't believe that I would never see her
again. Always she was around the next corner, in the next room, but she never was. And always, always, she haunts
my dreams. I don't want that to happen to Veruchia. Not now, not yet, not ever if it can be avoided. In her life she has
known too much sorrow. Don't add to it, Earl. Go to her. She needs you."
She was singing as he entered the house, a Kiting melody reflecting her happiness. She called out as he closed the
door and stood leaning against it, looking at the hall. The blood had gone, the broken chair, the bodies he had left
lying. Only a seared patch on a wall and another on the polished floor told of the violence this place had known.
"Earl? Is that you, my darling?"
"Yes, Veruchia."
"So formal! Has Selkas gone?"
"Yes."
He moved into the study and helped himself to brandy, warming the goblet as he looked at the ranked books and
the ancient maps. One, more modern, was that of Dradea, and he stood looking at it as he sipped the brandy. The
desert of Wend, the glacier of Cosne, the broad expanse of the Elgish Sea where they both had nearly died—where
he had died.
He drank, more deeply this time, not wanting to remember the pain, the growing darkness, the last wash of
oblivion. Was death really like that? Would it come again as it had before? Or would it come quick and fast,
unsuspected and merciful in lack of anticipation?
The goblet was empty. He refilled it and again studied the map. Dradea was a fair world with great potential. A
city could be built there. Another at the foot of those hills. A port could fit into that natural harbor and space-fields
could stretch in a dozen places.
"It's a beautiful planet, Earl. And it's all ours."
"Yours, Veruchia."
"Ours, darling. Yours and mine."
She had changed and was wearing a thin robe of gossamer, laced down the front, open at the shoulders, the black
lace merging with the natural adornment of her flesh so that it was hard to see where the one ended and the other
began. Her hair streamed loose and silken, silver against jet, comet trails against a midnight sky. Her eyes were
luminous. Her lips were full and faintly moist. It seemed incredible that he had ever likened her to a boy.
"Yours and mine," she repeated. "We share it. There was a bargain, remember?"
One made after a night of love when she had been desperate for his help. But at least she had remembered. She
was a woman who would never forget anything.
"No," he said. "Shared responsibility never works and what would I do with half a planet? You keep it. You won it
and it's yours."
She didn't argue, knowing as he did the dissension which would arise, the cabals formed by those jealous of a
stranger. And Montarg's son would provide a nucleus for rebellion.
"Then I'll make you a High Tenant with land enough to make you independent and money enough so that you
can do as you please."
It was good to have power, to make decisions and to give rewards. She watched as Dumarest poured brandy into
a glass, taking it as he lifted his own.
"A toast, Veruchia. To the most beautiful Owner this world has ever known. The most beautiful it could ever
have."
She felt herself grow hot with pleasure and was suddenly conscious of the thing which had set her apart. He
caught the hand which lifted, unconsciously, to her face.
"No, Veruchia, I want to see you while I have the chance. Within a week every woman on this planet will have
copied your markings. The price of fame, my dear. They will all want to look like the Owner. But only the Owner will
be unique."
"Earl! My darling!"
The goblet fell as she moved into his arms, the brandy spilling unheeded on the floor. She wound her arms
around his neck and pressed against him with mounting demand. He responded and happiness suffused her like a
flood.
He would stay.
For a while, at least, he would stay.
He would forget his dream of finding Earth, of returning home. Home was where the heart resided and soon he
would accept that.
"Earl?"
"Darling?"
"You'll never leave me?"
She felt the sudden tension, the reluctance to answer and closed his lips with her own before he could reply. He
had traveled all his life and it was a habit hard to break. The time would come when he would yearn to be on his way
again, looking, searching, moving from world to world. He might even go, it was a chance she had to take. A bigger
chance that, if he did, he would return.
But he wouldn't go tonight.
 He wouldn't go tomorrow.
He might never go at all. He wouldn't be the first man who had lost a world for the love of a woman.

MAYENNE

Chapter One
Dumarest heard the sound as he left his cabin, a thin, penetrating wail, almost a scream, then he relaxed as he
remembered the Ghenka who had joined the ship at Frell. She was in the salon, entertaining the company with her
undulating song, accompanying herself with the crystalline tintinnabulation of tiny bells. She wore the full Ghenka
costume, her body covered, her face a mask of paint, the curlicues of gold and silver, ruby and jet set with artfully
placed gems which caught and reflected the light in splinters of darting brilliance so that her features seemed to be
alive with jeweled and crawling insects.
She was, he assumed, no longer young. No Ghenka in her prime would be found on a vessel plying this far from
the center of the galaxy; rich worlds and wealthy patrons were too far apart. Someone on the decline, he guessed,
unable or unwilling to meet rising competition, going to where she would be both novel and entrancing. Not that it
mattered. Whatever her age there was no denying the trained magic of her voice.
He leaned back against the wall and allowed the hypnotic cadences to wash over his conscious mind, dulling
reality and triggering sequences of unrelated imagery. A wide ocean beneath an emerald sky. A slender girl seated on
a rock, her hair a ripple of purest silver as it streamed in the wind, the lines of her body the epitome of grace. A fire
and a ring of intent faces, leaping flames and the distant keening of mourning women. Ice glittering as it fell in
splintered shards, ringing in crystal destruction. Goblets shattering and spilling blood-red wine, the chime of
chandeliers, the hiss of meeting blades, harsh, feral, the turgid chill of riding Low.
"Fascinating." The low voice at his side broke his reverie. Chom Roma held unsuspected depths of artistic
appreciation. The plump hand he raised to stroke his jowl, matted with hair and gaudy with rings, trembled a little.
"Fascinating," he repeated. "And dangerous. Such a song can lead a man into memories he would prefer to forget. For
a moment there I was young again, a slim boy flushed with the triumph of his first sale. And there was a girl with
lambent eyes and skin the hue of a pearl." He fell silent, brooding, then shook his head. "No, Earl, such dreams are
not for men like us."
Dumarest made no comment; softly as the entrepreneur had spoken his voice had been a jarring irritation. There
would be time for talk later, but now the spell was too strong and, he agreed, too dangerous. A man should not
become enamored of mental imagery. The past was dead, to resurrect it, even by song-induced stimulation, was
unwise.
Ignoring the Ghenka he concentrated instead on the salon and the company it contained. Both were familiar from
countless repetitions; a low room fitted with tables and chairs, dispensers against a wall, the floor scarred with usage
and time. The assembly a collection of men and women with money enough to afford a High passage, their
metabolism slowed by the magic of quick-time so that an hour became a minute, months shortened into days. Yet
even so the journey was tedious; in this part of the galaxy worlds were none too close, and entertainment, because of
that, the more highly appreciated.
The song ended and he heard a ragged sigh as the bells fell silent, the company blinking a little, silent as they
regretted lost imagery, then breaking the tension with a storm of applause. A shower of coins fell at the Ghenka's feet
and she stooped, gathering them up, bowing as she left the salon. Dumarest caught her eyes as she passed close to
where he stood, deep pits of smoldering jet flecked with scarlet. Her perfume was sharp, almost acrid, and yet not
unpleasant.
Quietly he said, "Thank you, my lady, for the display of your skill. A truly remarkable performance. The company
is honored."
"You are most gracious, my lord." Even when speaking her voice held a wailing lilt, "I have other songs if you
would care to hear them. If you would prefer a private session it could be arranged."
"I will consider it." Dumarest added more coins to the heap clutched in her hand. "In the meantime again receive
my thanks."
It was dismissal, but she did not leave. "You go to Selegal, my lord?"
"Yes."
 "I also. It may be that we shall meet again. If so it would be my pleasure."
"And mine," said Dumarest.
Still she lingered. "You will pardon me if I cause offense, my lord, but, as you probably know, I travel alone. To
one in my profession such a thing is not wise. Also, on Selegal, I will be unfamiliar with the local ways. I am not suited
to the arrangement of business ventures. Perhaps, if you would consider it, something could be arranged."
Dumarest caught the note of appeal, the desperate need that broke through the stilted formality which was a part
of her professional training. A woman alone, most likely afraid, doing her best to survive in a region foreign to her
experience. Yet he had no intention of getting involved.
Before he could refuse she said, "You will consider it, my lord? At least your advice would be of value. Perhaps we
could meet later—in my cabin?"
"Perhaps," said Dumarest.
Chom Roma drew in his breath as the woman moved on to her quarters. "A conquest, Earl. The woman finds you
pleasing and a man could do worse than take her under his protection. Had she made me such an offer I would not
have hesitated." Envy thickened his voice a little. "But then I am not tall and strong and with a face that commands
respect. I am only old Chom who buys and sells and makes a profit where he can. A stranger to courts and the places
where the rich and high-born gather. A woman can tell these things."
"Some women do not regard that as important."
"True, but the Ghenka is not one of them." Chom glanced down the corridor to the closing door of her cabin.
"She lives for her art and herself like all her kind. Could you imagine such a woman living in a hut? Tilling fields or
working in a factory? She needs someone to stand between her and the harshness of life. A strong protector and
someone to take care of unpleasant details. I wonder what happened to her manager. Perhaps he tried to sell her and
she had other ideas. A knife in the dark, a drop of poison, who can tell? These things happen." He shrugged, thick
shoulders heaving beneath the ornamented fabric of his blouse. "Well, Earl, such is life. What now? Shall we try our
luck?"
Dumarest glanced to where the gambler sat at his table ringed by a handful of players. Harg Branst was a thin
man with prominent ears, his features vulpine and touched by advancing years. A true professional, he wore no rings
and his nails were neatly trimmed. He rode on a profit-sharing basis, as much a part of the ship's furnishings as the
steward and cabins. He looked up from his cards, met Dumarest's eyes, and made a slight gesture of invitation for
him to join the game.
Chom spoke in a whisper. "Have you noticed his good fortune? Never does he seem to lose. Now, to me, that is
against all the laws of chance."
"So?"
"Perhaps something could be arranged between us? I have a little skill, and you are no stranger to the gaming
table. It would be a kindness to teach him a lesson."
Dumarest said, dryly, "At a profit, naturally."
"All men must pay to learn," said Chom blandly. "Some do it with their lives. We need not be so harsh. It will be
enough, I think, to trim his wings a little. Working together it could easily be done—a matter of distraction at a critical
moment. You understand?"
The palming of cards, the switch, the squeeze when, convinced that he could not lose, the gambler would allow
greed to dull his caution. It could be done, granted the basic skill, but unless the man was a fool the odds were against
it. And no man who earned his living at the tables could be that much of a fool.
"The cost of the journey," urged Chom. "A High passage safe in our pockets when we land. Insurance in case of
need. You agree?" He scowled at the lack of response. "A golden opportunity, Earl. Almost a gift I cannot understand
why you refuse. We—" He broke off as if knowing it was useless to argue. "Well, what else to kill the time? Daroca
has some wine. Come, let us test his generosity."
Dumarest frowned, the man was beginning to annoy him. A shipboard acquaintance, met when he had joined the
ship at Zelleth, the entrepreneur was becoming a nuisance. Deliberately he looked away, studying the others in the
salon. Two dour men, brothers, Sac and Tek Qualish, consultant engineers now intent on their cards. Mari Analoch,
hard, old, with eyes like those of a bird of prey, a procuress seeking to open a new establishment. A squat amazon,
Hera Phollen with her charge the Lady Lolis Egas, young, spoiled, eager for excitement and adulation. Vekta Gorlyk,
who played like a machine. Ilgazt Bitola, who played like a fool. The man who waited with his wine.
"Earl?" Chom was insistent.
"No."
"You have something better to do? More study, perhaps?" Chom smiled as Dumarest turned to stare into his eyes.
"The steward was careless and failed to close the door of your cabin. I saw the papers you had been working on. Such
dedication! But I am not after charity, Earl. Daroca wants to meet you and I think it would profit you to meet him." He
paused and added, softly: "It is possible that he might be able to tell you something of Earth."

***

Eisach Daroca was a slight man, tall, dressed in somber fabrics of expensive weave, the starkness relieved only
by the jeweled chain hanging around his neck, the wide bracelets on his wrists. He wore a single ring on the third
finger of his left hand, a seal intricately engraved and mounted on a thick band. His face was smooth, soft, the skin
like crepe around the eyes. His hair was clubbed and thickly touched with silver. A dilettante, Dumarest had decided.
A man with wealth enough to follow his whims, perhaps jaded, perhaps a genuine seeker after knowledge. An eternal
student. Such men were to be found in unexpected places.
He rose as they approached, smiling, extending his hand. "My dear Chom, I'm so glad that you managed to
persuade your friend to join us. You will join me in wine, Earl? I may call you that? Please be seated."
The wine was an emerald perfume, delicate to the nose, tart and refreshing to the tongue. Daroca served it in
goblets of iron-glass, thin as a membrane, decorated with abstract designs, expensive and virtually indestructible. A
part of his baggage, Dumarest knew, as was the wine, the choice foods he ate. Not for him the usual basic, the spigot-
served fluid laced with vitamins, sharp with citrus, sickly with glucose, which formed the normal diet of those
traveling High. Everything about the man spoke of wealth and culture, but what was he doing on a vessel like this?
Bluntly he asked the question.
"A man must travel as he can," said Daroca. "And it amuses me to venture down the byways of space. To visit the
lesser worlds untouched by the larger ships. And yet I do not believe there is virtue to be gained by suffering hardship.
There is no intrinsic merit in pain and, surely, discomfort is a minor agony to be avoided whenever possible. You
agree?"
"At least it is an interesting philosophy."
"I like my comforts," said Chom. He lowered his empty glass. "The trouble is in being able to afford them. More
often than not it isn't easy."
Daroca refilled his glass. "And you, Earl? Do you also enjoy comfort?"
"He's had too much of the rough not to enjoy the smooth," said Chom before Dumarest could answer. "I can tell
these things. There is a look about a man who has lived hard, a set of the lips, the jaw, an expression in the eyes. The
way he walks and stands, little things, but betraying. As there is with a woman," he continued, musingly. "You can tell
the one who is willing and the one who is not. The one who is seeking and the one who has found." He took a
mouthful of wine. "What did you think of the Ghenka?"
"She has skill." Daroca glanced at Dumarest, "More wine?"
"Later, perhaps."
"Is the vintage not to your liking?"
"It is too good to be hurried."
"As is interesting conversation. I contend that intelligent discourse is the hallmark of civilized man. As yet I have
found no evidence to shake my conviction, but plenty to uphold it. You are satisfied with the wine, Chom?"
The plump man dabbed at his lips, his second glass almost empty. If he caught the irony he gave no sign of it.
Instead he said, "She is more than skilled. The Ghenka, I mean. She is a true artist. Did you know that it takes twenty
years to train such a one? The voice has to reach full maturity and they begin learning as soon as they can talk.
Twenty years," he brooded. "A lifetime. But with such a woman what more could a man want?"
"A place of his own, perhaps," said Daroca softly. "A home. Children to bear his name and continue his line. Some
men are not so easily satisfied, as I am sure Earl would agree. The mood of a moment does not last. It holds within
itself the seeds of its own destruction. Passion is a flame which devours what it feeds on. The satisfaction of
conquest, of possession, fades to be replaced by new aims. The happy man is the one who finds contentment with
what he has."
Dumarest made no comment, sitting back in his chair, watching, savoring the wine. He was curious as to why
Daroca should have wanted his company. Boredom, perhaps, but that was too facile an answer. The salon held others
to whom he could have given his wine. An audience, then, someone to listen while he spoke? But why the crude and
grossly coarse entrepreneur? Why himself ?
Caution pricked its warning and yet the man seemed harmless enough, even though it was obvious he had
arranged the meeting. And even if he weren't harmless there might be information to be gained. It was barely
possible that he knew something of Earth and, if he did, the time would be well spent.
Dumarest looked down at his hand. The knuckles were white from the pressure with which be gripped the goblet
Deliberately he relaxed. Haste now would gain nothing, and hope was not to be encouraged. Also, Chom could have
lied.
 Quietly he said, "I understand that you have traveled much and far. May I ask why?"
"Why I travel?" Daroca shrugged, a gesture of pure elegance when compared to Chom's heaving shoulders. "As I
told you, it amuses me to visit other worlds, to study other cultures. The galaxy is incredibly vast when considered in
terms of habitable planets, and there are intriguing backwaters, lost worlds, almost, rarely visited and of an
engrossing nature to one like myself who is a student of mankind. May I return the question? You also travel. Your
reason?"
"I have a restless nature," said Dumarest. "And I like variety."
"A kindred spirit," said Daroca. "Shall we drink to our mutual interest?"
He was casual as he lifted his goblet, but his eyes were shrewd. A dilettante, perhaps, but Dumarest recognized
that he was no fool. Only such would have taken him for a man of cultured leisure, even if Chom had not spoken as
he had. Travel took money and a High passage was not cheap. Those who couldn't afford it rode Low, sealed in the
caskets usually reserved for livestock, doped, frozen, ninety percent dead, gambling their lives against the fifteen
percent death rate for the privilege of traveling cheap.
To such travel was a mania or a grim necessity.
"He's looking for something," said Chom as Daroca lowered his glass. "A planet named Earth."
"Earth?"
"That's right." The entrepreneur reached, uninvited, for the wine. "A crazy name for a world. You might as well
call it dirt, or ground, or soil. Earth!" He drank greedily, and dabbed at his lips. "A dream. How can there be such a
place? It doesn't make sense."
"A mythical planet?" Daroca shrugged. "There are many such. Worlds of supposed fantastic wealth, once found
and then, for some reason, lost or forgotten. Once I went in quest of such a place. Need I say that it was a futile
search?"
"It has another name," said Dumarest softly. "Terra. Perhaps you have heard of it?"
For a moment time seemed to congeal, to halt as he waited, his outward calm belying his inner tension. Perhaps,
this time, he would receive a positive answer. Perhaps this wanderer would know the way to the planet he sought.
Then, as Daroca slowly shook his head, the moment passed.
"You have never heard of it?"
"I am sorry, my friend, but I have never been to the world you mention."
"It doesn't exist, that's why." Chom was emphatic. "Why do we sit here talking about such things? There is wine to
be drunk and beauty to admire. A pity we could not combine the two. Come, Earl, stop looking so bleak. At least you
have the consolation of wine and there is always the Ghenka. A pleasant combination, yes?"
"For some," admitted Daroca. "For others, perhaps not. Such men are not so easily pleased. But I offer a toast. To
success in all we attempt." He paused and added softly: "To Earth!"
"To a dream," scoffed Chom. He emptied his glass in a single gulp.

Chapter Two
The Lady Lolis Egas was bored. She lifted an arm and watched as the sheer fabric of her gown slid, slowly at first,
then with an acceleration so fast it was impossible to follow, down the smooth length of her arm. It was a trick
induced by the drug in her blood; the use of quick-time held peculiar dangers and played visual distortions. The
sleeve had moved at a normal rate, only to her and those with her had it seemed to travel so fast.
As the cards which left the dealer's hands, the container which one of the players knocked from its place, the
coins which the old harridan insisted on throwing instead of, as was normal, sliding them across the surface of the
table.
The lifted arm, now bare to the shoulder, was flawless. She turned it, allowing the light to catch the gems on wrist
and fingers, the great sapphire of her betrothal ring shimmering with ice-cold fire. It was a good ring and there would
be more like it, clothes too, rare perfumes, expensive foods. Alora Motril of the House of Ayette would make a good
husband.
But the nuptials were yet to come and, now, she was bored.
"Perhaps you should rest, my lady." Hera Phollen recognized the signs, and made the suggestion more from hope
than any conviction that she would be obeyed. Her charge would be no trouble once asleep. "We have far to go and
you will want to look your best when we arrive."
"Am I so ugly?"
"You are beautiful, my lady."
Hera's voice was deep, her hair short and her face seamed, but she was not a man and Lolis had little desire for
the adulation of women. She lowered her arm and turned, studying those in the salon. Vekta Gorlyk? Perhaps, but
there was something cold about him, something remote; he would offer little sport. Polite, yes, and with time it would
be possible to arouse his passion, but he lacked the ability of quick interplay, and while it would be amusing to shatter
his reserve, it would take a patience she didn't possess. Ilgazt Bitola? He was young with a foppish manner of dress
and his face held a certain weakness which she had long since learned to recognize. He would be willing to amuse her
and yet the conquest would be too easy. Who then?
Her eyes drifted toward the table at which the three men sat. She dismissed Daroca at once, he was too world-
wise, too cynical and, perhaps, too cautious to respond to her bait. The entrepreneur was too gross. Dumarest?
Softly she said, "Tell me, Hera, could you defeat that man?"
"In combat, my lady?"
"Naturally, what else?"
"Perhaps, my lady. It is something I would prefer not to put to the test."
"Afraid, Hera?"
The gibe was too obvious and the girl too transparent to arouse anger. Quietly she said, "My lady, I am to deliver
you safe and unsullied to your husband to be. If it becomes necessary I will kill to achieve that aim. And there is no
man alive of whom I am afraid."
Lolis could believe it. The amazon was trained and incredibly strong, a fitting guard for such as herself. A man she
could have seduced, but not Hera, and the woman was dedicated to her profession. Yet it was amusing to tease her.
She rose and stretched, accentuating the curves of her body. At the gaming table Ilgazt Bitola watched and called
an invitation.
"Are you going to join us, my lady?"
"Gambling bores me," she said. "And I am already bored."
"So?" He was eager to please. "Perhaps that could be cured? An examination of the vessel, for example. Just you
and I. Alone."
"I have already seen the ship."
"But not all of it, my lady," he insisted. "There is an unusual beast in the hold and one well worth your attention. I
am sure the handler will not object." He let a stream of coins fall ringingly from his hand. "I have the means to
persuade him if you agree."
She shrugged and turned away so as to face the three men sitting over their wine. Smiling, she approached them.
Daroca courteously rose. "My lady?"
"May I join you?"
"Certainly. A moment and I will summon the steward to bring more glasses."
"That will not be necessary." She stooped over the table, ignoring Chom's lascivious eyes, the inhaled breath of
Hera's disapproval, and lifted Dumarest's goblet. She drank and replaced it, the mark of her lips clear against the
crystal. "Thank you."
It was a simple approach, and, from experience, predictable. He would now lift the glass and drink and make
some remark as to how sweet her lips had made the wine. Casual banter without real meaning, but which could lead
to other things. She would sit beside him and they would talk, and, later perhaps, she would no longer be bored.
The prospect excited her, his masculinity triggering her overdeveloped sexual characteristics so that she felt the
biological reaction begin to take command. Watching, Hera felt a quick disgust. Couldn't the stupid young fool
recognize the difference between men? Did she think that Dumarest would react as, say, the entrepreneur would in
similar circumstances? Across the girl's shoulder she met his eyes, and relaxed as she saw the quiet amusement There
was no danger here.
Chom said, "Sit, my lady. Your presence sweetens the wine and, should you care to drink from my glass, my
happiness would be complete."
She looked at Dumarest. "And yours?"
"Happiness is not such a simple thing nor is it so easily obtained. If you would care to finish the wine, my lady?"
He rose and offered her his chair. "I have drunk enough. You will excuse me?"
It was rejection and she felt a surge of anger so intense as to make her feel physically ill. Hera's smile made
things no better, but the time for revenge was not yet. Later she would think of a way, but, for now, it was important
to salvage her pride.
"I had no intention of staying," she said coldly. "You presume to think otherwise. I will see you later, Daroca,
when you have more congenial company. In the meantime I have other things to do." To Bitola she called, "You were
going to show me something in the hold. How long must I wait?"

***
 Harg Branst riffled the cards, cut and dealt sliding each across the table. He said, "You have made an enemy, Earl.
If I were you I should be careful. That guard of hers is an ugly customer."
Mari Analoch scowled at her hand, rings flashing on her wrinkled fingers. "She's a stupid, oversexed bitch, and
that kind are always trouble. I should know. In my business they are more bother than worth. The men like them,
sure, but they love to set one against the other and they can change at the drop of a coin. Do you call these cards?"
"I'll change hands if you want," said Chom. "They can't be worse than mine."
The dour brothers said nothing, playing with a grim determination. Vekta Gorlyk carefully stacked his hand.
Dumarest watched the neat precision of his movements, the immobility of his face, the eyes which alone seemed
alive. Odd eyes, veiled, secretive.
Daroca moved coins to the center of the table. "I'll bet five."
"Earl?"
"And five more."
"She's going to Ayette," said Man. "Getting married, so I hear. The poor fool doesn't know what he's letting
himself in for. He'll pay for every ounce of pleasure he gets and he'll be wearing horns before a month is past. I'd bet
on it."
"Bet on your hand," suggested Harg. "And you're wrong. She's marrying high and there'll be enough guards
around to keep her pure. Even so, Earl, I wouldn't visit that world if I were you. Chom?"
"I'll stay."
"Mari?"
"This hand is like the girl, pretty to look at but useless for anything else." She threw the cards aside. "With your
luck, Harg, we should be partners. How about that? I've a nice little place lined up on Selegal, and if you've got some
cash you could do a lot worse. With me running the girls and you the tables we should do well. Interested?"
"I might be," said Harg. He leaned back, knowing there was no need for high concentration, that the game had
lost its sharp edge and that the players were sitting more for social reasons than anything else. And the prospect was
attractive. He was getting tired of the limited life of endless journeyings broken only by brief halts at various planets.
And, always, was the possibility that his luck might run out, his skill become blunted. The woman offered security. "I
might be interested," he said again. "Let me think about it."
"How about you, Earl?" Mari was shrewd, her eyes calculating as she glanced at where he sat. "My experience,
Harg's luck and you to give protection. We split the profits three ways and it won't cost you much to buy in. In my
business you need a strong man around to keep order and take care of the parasites."
"Try the amazon," suggested Earl. "She might be interested."
"And you're not?"
"No."
"He spends his life throwing away opportunities," said Chom. "The Ghenka, the girl and now you. Some men have
too much luck." He frowned at his cards. "I'll take two."
"Wait your turn," said Harg. "Earl raised and now it's up to Daroca."
"Take it easy," Chom pleaded as Daroca fingered his coins. "Think of the poor."
Mari snorted. "Let the monks do that. That's one good thing about this journey. No monks. I was on a ship once
carrying two of them. The Universal Brotherhood might do a lot of good work, but there are times when they don't
belong. You know, they made me feel guilty. Not that they said anything, but they're so damned self-sacrificing. How
can men bear to live like that? Poverty is something I run away from, but they go out of their way to find it."
"They do good work," said Dumarest. He looked at Vekta Gorlyk. "Don't you agree?"
"Yes," he said. "I agree."
His voice was flat, like his face, devoid of expression, a dull monotone which gave no added emphasis to his
words.
Dumarest said, watching, "You don't find many in this part of the galaxy. Not like you do in the Center. But there
seem to be plenty of cybers about, and that's odd when you think about it. If the Cyclan is established out here, then
why not the Church? You have an opinion?"
"I haven't thought about it. I don't travel much. I wouldn't have noticed."
"Cybers go where the money is," said Chom. "Money and influence. Those who aren't welcome in high places
wouldn't see them. What's your trade, Gorlyk?"
"I am a dealer in rare and precious books."
"Books!" Chom raised his eyes and shrugged. "And who buys those? Museums and libraries and eccentrics. You
could trade for a lifetime and never see a cyber. Now if you were like Earl here, a man who gets around and moves
high, then you would. Well, let's get on with the game. Daroca?"
 "I'll stay."
Dumarest sat back as the play went its course. Chom spoke too much of things he could only assume and he
wondered at the entrepreneur's reason. Envy, perhaps? It was logical, yet somehow it didn't seem to be the answer. A
man in his profession would have early learned the value of silence. It almost seemed that he was advertising,
warning, even, but why and to whom?
He looked again at Gorlyk, studying, judging. The man had certain disquieting characteristics. His emotionless
impassivity, the dull monotone of his voice, his precision even. A cyber could feel no emotion; an operation
performed at puberty divorced the brain from all physical sensation so that he was a stranger to hate and fear, pain
and envy. Food was a tasteless fuel, the rarest wine less commendable than plain water. They were living machines
who could never experience love and whose only pleasure lay in mental achievement. The knowledge that the
predictions they made extrapolated from available data were correct.
Dumarest felt an awareness of danger. If Gorlyk was a cyber in disguise, divorced from his scarlet robe, his
shaven skull covered with a wig or natural hair, then the Cyclan knew exactly where he was and where he was going.
And that was the one thing he had done his best to avoid.
Daroca looked up from his cards as footsteps sounded down the passage outside. He frowned as others followed,
their vibration loud in the silence of the salon. "Something odd," he said. "Trouble, perhaps?"
"That bitch has seduced the crew and they're after her." Man was contemptuous. "Forget it. Deal, Harg."
"Something's wrong," said Chom. His voice reflected his fear. "The engines, perhaps?"
"If they go you'd never know it," said Mari. "You'd be dead." She cocked her head, listening, then rested her ear
against the table. "There's a lot of noise somewhere," she reported. "I can pick it up loud and clear. Sounds like a fight
of some kind."
Dumarest followed her example. Transmitted by the metal structure he could hear thuds and what seemed to be
shouting. As he rose the door of the salon burst open and a uniformed man came inside.
Officer Kara did his best to be casual. "Harg," he said. "You're wanted in the hold. Quickly."
The gambler made no move to obey. "That isn't my department."
"Captain Seleem gave the order. If you want to ride on this ship again you'd better do as he says." His calm broke
a little. "Damn you, don't argue with me. You're wanted in the hold. Now move!"
Reluctantly Harg threw down his cards and headed toward the door. As he opened it the distant sounds became
louder. Dumarest caught the officer by the arm as he was about to leave.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing that need concern you. If you will all stay in the salon you'll be quite safe. Unless—" He broke off,
studying Dumarest, his height, the sheer gray of his tunic and pants, the high boots and the hilt of the knife riding just
below his right knee. "I can't demand this," he said. "But we're short of men. If you could help?"
"What needs to be done?"
Outside, walking down the passage, the officer explained. "Some fool bribed the handler and got into the hold.
We're carrying a beast for the zoo on Selegal. Because of its peculiar metabolism it couldn't be frozen, so we held it in
a cage. Somehow it broke free. Now we're trying to get it back."
Dumarest listened to the noise. "An animal?"
"You haven't seen it yet," said Kara grimly. "Wait until you do."
Seleem stood outside the closed door of the hold, Harg and the steward beside him together with two other
officers. They carried ropes and nets and the steward held a hypogun. The captain nodded to Dumarest as Kara
explained why he had brought him along.
"Thank you for offering to help. We need all we can get. You know what happened?"
"I can guess. Bitola and the girl?"
"Her guard too. The girl managed to get out, not the others. She was hysterical and I've got her safe in her cabin,
asleep." He glanced at the instrument in the steward's hand. "Have you trapped game before? Good. You probably
know more about it than any of us. Can you give us some advice?"
"Keep clear," said Dumarest. "Move fast, don't hesitate and don't fumble. How big is this thing?" He frowned at
the reply. "That big? And fast? There are enough of us for three teams. I'll go with Harg, Kara with the steward, the
two officers together. Approach it from three directions. It can only move in one direction at a time and, when it does,
the other two teams move in with the nets. Muffle it, rope it, hold it fast. And hold it," he emphasized. "Weaken and it
will break free."
"Three teams," said Seleem. "Six men. What do I do?"
"You've got a ship to run. If we don't make it you'll have to laser it down." Dumarest glanced at the steward. "Let's
get on with it."
The hiss of the hypogun as it blasted drugs into his bloodstream was followed by an immediate reaction.
Dumarest drew a deep breath as the neutralized quick-time ceased to affect his metabolism. The lights brightened,
the noises from beyond the door slowed so that he could determine the sound of metallic crashing, the shatter of
crystal, a solid, repetitive thudding. Gently he took the instrument from the steward's hand, careful least he should
bruise flesh or break bones. Like the others the man stood as if made of stone. He shook himself as Dumarest fired at
his neck, the others treated before he could completely recover. They tensed, nets and ropes in hand, ready as
Seleem opened the door.
Inside lay chaos.
The caskets had been smashed, the wiring, the lights and metal plating. Blood spattered the gleaming fragments
and a shapeless something lay before a twelve-foot cube of thick bars. The handler, Dumarest guessed, or the guard
or even Bitola, but he wasted no time making certain. The broken lights had robbed the place of illumination, only a
single tube casting a glow over the cage, the rest in crawling shadow.
From behind came Harg's strained whisper. "Earl?"
"Wait."
To walk into danger was worse than stupid. Before he entered the hold Dumarest wanted to locate the beast. He
stared into the shadows, wondering where it could be. The thing had sensed their approach, or it had caught the light
streaming through the open door, and it had stilled all movement.
"Get something heavy," he ordered. "Throw it past me into the hold. Hurry."
He heard Seleem grunt and then something flew past his head to crash against the floor. In the shadows
something moved, a bulky shape, scaled, legged, gem-like eyes in a circle around a pointed head.
Dumarest lunged into the compartment, Harg following, the others spreading to face the beast. As it sprang into
the light from the open door it stood fully revealed.
It was taller than a man, the head elongated into a savage beak and mounted on a prehensile neck. The body was
like a pear, rounded at the base and ringed with clawed legs. At the height of a man's waist smooth tentacles hooked,
the ends split into finger-like appendages, circling the body. The eyes were set in circles of bone and stared in all
directions.
"God!" Harg sounded as if he were going to be ill. "What kind of thing is that?"
An offshoot of evolution, the result of wild mutation, that or perhaps it was perfectly fitted to its natural
environment, Dumarest neither knew nor cared. He cried a warning as light glinted on the shifting scales, the words
drowned in the sudden scrape of claws on the metal floor, and one of the officers screamed as the pointed beak
ripped out his life.
"In! In, damn you!" Dumarest lunged forward, the net streaming from his hands. It settled on the lifting head, was
ripped to shreds by the hooked tentacles. Before other nets could join the first the thing was free and rushing again to
the attack.
This time the steward died.
"Get together," shouted Dumarest to Kara and the remaining officer. "Spread the net between you. Harg, grab
hold." He flung the end of a rope toward the gambler. "Now run past it. Move!"
He raced toward the door, Harg running twenty feet to one side, the rope stretched between them, the beast in
the middle. The rope hit, held, and, still running, the two men passed in a circle about the beast, trapping it in another
loop of rope.
"Hold it!" Dumarest ordered as the beast lunged against the restraint. "The net, quick now!"
He hauled as the beast moved toward Harg, white-faced, sweating with terror. His boots slipped on the blood
staining the floor and the gambler yelled as a tentacle tore at his sleeve, ripping the fabric from his arm and raking an
ugly gash down his bicep. Dumarest ran to one side, rested his boot against the edge of one of the shattered caskets,
and heaved.
Harg released the rope.
The thing came like a thunderbolt, a waft of sickening odor and a blur of lashing tentacles. Dumarest staggering
back, off balance with the sudden release of tension, felt the hooks tear at his chest, the clawed feet at his stomach
and legs. He dropped the rope and flung himself aside as the vicious beak dented the metal where he had stood.
Blows stung his back as he rolled, regaining his feet just in time to avoid the thrusting head.
Automatically his hand fell to the top of his boot, and lifted the knife, its razor edge catching the single remaining
light.
Seleem, from where he stood in the open door, yelled, "Don't kill it!"
Dumarest ignored the command. He was fighting for his life, blocking the lash of tentacles with his left arm, the
knife in his right slashing, cutting, lopping the ripping hooks, stabbing at the circle of eyes. Green ichor spattered his
face, his head, stinging as it touched the naked flesh. He backed away, wary for his eyes, chest heaving, body in a
fighter's crouch.
 "Don't kill it!" shouted Seleem again. "Kara, Orog, get it!"
They ran forward with their net as the beast lunged toward the open door. It had been attracted by the captain's
shouts, the blaze of light and, perhaps, the possibility of escape. Kara fell aside, one hand to his face as his
companion doubled, screaming, hands clutching his ripped stomach.
Too late Seleem tried to close the door. The beast hit the closing panel, threw it back against the captain,
slamming him against the wall. Dumarest followed it into the engine room, saw it lope toward the massive bulk of the
generators. The pointed head darted forward, the beak slamming against the metal cover. It boomed, dented, but
held. Again the head slammed forward. A third time.
"The engine!" Seleem staggered from where he had been crushed. "Stop it!"
Dumarest lifted his knife. His arm swept back, forward, the blade a glittering icicle as it left his hand. It struck the
beast just below the circle of eyes and buried itself to the hilt. The thing reared, pointed head lifting, and from the
open beak came a deep, gurgling ululation.
Then the head slammed down again, the beak ripping through the plating, burying itself in the mass of delicate
machinery beneath. Fire blossomed around it, a gush of released energy, searing, incinerating, filling the
compartment with the stench of roasting flesh. It spread, melting the casing, the carefully constructed parts inside.
"God!" whispered Seleem. "The engine!"
It had died, as the beast had died, as they would all die unless it could be repaired.

Chapter Three
Kara had entered the engine room, the gambler at his side. They watched as Dumarest walked to the dead
creature and tugged his knife free. The blade was warm to the touch and stained with the acid ichor. He wiped it on
his tunic and replaced it in his boot.
"Help me get this thing clear of the generator," he said. "Make sure the power is disconnected."
Together they lugged it from the ruined machine and dropped it against a wall. It was heavy for its bulk and death
had coated it with a nauseous slime.
"It's dead," said Seleem. He seemed to be numbed by the loss. "I was to be paid on delivery and there's a penalty
clause. I'll be ruined."
Shock and injury had disturbed the balance of his mind and he sought refuge in comparative trivia.
"I told you not to kill it," he said accusingly. "I warned you that it was something special. How am I going to meet
the penalty? A lifetime in space," he mourned. "Twenty years as a captain. Five as an owner. Now I'm finished. You
shouldn't have killed it."
"I didn't," said Dumarest.
"You could have." said Kara. The blood on his face gave him a peculiar, lopsided appearance. "I've never seen
anyone move so fast. For a moment there I thought it had you, the time when Harg let go of the rope, but you
managed to move out of its way. And when you fought it!" He shook his head, doubting what he had seen.
Harg said, "Earl, about that rope. I couldn't help it. The pain got me and I couldn't hold it with one hand. I'm
sorry, but I just couldn't hold it. You've got to believe that."
"He believes it," said Kara. "If he didn't you'd be dead by now." He kicked at the dead beast. "Damned thing.
Three good men gone and all because some stupid bitch had to be clever. She must have opened the cage for some
reason and look what happened."
"No," said Dumarest. "She didn't open the cage."
"Her friend, then. It's the same thing."
It wasn't that either, as Dumarest had known from the first. He glanced at Seleem, still trembling, then at the
ruined generator. It presented no great urgency; if it could be repaired a few hours wouldn't matter, if not, then time
was of no importance.
"Let's go back to the hold," he said. "There's something I want to see."
The shambles seemed worse than before now that the need for violent action was past. Dumarest stood looking,
checking, verifying his suspicions. The dead officers and the steward lay where they had fallen. The handler was a
shapeless huddle before the cage, recognizable only by his tattered uniform. Bitola was close to the door, the amazon
sprawled even nearer and a little to one side. Her face was badly ripped and the beak had smashed her chest, but her
expression was recognizable. Determination. She must have thrust her charge through the panel, slammed it, and
turned to face the beast. Or perhaps the girl had been given time to escape and had closed the door herself. Now it
didn't matter.
But she and the others had been on quick-time and it would have been impossible for her ever to have moved fast
enough had she been near the cage when the creature broke free. They must have been leaving, actually at the open
door, when it had attacked.
To Seleem he said, "What did they tell you about the beast? The shippers, I mean. Did they warn you it was
intelligent?"
"No." The captain looked at his trembling hands. "They said it was just an animal. Something for the zoo. It
couldn't be frozen or given quick-time. They supplied it in the cage and all I had to do was to feed and water it at
regular intervals."
Kara said, "What are you getting at, Earl?"
"The shippers lied. That thing was more dangerous than they told you. Or perhaps it underwent a metamorphosis
of some kind. What kind of lock was fitted to the cage?"
"It was simple enough. A pressure plate which had to be pushed and then slid to one side and then down. An
animal couldn't figure it out unless—" He paused and then added, slowly, "I see what you mean. The damned thing
must have let itself out and it couldn't have done that unless it had intelligence of some kind. But what was the point?
I mean, if it was intelligent, surely it would have known there was no possibility of escape."
How to tell the workings of an alien mind? And yet some things were common to all life forms. Dumarest looked
at the smashed caskets, the broken lights, the dark corners in which things could safely lurk.
He said, "The beast could have been a gravid female. It may not have wanted to escape as we use the term, but
to settle its young."
"Hell," said Kara. "That means we have to search every inch of the hold. Now?"
"You saw the big one. We don't know how fast they grow."
"Now," decided the officer. He frowned, thinking, his hand touching the dried blood on his cheek. "I'll fix some
lights and get some help. This is an emergency and the passengers will have to cooperate. Captain?"
Seleem winced as he drew in his breath. He seemed to have recovered his full awareness, probably helped by the
knowledge that, as the shippers had failed to give due warning as to the intelligence of the beast, he was no longer
responsible and no longer liable to the penalty he had agreed to pay for failed delivery.
"Do as you think best, Kara. My chest hurts, my head. I took a beating when that thing slammed me against the
wall. And we've lost too many men. There's only you and myself left now." He looked at Dumarest. "How about you?
Have you worked on ships before?"
"Yes."
"I'm needed at the controls. We both can navigate and Kara knows something about engineering, but we need
someone to take care of the passengers. As from now you're my third officer with pay starting from the time we left
Frell. Your passage money will be returned. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"I'll need you all to sign a deposition as to what happened, but we can do that later." Seleem took a careful breath.
"Now I'd better get back to the control room. Kara, keep me informed."
"He's hurt," said Dumarest as the captain moved slowly away. "He could have cracked ribs and maybe some brain
damage. Have you a medic on board?"
Kara looked at the crumpled body of the steward. "We did, not now. Suggestions?"
"Mari Analoch might know something about medicine; get her to look at the captain. The Qualish brothers are
engineers; they can start work on the generator. Gorlyk and Harg can help me to search the hold while you check for
life-support damage. Right?"
"Right," said Kara. "You know, Earl, you're going to make a damn fine officer."

***

Mari Analoch said, "You're a fool, Earl. I heard all about it when I fixed up Kara and the gambler. Why the hell
didn't you run when you had the chance? Fighting that thing the way you did. It could have ripped your face and
taken out your eyes. I don't like to see a good man wasted."
She sat on the bed in his cabin, a tray of medicants at her side, a sheet wrapped around the expensive fabric of
her gown. Her hair was slightly disarranged and her cosmetics, untended, betrayed the age she fought hard to
conceal. A hard woman, ruthless and practical, but she had volunteered to help.
"You shouldn't listen to gossip," said Dumarest, "And I had no choice. Had I tried to run it would have got me."
"So you say. Now get those clothes off and let me inspect the damage."
"Seleem?"
"He's all right. A couple of cracked ribs and slight concussion I put him under slow time and he'll be fine in an
hour."
 She watched as he stripped, the protective mesh buried in the plastic of his clothing glinting as it caught the light
through the scarred material. It had saved him from the ripping hooks and claws, but though it had withstood
penetration it had done little to nullify the whip-like impact of the blows. The hard, white surface of his skin was
striped and marred with purple bruises, his left forearm a mass of welts.
And, clear against the skin, sharp against the bruises, were the thin cicatrices of old wounds.
"Lie down," she ordered. "On your face." Lotions stung his back and brought a soothing numbness. "You're a
fighter," she said, and he could feel the tip of her finger as it traced the pattern of his scars. "Ten-inch blades and the
winner take all. Right?"
She grunted as he didn't answer, moving down his body, the swab in her hand moving over his hips, his legs.
"Turn over. Are you ashamed of it?"
The light was behind her, limning her hair with a halo of brilliance, casting her face in shadow and softening her
features so that, for a moment, he could see something of what she had once been. Young and soft with a determined
line to the jaw and lips which could smile, but rarely with her eyes.
"No," she said. "You're not ashamed. You're like me, doing what has to be done and making the best of it. A girl
can't fight in a ring, but she can get by in other ways. A man now, that's different. The ring takes care of the
weaklings." The swab moved over his chest and down to his stomach. "The ring," she said. "I've watched a thousand
fights, but I could never understand why they do it. For money, yes, that I can appreciate, but why else? Do you get a
kick out of it? Is it fun to kill a man? Some say it is. I don't think you're one of them."
The swab moved lower, passed over his loins, moved without lingering to the tops of his thighs. He relaxed,
thinking, remembering. The blood-hunger of the crowd, the eager anticipation of blood and pain, the shouts and yells
and the stench of sweat and fear. The grim knowledge that it was either win or die or, if not that, to be slashed and
cut for a savage holiday. And, always, the conviction that luck could not last forever, that a single slip, a mistake, a
patch of blood beneath a foot, the sun reflecting from a polished surface, anything, could tilt the balance and defeat
all skill.
"Earl?"
He realized that she waited for an answer.
"Do you, Earl? Fight because you like it?"
"I fight only when I must." He was curt, not wanting to discuss it. "Have you finished?"
She was in no hurry, admiring the shape of him, the firmness, the touch of his skin as she let her fingers trail over
the edge of the swab. Any woman could be happy with a man like this, and she wondered why he traveled alone. Not
for the want of opportunity, of that she was convinced. Old and cynical as she was, yet even she could feel herself
respond to his nearness. Had she been thirty years younger, twenty even—but it was useless to dream. The curse of
her sex, she thought wryly. The biological need, not for passion, but to be with a man she could respect. The type of
man she had never found—or had found too late.
"Mari?"
She had lingered too long, perhaps betrayed herself, and that was something she had never done before. Not even
as a young girl, when she had first learned that what is said and what is meant are not always the same thing. She
turned and dropped the swab into her tray.
"No damage," she said. "You'll be as good as new soon. Did you finish clearing the hold?"
Harg would have told her of the fifteen eggs they had destroyed, each as large as a doubled fist, each pulsing with
life, but he told her again, not wanting to be hurtful.
"Seleem was a fool to have carried the thing," she said. "A bigger fool not to have sealed it in something solid.
And insane not to have lasered it down at the beginning." She paused, then said quietly, "Just how bad are things,
Earl? I would appreciate the truth."
"The hold is wrecked, Mari, but it can be repaired. I've got Chom and Gorlyk working on the caskets and Harg is
rewiring the refrigeration units. Kara is confident that he can repair the generator. It's only a matter of time."
"And in the meantime we drift," she said shrewdly. "The field is down. Earl, why waste time repairing the
caskets?"
"We have time. And it gives us something to do."
"To stop us thinking?"
She was too shrewd. The Erhaft field no longer protected or moved the vessel, and they were vulnerable to the
hazards of space. Debris could impact the hull, a wandering meteor, even, rare, but always possible; a dozen things to
threaten their lives.
"Suppose we can't repair the engine," she said thoughtfully. "What then? Do we drift until we die of old age? Or
—" She broke off, frowning. The chance of rescue between the stars was so remote as to be inconceivable, but closer
to a planet? "The caskets! Earl, do you think we'll have to ride Low?"
 He smiled and shook his head. "You've too vivid an imagination, Mari. Anyway, would it be so bad?"
"I've done it before, when I had to, but twice was enough. And this would be different. We'd never know if we
would be found. Damn it, Earl! I asked you not to lie to me!"
"I haven't lied." He reared up from the bed, his hands hard as they caught her arms, his face close to her own.
"Listen, we hope to repair the generator. I'm sure we can do it, but only a fool takes no precautions. It may take longer
than we know. All right; at the worst it may be impossible. But we still have a chance. In the caskets we can wait as
the ship drifts to some habitable world when we can be rescued. That is why I am repairing the equipment in the
hold. Now you know, but if you open that great mouth of yours and talk about it I'll close it for good. Get it?"
It was a language she understood.

***

Alone, Dumarest leaned back on the cot, closing his eyes and trying for sleep. He was over tense, the muscles
jerking beneath his skin, his adrenaline-flushed blood denying relaxation. From somewhere came a thin, high keening,
the Ghenka, he guessed, at practice or mourning the dead. Soon they would have to be evicted, the crewmen
certainly, and he doubted if Lolis would want to have the body of her guard preserved for planetary burial. Bitola
would go with the rest. A short, empty life quickly ended.
Wen, perhaps he had been lucky. For him, at least, death had come quickly.
He turned, one hand by accident touching the metal bulkhead. The alloy was dead, lacking the faint vibration of the
field, and he turned again, finally opening his eyes and looking at the ceiling. It was smooth, the paint fresh and bright
Seleem kept a good ship.
The keening rose, broke, then commenced again on a different key, a different song. It seemed louder than before
and his mind began to fill with images, a woman with hair of spun silver and limbs of elfin grace. Another, this time
with hair like flame and eyes of emerald. Kalin, who had given him so much. Whom he could never forget.
The song guided his thoughts in a chain of associated ideas. Kalin, and the secret she had given him; the Cyclan
members who wanted to regain what had been stolen from their secret laboratory. The sequence in which the fifteen
molecular units needed to be arranged to form the affinity-twin. Fifteen units, the last reversed to determine
dominant or submissive characteristics. A combination which could be found by trial and error—given time. Too
much time for the impatience of the Cyclan dedicated as it was to total domination of the galaxy. The possible
number of arrangements ran into the millions; if it were possible to assemble and test one each second it would take
four thousand years to try them all.
But, once found, it would give power incredible in its scope.
The artificial symbiote, injected into the bloodstream, would nestle in the base of the cortex and take control of
the entire nervous and sensory system. The brain containing the dominant half would take over the body of the host.
The brain of a cyber would reside in each and every person of influence and power. They would be puppets sitting
on thrones and moving to the dictates of their masters. The Cyclan had once owned the secret, but now Dumarest
had it, and the Cyclan would move worlds in order to recover it.
He had been forced to fight and run to keep it from their hands too often.
And always, there was the danger that the Cybers' predictive skill had set a trap into which he would enter.
Gorlyk, perhaps?
He rose with sudden determination. If the man was working for the Cyclan there could be evidence in his cabin.
He was working in the hold and it would be a simple matter to make a check.
Once dressed, Dumarest left the room and headed down the passage toward Gorlyk's cabin. The door was
locked, but he had the steward's master key. Inside it was dark, the air heavy with a musty odor. Light blazed as he
turned the switch and looked at the neatly-made bed, the cabinet, the piled suitcases, the small things a man carries
to give him comfort and the illusion of home. A block of clear plastic held a single bloom of yellow laced with green,
the styles a flaming scarlet against stamens of dusty black. A box of carved wood chimed when he opened the lid, a
simple tune reminiscent of meadows and lakes. A string of well-thumbed beads, a tiny plaque bearing an abstract
design, a bowl intricately decorated with women and beasts.
Souvenirs, perhaps. Little things collected during travel, or they could hold a greater significance to their rightful
owner. A cyber would never have tolerated such emotional unessentials, but a cyber in disguise could have
deliberately assembled them as a part of his deception.
Dumarest examined the cabinet. It held nothing but clothes, a single change of apparel together with a scarf of
fringed and embroidered silk. The cases were heavy and locked with simple combination devices. He stooped, resting
his ear against the mechanism, his fingers gentle as they turned the dial. A minute click, another, two more and the lid
rose at his touch. Inside rested a heap of shabby books.
 He lifted one, riffling the pages, smelling the odor of must rising from the volume. The paper was yellow and had
obviously been treated with some form of plastic in ancient times, but the coating had worn thin and the revealed
paper showed signs of decay. He had no idea as to the volume's value or worth. The title was in faded gold, tarnished,
indecipherable. He looked again at the interior. The print was archaic and hard to read. He scanned half a page before
deciding that it was some form of fictional romance. More deception? Or was Gorlyk exactly what he claimed to be?
He checked the rest of the contents, finding nothing except more books, replacing them as he had found them
and closing the lid before spinning the dial. He looked under the mattress, ran the tips of his fingers along the frame
of the cot, and searched the artifacts for signs of hidden compartments. A second case revealed no more than the
first. The third held thin manuals dealing with mental disciplines, a large case of assorted drugs and several packets
of dried vegetation. One of them seemed to be fungus of some kind, another a type of grass. Hallucinogens,
perhaps? The basis of a health diet?
Dumarest replaced them and noticed a fold of paper protruding from one of the manuals. It was covered with a
mass of neatly-written figures all in groups of seven. He turned it over and looked at the hatefully familiar tracing of
the Cyclan seal.

Chapter Four
Captain Seleem raised his cup of basic, drank and said thoughtfully, "Vekta Gorlyk? No, I have no personal
knowledge of the man."
"Has he traveled with you before?"
"I think so. A few times, at least, but I cannot be certain as to the dates." Seleem drank again, emptying the cup.
His eyes were bright and clear, but his face bore the marks of deprivation. Slow-time had speeded his metabolism so
that he had lived days in an hour. Unconscious, he had starved. Had the treatment lasted longer he would have died.
"You have a reason for your interest?"
Dumarest handed him another cup. "I was curious. He seems a strange person and I wondered if you knew
anything about him. Where did he join the ship?"
"Phengala."
It was the world from which the ship had come to Grill, where Dumarest had joined it. It had gone then to Frell
and had been scheduled to stop at Selegal and finally to arrive at Ayette. Then the ship would retrace its journey,
serving a handful of worlds on a fairly regular schedule. There would be other ships each doing much the same. Did
each carry a minion of the Cyclan?
Seleem moved cautiously in his chair. His brain was clear, but his chest still ached and when he breathed deeply
he knew pain. Ribs took more than days to heal; he should take more slow-time and get himself fit as soon as
possible. But first he had to restore his wasted tissues.
Dutifully he drank more basic.
"I've arranged a rota for the passengers," said Dumarest. "The men are doing what they can. Mari has taken over
the steward's duties, and the Lady Lolis is still asleep. I've kept her under quick-time," he added. "The rest are
normal."
"The Ghenka?"
"In her cabin. There is little she can do, but I will get her to relieve Mari when it becomes necessary."
Seleem nodded, appreciating the crisp report which gave information without a mass of trivial detail. But he had
to be certain of one thing.
"Are you sure no trace of the beast remains? No undiscovered offspring?"
"We checked thoroughly. Nothing remains."
Seleem sat back in his chair and stared at the screens, the assembled instruments which ringed the control cabin.
Normally those instruments would be busy, questing with their sensors, guiding the vessel through the immensity of
space. They were still functioning as their power did not depend on the drive-generator, but now they were quiescent.
Without the Erhaft field the ship was practically immobile.
Bleakly he stared at the stars revealed in the screens. They showed no sign of movement, appearing as static
brilliant dots scattered thinly over the darkness, a smear of distant galaxies like a coil of gleaming smoke. A touch
and the Center came into view, a host of suns each ringed by many worlds, curtains and sheets of light, great clouds
of luminous gas, the whole interlaced with busy commerce. But here, where the stars were few and distances
immense, ships were not plentiful.
"How long?" asked Dumarest.
"Until we reach Selegal?"
 "There or somewhere else."
"Too long." Seleem was grim. "We have no velocity to speak of now that the Erhaft field is down. We are drifting
at a fraction of the speed of light and the galactic drift makes a mockery of our original course. We shall arrive
somewhere, given luck and sufficient time, but it could take centuries."
"Or never," said Dumarest.
"That is correct," said the captain. "There is no point in lying to you. Unless we are attracted by the gravitational
field of some star we could drift for an eternity."
It was as he had known. Dumarest looked away from the captain where he sat in his big chair, his face drawn in
the soft illumination from the screens. Seleem looked older than he should, too old for his deprivation, his face
sagging with the inner knowledge of certain extinction should the generator fail to be repaired. A red light shone on
one of the panels like a watchful eye. The possibility of rescue was astronomically remote, but hope was eternal.
When the field had collapsed the automatic beacon had begun to emit its call for aid.
The response was nothing but a thin wash of static, the sounds of dying atoms carried on the radiation of space.
It was an empty sound, eerie, somehow frightening. The universe was too vast, too impersonal, and men were too
small and insignificant in comparison.
Randomly, Seleem touched a control, and abruptly the sound changed. The thin, empty wash of spacial
background noise became filled with a wailing lilt, crying, appealing, the sound of a soul in torment and carrying
within itself the epitome of abject loneliness.
"What's that?" Seleem's eyes darted about the control room. "Dumarest?"
"Listen."
It came again, sobbing, a somber dirge of perfect harmony, rising to fall into pulsing tones, lifting again to a
crescendo.
"Something outside!" The captain reached for his instruments. His hand trembled as he made adjustments. "Loud
and strong and very close," he muttered. "But from where?"
He glared at the screens, but they showed nothing new. He adjusted them so as to scan the area all around the
vessel. Nothing.
"A malfunction, perhaps?" Seleem made rapid checks. "No. Everything is in order. Someone is broadcasting on a
general band. Ultra-radio at high emission from a source very close." He cut the volume and the wailing lilt faded to a
mournful echo. "What can it be?"
"It's the Ghenka," said Dumarest, listening. "It can't be anything else."
He heard the song as he approached her cabin and wondered at the anguish it contained. He knocked and she fell
silent as she opened the door and stepped back so as to allow him to enter her room. She had discarded her costume,
the gems and paint, and now wore a simple dress of some clinging fabric. It rose high about her throat, full-sleeved,
tight at the waist and falling to just below her knees. One side was slit almost to the hip to allow ease of movement. It
flamed with a brilliant scarlet and, for a moment, he paused, half expecting to see a cowl, a shaven skull, the great
seal he had reason to hate.
Then she switched on a brighter light and the illusion passed and he could see her as she really was.
A woman, no longer young, but not as old as he had suspected. Certainly not old enough to have run from
competition, the wealthy worlds and rich patrons on which she depended. Her face was smoothly contoured, the
mouth wide and generous, and what he could see of her throat was slender and unlined. Her hair was a rich bronze,
closely-cut and fringed above the eyes. Her lips were full and soft, the lower almost pouting.
She inclined her head and said, "My lord, this is an honor."
"You know my name," he said. "Call me Earl. We have no need of formality."
"As you wish, Earl. My name is Mayenne."
"And you were singing. Why?"
"It is my trade. A skill must be practiced if it is not to weaken." She hesitated, then added, "And it gives me
comfort. I am much alone."
Too much alone, he thought with sudden understanding. A toy to amuse the rich, an artist trapped by her training
and achievement. Ghenkas were always remote and, on the ship, she had been mostly ignored.
Dumarest examined the cabin. The bed was unmarked, but the cabinet and small table were not as tidy as they
could have been. A clutter of cosmetics, sprays, the gems she wore, all lying in a muddled heap. On the floor, fitted
into a compact case, stood the familiar shape of an ultra-radio transceiver. Casually he picked it up.
"An unusual thing for a Ghenka to be carrying, Mayenne," he said. "A recorder I could understand, but why a
radio?"
"It was a gift and it gives me comfort. With it I can listen to messages and music from many worlds. Surely there
is no harm in a person owning a radio?"
 "No harm," he admitted. "But to use it when there is no one to listen? You know our situation, girl. What did you
hope to achieve?"
"Nothing."
"You sang into it just to amuse yourself ?"
"Not to amuse. I was lonely and afraid and space is so empty. I hoped to pick up a message or some sign that we
might be rescued. There was nothing but the sound of emptiness. It sounded so alone that I sang to comfort it. To
comfort myself. Can you understand?"
Dumarest remembered the bleakness of the static he had heard in the control room, the eerie feeling it had
created. It would not be hard for a person trained as the Ghenka had been in tonal efficiency to imagine the sound
held words, almost recognizable, almost human. It was perfectly understandable that she could have sung back to it
as a man might talk to a tree or to something which could not possibly answer. Loneliness took many strange paths.
He set down the radio and sat on the cot. "There is no need for you to be afraid. In a little while we will have
repaired the generator and be on our way. On Selegal you'll make friends and no longer be alone."
"You are trying to be kind, Earl, but it will not be like that. It never is." She sat beside him, so close that he could
feel the warmth of her body, the pressure of her thigh. "People do not accept me readily. Women hate me because of
the influence they think I have over their men. Men desire me, not as a woman to be loved, but as a prize to be
displayed. The rich are condescending and the poor are envious. Those who employ me try to cheat. Do you wonder
why I need protection?"
"Guards can be hired and managers employed."
"You, Earl?"
He sensed the invitation, the unspoken offer of more than money if he agreed. The pressure of the thigh
increased and the lips were close to his own.
Flatly he said, "No. I have other things to do. Perhaps Chom could help?"
"That man?" Her tone held a sneer. "He is an animal and a thief. Did you know that he tried to break into the dead
man's cabin? I heard a sound and looked into the passage and he was trying to open the door."
"Bitola's cabin?"
"Yes. A short while ago. What else could he have been doing but seeking to rob the dead?"
It was possible and most likely true. The entrepreneur would not let such an opportunity pass, but Dumarest
wasn't shocked and he doubted if the woman was either. They had both lived and learned the hard way. The dead had
no use for their possessions, but the things they left could mean comfort to the living.
But, if she had seen Chom she could have seen his own search of Gorlyk's cabin. He thought about it, then
decided against. Her door opened in the wrong direction; he would have seen the panel move. Yet was she all she
appeared to be?
Would a Ghenka normally be carrying a high-powered ultra-radio of expensive make? A gift, she had said, but
from whom? And why?
"You are troubled, Earl," she whispered. "Let me sing to you. Not all my songs are sad. I can create joy and
passion and even forgetfulness. Listen!"
She began to hum, the soft tone rising, breaking into a ripple of cadences, words beginning to emerge, honeyed
as they spoke of love and the satiation of desire. She caught his frown and, without breaking the song, immediately
altered the pitch and rhythm, the words still soft and honeyed but now whispering of other things. Of home and a fire
and the laughter of children. Of winds across an empty space and the triumph of growth. Another slight adjustment
and he felt himself begin to sink into a reverie shot with mental images of an endless quest, of endless stars, of
hardship and fulfillment to be achieved. And, always, beneath the words, the song, was the recognition of aching
loneliness and the promise that it would be eased.
Unsteadily he said, "Enough, Mayenne."
Her hand touched his cheek, soft, gentle, the fingers trailing in a lingering caress.
"Earl, my darling. So long have I sought you. So much have I needed you. Do not leave me now."
He sank beneath the weight of her body and felt her warmth, her sudden hunger and consuming need. The scent
of her perfume was a cloud accentuating his induced desire and his hands rose and touched the line of her back and
shoulders, the helmet of her hair.
"Mayenne!"
The light died as she touched a switch and then there was only darkness, the lilting, singing whisper of her voice,
the soft, demanding pressure of her silken flesh.

***
 The bodies were gone, the mess, the smashed lights and crystal of the caskets. Even the floor had been cleaned
of blood and ichor so that the hold seemed as if it had never witnessed pain and death and violent struggle.
Dumarest raised a lid of one of the cabinets, sheet metal instead of the normal transparency, and felt the gush of
frigid air rise from the interior. He closed the lid and switched on the mechanism, watching the temperature gauge as
it fell. Satisfied, he moved to the others, testing each in turn. Again he moved down the line, this time checking to
make sure the warming eddy currents were working at optimum efficiency. Finally he accepted the fact that the
caskets, at least, were fully operational.
The generator was something else.
He paused in the engine room and glanced at the dismantled parts lying in neat array on the bench. Kara looked
up from a sheaf of blueprints and nodded a welcome.
"Earl, satisfied with the hold?"
"It's as good as it will ever be."
"I wish I could say the same about this damned engine." The officer sounded as tired as he looked. Lines were
graven on his normally smooth face and his eyes were sore, bloodshot.
Dumarest said, "Why don't you get some sleep?"
"Later."
"There's nothing that can't wait a while. Anyway, the Qualish brothers can handle things while you rest."
"They get on my nerves," said Kara. "They might be good engineers, but when it comes to repairing a machine all
they can think of is replacements. Hell, to listen to them you'd think we had a factory just around the corner. They
can't seem to get it into their thick heads that we have to make do with what we have."
"You're tired," said Dumarest.
"Sure I'm tired, but what has that got to do with it?" Kara shrugged as he met Dumarest's eyes. "So I'm being
unfair," he admitted. "They aren't ship engineers and they can't help the way they think. And, from their point of view,
they are right. The parts do need replacing. In fact we need a whole new generator and we'll get one as soon as we
can—if we can."
Dumarest caught the note in the officer's voice.
"If ?"
"It's bad, Earl. You're an officer now, so I'll give it to you straight. I think the Qualish brothers may have guessed,
but they haven't said anything. If we get that generator going it will be a miracle."
"As bad as that?"
"I think so. Do you know anything about an Erhaft generator? They're factory-assembled and turned and they
aren't meant to be torn apart The worst that usually happens to them is that they get out of phase, but always there's
a warning. Sometimes a ship is lucky to make a landing, but that's because some greedy captain pushes it hard and
takes one chance too many. But that's about all."
Dumarest said, "Not quite. Sometimes an engine will fail."
"That's true," said Kara grimly. "But when it does no one knows anything about it. The ship just vanishes.
Sometimes the collapsing field volatilizes the structure; if it doesn't the ship just drifts until the end of time. We didn't
volatilize. One day, maybe, we'll form the part of another legend, a ghost ship which carries a crew of skeletons on a
trip from nowhere to the same place. Something for people to talk about when they've nothing better to do. Hell, man,
you've heard a dozen similar yarns in your time."
"Often," said Dumarest. "But we're not going to become one."
Kara made a sound deep in his throat. Fatigue and despondency had colored his mood. He gestured to the
dismantled generator.
"Look at it," he said flatly. "When that damned beast hit it was like shooting a bullet into a chronometer. The
impact damage was bad enough, but when the energy went it really messed things up. We've stripped the whole thing
and checked each part against the specifications. Most can be used, a few can be salvaged, but some will have to be
replaced. Our spares are limited and will have to be adapted. The wiring is no problem and we can do something
about the wave-guides, but the crystals are something else. From what I can see we are going to need three of them.
They have to be the exact size, shape and structure. Tell me how to get them and I'll tell you when we can reach
Selegal."
"Grow them?" suggested Dumarest. "Possible?"
"It's how they are made," admitted Kara. "But that would take equipment and measuring devices we haven't got.
Try again."
"Is it possible to adapt or improvise?" Dumarest frowned, thinking, conscious of his lack of specialized
knowledge. "An ultra-radio contains the same type of crystal, doesn't it? Would it be possible to assemble them in
some way so as to regenerate the Erhaft field?"
 He shrugged as he saw Kara's expression.
"I'm not an engineer and I'm shooting in the dark. I don't know what to suggest; all I am certain about is that, if
you admit defeat, none of us has a chance. Now why don't you get some sleep? A tired mind is useless when it comes
to solving a tough problem. You could make a mistake, overlook something, do irreparable damage." His tone
hardened a little. "You put me in charge of the passengers, but you're as human as they are. Are you going to walk to
your cabin or do I have to carry you?"
"Insubordination, Earl?"
"No, Kara, good sense and you know it. Now tell me what has to be done and then get some rest."
Kara sighed, admitting defeat. "All right, Earl, I'll do as you say. But if you can't find me those crystals there is
only one thing to be done." He paused, then added softly, "You can pray. I can't think of anything else."

Chapter Five
Lolis smiled and looked at the men gathered around the table in the salon, Harg, Chom, the silent Gorlyk. She
breathed deeply, inflating her chest, conscious of their eyes. Chom purred as he gestured to a place at his side.
"Be seated, my lady."
Like the others he looked tired, worried, his eyes sunken in the puffiness of his cheeks. Against them Lolis was
newly-risen, the effects of quick-time barely worn off, her eyes fresh and body relaxed from sleep and rest.
She said, "Where is Dumarest?"
"At his duties." Harg riffled his cards for want of something better to do.
"Do we need him, my lady?" Again Chom gestured his invitation. "I would offer you wine but things are not as
they should be. Daroca has become morose and our new steward, or should I say stewardess, is careful of the
supplies. But we have cards and conversation and they are enough to while away the tedious hours. Come, sit beside
me and I will tell you of an adventure I had on a planet circling a triple sun. The girls held the power on that world
and followed a strange courtship. I was younger then, and handsome in my fashion. I also owned jewels of rare value.
Had I not been careless I might have ruled there yet."
He paused, waiting for her invitation to continue, but she had no time for boring reminiscences.
Harg said, "Your guard is dead, did you know?"
"And Bitola also." She was casual. "Yes, the old hag told me."
"And four other men," continued the gambler. "The ship damaged and others hurt. Was it worth it to see the
beast?"
He was being unfair but her casualness annoyed him. That and her arrogance. The incident was an unpleasant
memory, for her to be swiftly forgotten; her only regret was at the loss of a servant and amusing companion. The
cards made an angry rasp in his hands. Perhaps, if he could persuade her to play, some of the gems of which she was
so enamored would fall his way.
The prospect entranced him: to be rich, with money enough to take up Mari's proposal, a half-share in a
profitable enterprise. He could forget the acid taste of fear in his mouth. He had been on spaceships too long not to
have recognized the danger of their position. The rest might believe that all would be well, but he had seen the
captain and could read Kara's expression. A little more luck, he prayed. One last safe planetfall, a little money to see
him through and he would be content.
He looked up as Mari entered the salon. She was bedraggled, her hands showing marks of labor, and she stood
glaring at the girl.
"So you've finally decided to join us," she snapped. "Didn't I tell you to start work in the kitchen?"
Lolis shrugged. "I am not a servant."
"And you think I am?" Mari fumed her temper. "Listen, girl; this is one time you have to earn your keep. Things
need to be done. The men want a soft bed when they have finished their labors and they can't be expected to prepare
their own food and take care of their cabins. So get to it."
"I am not a servant," repeated Lolis stubbornly. "And how long does it take to prepare basic? How long to make a
bed?"
"Try it and find out."
"Not long," said the girl. "I have been trained in order to maintain a palace. In my father's house the servants were
never idle. You are quite capable of doing what needs to be done. And," she added with a sneer, "you should be used
to making beds."
"Bitch!"
"Hag!"
 "By God," said Mari, shaking with rage. "If I had you in one of my houses I'd take the skin from your back. I'd
teach you manners, you chit. I'd have you crawl and beg forgiveness. I'd break your spirit."
"Mari!" Harg was concerned. Selegal was far from Ayette, but assassins could be hired and the girl was of the type
to bear a grudge. "She is tired," he said to Lolis. "She doesn't mean what she says. You must forgive her, forgive us all.
This has been a time of great strain."
"She is old," whispered Chom. "And jealous. You understand?"
It pleased her to be gracious. Smiling, Lolis said, "You have good friends, old woman. On Ayette I would have my
husband teach you a lesson you would never forget. Now bring me food, quickly."
"When it is time."
"I said immediately."
She had gone too far. Lolis knew it as Mari advanced toward her, hands lifted, fingers hooked to rip at mouth and
eyes. Her face had hardened into an animal-mask of sheer, vicious ferocity and the girl looked at death and worse
than death, the ruining of the beauty of which she was so proud.
"No!" she said, backing away. "Touch me and I'll tell Dumarest."
"You think he'd care?"
"He loves me!"
The effrontery of it stopped Mari as nothing else could, turning her sudden anger into ribald amusement.
"You? A man like that in love with you? Girl, you dream."
"I saw him," said Lolis. "He looked into my cabin and I could read his eyes. Had I been fully awake he would not
have left me."
She meant it, decided Mari. A twist of the imagination, a wish-image born of half sleep and boredom and
perhaps a little more. He had rejected her, and such an unpleasant memory could not be tolerated. And so she had
built a fantasy which fear and terror had brought into the open. That and perhaps something more. She wanted
Dumarest to be in love with her so that, perhaps, she could take revenge for the imagined slight.
A child, Mari thought, and I was going to treat her as I would a woman. But even children had to learn.
Aloud she said, "Girl, you forget something. Days have passed while you were dreaming under quick-time. Earl is
with the Ghenka."
"He wouldn't."
"Why not? Because you are a woman and you are here and, to you, no other woman could beat you at your own
game? Earl is a man, child; what would he want with a stupid girl? The Ghenka wanted him and I think she is in love
with him. He could be in love with her. Why not? They make a good pair."
There was a note of wistfulness in her voice, caught by Harg if no one else; then he saw the look in Chom's eyes
and knew he wasn't alone. But the entrepreneur was subtle. Instead of the anticipated jest, cruel because of its truth,
he said, "Mari, you are overtired… My lady, the journey is not yet over and who can tell what tomorrow may bring?
As every gambler knows, the one who wins today can lose all in a matter of hours. And," he added meaningfully, "few
men enjoy the fruit which falls too easily into the hand."
The message was plain enough for even Lolis to understand. She was young, nubile, fresh, rich and lovely. Earl
had taken what was at hand. Now, when he had a choice, he would be hers for the asking. And why not? With Hera
safely out of the way, who was to bear tales? The entrepreneur could be bought, Harg threatened, Mari accused of
spite and Gorlyk…?
Deliberately she sat beside him and rested her hand on his arm.
"We have been strangers for too long," she murmured. "Tell me about yourself."

***

In the control room Seleem was dying. He sat slumped in his chair, face waxen, breathing shallowly, the air
rasping in his chest and throat. Sweat dewed his features and Mayenne wiped it away with a scrap of scented fabric.
He smiled his thanks weakly.
Dumarest stared bleakly at him, knowing there was nothing he could do. The internal injuries he had suffered had
been more serious than they had imagined. Splintered ribs, perhaps, lacerating the lungs. Or a ruptured spleen—he
had no way of telling. Slow-time had cleared his mind, but it would take more than rest to mend his body.
"You must eat," said Mayenne to the captain. "Please try to take something. Daroca has some food of his own
which could tempt your appetite."
"Later."
Helplessly, she looked at Dumarest The subdued light caught the bronze of her hair, filling it with little splinters
of brilliance so that she seemed to be wearing a helmet of burnished metal. She had changed her dress, sensing, with
her womanly intuition, that scarlet disturbed him. Now she wore a gown which matched the color of her hair. It too
caught the light, the glow and the starshine from the screens, adding to the illusion that she was a warrior dressed in
glinting mail.
Dumarest said, "Captain, we need you and your skill. You must take food."
"The philosophy of a traveler," Seleem said softly. "Eat while you are able because you can never be sure when
the opportunity will arise again." He coughed with a liquid gurgling and blood showed at his lips. "Later."
"Earl," whispered Mayenne. "Is there nothing we can do?"
A doctor could have operated, repaired the broken body and used the magic of slow-time to accelerate healing,
keeping the captain unconscious and artificially fed. But Dumarest lacked the necessary skill and the ship was not
equipped for such treatment. The only thing he could do, the normal practice in such cases, was to freeze the captain
in one of the caskets until they could reach proper facilities.
But Seleem was needed at the controls. And the captain refused to abandon his command. He said weakly,
"Report on the condition of the generator."
"Kara has reassembled what he could. Now he and the Qualish brothers are trying to find some way to replace
the ruined crystals."
"Kara is a good man," said Seleem. "Not as good an engineer as Grog, but he will do his best."
"I know that," said Dumarest.
"A good man," repeated Seleem.
He fell silent, brooding, regretting past mistakes. He should have killed the beast instead of trying to recapture it.
He should not have used so many of his crew. He should have run from the door or closed it earlier. He had been
greedy and now he was dying and the ship was dying with him. They would all die.
Dumarest said, "Mayenne?"
"Yes, Earl?" She followed him as he moved toward the door of the control room. "Is there something you want me
to do?"
"Stay with him." He glanced to where the captain sat facing his instruments, the screens. "Get him to eat. Keep
him alive and, more important, keep him from dying before his time. We need his skills. If Kara ever gets that
generator working he will have to stay by it Seleem is the only navigator we have."
"I understand."
"Daroca has done his best, but Seleem seems easier with you. Perhaps you could sing to him." He paused and
added, "Happy songs. He must be kept cheerful."
"All my songs are happy ones now, my darling." Her arms lifted, closed around his neck and pulled his face closer
to her own. Her lips were soft and gentle, then firmed with rising passion. "I love you, Earl. I love you. My life is
yours. Remember that."
Her life, her love—for what little time remained.
Dumarest closed the door behind him, his face bleak as he heard the wash of static from the radio, the empty,
eerie sound. And then came the notes of her song, soft, warmly human, a mother crooning to her child, a woman to
her lover. Comfort for the dying captain, his tormented mind eased with induced imagery.
He heard voices from the salon and glanced inside, seeing the gambler dealing cards to Chom, Lolis sitting close
beside Gorlyk. Mari entered, bearing cups of basic. She saw him and called for him to enter.
"Food, Earl. Shall I take some to the captain?"
"Yes, Mayenne too. Has Daroca eaten? The others?"
"Daroca's in his cabin; he didn't want anything. I've attended to the Qualish brothers and the officer. Double
rations; they need the energy." She handed him a steaming cup. "And so do you. Sleep too; you've been working too
hard, Earl. Now sit and get that down."
Her voice was falsely harsh to cover her concern. He smiled and took the cup and sat close to the girl. Lolis
glanced at him, then returned her attention to Gorlyk. Let him be envious, a little jealous, perhaps. Later she would
make him her own.
"And you mean you can do that?" she said to Gorlyk with feigned interest. "Really train your mind so as to
improve its efficiency?"
"Certainly. It is a matter of conscious discipline. For thousands of years men have known that, by mental
exercise, they could control their metabolistic behavior. For example, I could thrust a steel rod into my flesh and I
would not bleed, feel pain, nor would the injury leave any trace or scar. When I was very young I saw a troupe of
entertainers at a fair. They walked on broken glass, pierced their flesh with needles, held their hands in fire. The sight
intrigued me and I determined to learn their secrets."
"Fakirs," said Chom. "A trick of the mind."
"Mental conditioning," insisted Gorlyk. His voice had warmed from its normal dull monotone; now it held a trace
of warmth and pride. "Rigorous discipline exercised over many years. The brain is everything, all else of minor
importance. Emotion is wasted energy. To feel hatred or anger is a weakness. Such things are the result of glandular
secretions and, by mental control, can be prevented."
Slyly Lolis said, "And love?"
"An emotion detrimental to mental well-being."
Chom laughed and said, "It is fortunate for you that your mother did not subscribe to your teachings. Right, Earl?"
Dumarest made no comment.
"Love is everything," said Lolis. "I cant imagine what life would be like without it. To train yourself to be an
unfeeling machine." She gave an exaggerated little shiver. "Horrible!"
"But efficient," said Gorlyk. "Love is not essential to the perpetuation of the race. Parthenogenesis or artificial
insemination could take care of later generations and such births could be strictly controlled on the basis of mental
attainment Think of what such a system would mean. The race would constantly grow in mental prowess; only those
showing the highest ability would continue their line. The rest would be eliminated from the genetic pool. It would
mean the millennium."
"Or sheer, unadulterated hell," said Harg. "Surely life is a matter of variety? Your plan would make all men the
same."
"No," said Gorlyk. He paused, searching for an example. "Take this ship. Men designed it, built it, sent it traveling
between the stars. Now it is obvious that there must be an optimum design for a vessel based on its function and
purpose. Over the course of time ships have become more or less standardized. Trial and error have resulted in a
pattern which we all know. Not perfection, but a greater efficiency when compared to earlier models. If we do it with
ships, then why not with men?"
"And women?" Lolis glanced at Dumarest. He was drinking his basic, apparently uninterested in the conversation.
"Would you like all women to be the same, Earl?"
"In many ways they are," said Chom before Dumarest could answer. "In the dark, at least."
She ignored the crudity. "Earl?"
To Gorlyk he said, "Have you heard of the Cyclan?"
For a moment the man hesitated, a shadow in his eyes; then he said, "I am not sure of what you mean."
"The Cyclan is an organization like those you speak of. It is dedicated to the mind. Emotion plays no part in its
dealings. I find it strange you have not heard of it."
"A dealer in books," scoffed Chom. "Where would he have met a cyber?"
A hundred places, perhaps, Dumarest thought The goods he dealt in were rare and costly and those who would
buy them would have money and influence. And he carried a tracing of their seal.
Dumarest said, "Gorlyk, have you ever met a cyber?"
Again he paused slightly before answering, as if he were considering his reply—or tailoring it to suit the occasion.
"Yes," said Gorlyk. "Once. I was most impressed."
Impressed enough to have fashioned his life on what he had seen? To have copied the seal which the cyber would
have worn emblazoned on the breast of his scarlet robe?
It was possible and a cautious man would not have given an outright lie to a simple question. But Dumarest did
not press the point. There would be time for that later.
However, unless Kara could repair the generator, there would be no need.

***

Daroca called softly from just within the open door of his cabin. "Earl! A moment?"
He seemed no different than he had before. The somber clothing was neat and clean; his face was unmarked by
worry or doubt. He stepped back as Dumarest entered the cabin, and gestured to a chair.
"Some wine?"
"No, thank you."
"This is a special vintage," urged Daroca. "Something which I would venture to guess you have never tasted
before." He produced a bottle fashioned of ebon glass, the darkness flecked with crystalline shimmers. Into a pair of
the iron-glass goblets he poured what seemed to be a flood of bubbles suspended in an amber fluid. "A novelty," he
said, handing Dumarest one of the glasses. "A secret of the vintners of Hammashend. I think it will amuse you."
Dumarest looked into his goblet. The bubbles were of various colors, floating, lambent spheres, touching, parting,
never breaking their individual boundaries. He sipped and felt a cool tartness. Again, and this time he felt a globule
break against his tongue. Immediately his mouth was filled with the taste of honey.
"A host of different flavors, each trapped in its own liqueur," said Daroca. "No two drinks are the same. It adds a
new dimension to a social grace." He paused and added, "And such things should be enjoyed before it is too late."
"You know?"
"Our position? Certainly. I would be a fool if I did not."
"The others?"
"The girl has no mind for anything but herself. Harg, like all gamblers, is a philosopher. Chom?" Daroca shrugged.
"An animal who will fight to the last in order to survive. Gorlyk has his mental discipline." He smiled with quiet
humor. "It will be interesting to see him put it to the test."
"And yourself ?"
"I am not afraid to die. No," Daroca corrected, "that is not wholly true. I am afraid of the lost opportunities death
will bring. The places I shall not see, the things I shall not do. Stupid, perhaps, but to me death has always represented
unfinished business. I am a methodical man Earl. More wine?"
"No."
"Later, perhaps." Daroca leaned back in his chair. "Of us all I would guess that our situation bears hardest on you.
You are a man of action, used to making his own way and, in a sense, controlling his own destiny. Now there is
nothing you can do but wait. How long, Earl?"
Dumarest shrugged. "Kara is doing his best."
"Which we both know isn't going to be good enough." Daroca sipped at his wine, looking surprised at the flavor
he had discovered. "Roses," he mused. "Or, no, the essence of shleng. Interesting."
"You aren't going to die," said Dumarest. "The caskets are repaired and are waiting. When it is time they will be
filled."
"So I have heard. No, not from Mari, but I guessed she knows. The brothers were talking, and I have my own
intelligence. Why else should you have them made ready? However, Earl, what else is that but anticipating the
inevitable?"
"You will be alive," said Dumarest harshly. "You will have a chance. We all will."
"A fighter," mused Daroca. "You never give up."
"No," said Dumarest. "I never give up." He rose from his chair. "Was that all you wanted to talk about?"
"Wait. You haven't finished your wine."
Dumarest looked down at the goblet. He didn't want the wine, novel though it was. He didn't want to sit and talk
about what he already knew too well. Daroca was probably bored, but there were others with whom he could
converse. And the cabin, with its soft furnishings, seemed to stifle, pressing close with its metal and plastic.
"Wait," said Daroca again. "Please sit and finish your wine. And let us talk a little. About Earth," he added softly.
"Terra."
"You said that you'd never heard of the place."
"I said that I'd never been to that world." corrected Daroca as Dumarest resumed his chair. "That is true; I never
have. Does it really exist?"
"I was born there." Dumarest sipped at his wine and his mouth filled with a sharp astringency reminiscent of dust,
"An old world, scarred by ancient wars, on which life is not easy. There is a moon, huge and silver in the sky. The
stars are few, and ships rare. I left as a mere boy, stowing away, and I had more luck than I deserved. The captain was
old and kind. He could have evicted me; instead he allowed me to work my passage. Later, he died."
He sipped again, remembering the endless journeyings, the strange worlds as he moved deeper and deeper into
the Center of the galaxy. Always traveling, until he moved in regions where even the very name of Earth was
unknown.
"You came from that world," said Daroca musingly. "Can't you get back? Haven't you the coordinates?"
"No."
"But surely they can be found? There must be records."
"No," said Dumarest again. "I told you, Earth is a world which has been forgotten. The very name causes
amusement No one seems to know where it is."
"A mythical planet," said Daroca. "Or one which is assumed to be a mythical planet. I went on a quest for such a
world once. Eden. A planet of supposed beauty and eternal life. I actually found it, or a world bearing that name.
Needless to say, it was not what legend implied. A harsh world with a peculiar race of introverted people with
ludicrous claims. They insisted that all mankind had originated on their planet that it was the source of every race on
every world in the galaxy. An obvious impossibility. But Earth?" He shook his head.
"And Terra?"
"They are the same, you say? If so, perhaps I can help you. I have heard the name before. There is a cult which
holds that, like the Eden I told you about all life originated on one planet. They call it Terra."
"The Original People," said Dumarest.
 "You know of them?" Daroca sounded disappointed. "I'm sorry, Earl. I thought I could be of help. It seems that
you already know all I can tell you."
"Perhaps not. Do you know how to contact the cult? Where they are to be found?"
"No."
It was the answer he had expected, but Dumarest was not disappointed. Earth was close, of that he was certain.
Clues won over the years had guided him to this sector of the galaxy, and it could only be a matter of time before he
would know exactly where it was to be found. Clues won on Toy, on Shrine, on Technos and Dradea. The threads
winding close with, perhaps, the final answer to be found on Selegal.
"You are fortunate, Earl," said Daroca softly. "I envy you."
"Why?"
"You, at least, have a reason for living. A goal at which you can aim. I—" He broke off, shrugging. "Well, never
mind. But to drift is not always a pleasant thing. Shall we finish the wine?"

Chapter Six
Dumarest woke to a pressure on his shoulder and the sound of an urgent voice.
"Earl, darling! Wake up! Wake up, Earl!"
It was Mayenne. She lifted her hand as she saw his opened eyes and stood quietly beside the bed as he sat
upright. He felt weak, disorientated, his head spinning with vaguely remembered dreams. Daroca had kept him
talking, and he had lingered, sensing the other man's need of companionship. Had some of the globules contained
hallucinogens? Damn the man and his exotic wine!
Mayenne said, "Please, Earl. Hurry."
"A moment." He rose and rinsed his head, the cold water helping to wash the cobwebs from his brain. While
dressing, he said, "Seleem?"
"He isn't dead, Earl, but something has happened to him. I went to the salon to prepare him some food, and when
I returned he said that he'd heard voices."
"Voices? Another vessel?"
"I don't know."
"Did you hear them?"
"No. Earl, he looks so strange. He kept asking me if I could hear anything and I couldn't. So I came for you."
Seleem turned as they entered the control room. The lights were out, the chamber lit only by the telltales and the
starglow from the screens. He was upright in his chair, eyes bright, shoulders squared as if his body had summoned
up a reserve of energy.
"Dumarest," he said. "Check the screens. Negative?"
"Negative."
"Yet there has to be something out there. I heard it. Listen."
He touched a control and the thin wash of static poured into the room.
"Negative," said Dumarest. "Captain, maybe you'd better let me give you something."
"I'm not mad," snapped Seleem. "And I'm not suffering from delusions. I tell you I heard something."
"Voices, Captain? A response to our beacon?"
"No, not voices. It was more like a song. A sound like the girl makes. You remember? We heard it once together."
When she had sung into her radio and broadcast her voice to the stars. Dumarest met her eyes.
"No, Earl. I wasn't responsible. I swear it."
"But you were singing to the captain."
"Yes, but I'd left to get him food. There it is." She pointed to an untouched cup of basic standing on the chair-
table. "I didn't sing and I didn't broadcast. You have my word for that."
A delusion then, the crying need for Seleem to save both himself and his command, causing him to fit imagined
words to the empty static. Dumarest drew a deep breath, knowing that he had been a fool to hope.
"I heard it," insisted the captain. "It came loud and clear. I couldn't have been mistaken."
Dumarest said, "Mayenne, do you remember the song you sang before you went to get the food?"
"Yes, Earl."
"Sing it again."
"Now?"
"At once, Mayenne. Please."
He watched as the notes soared around him, filling the cabin, merging with the background wash of static.
Seleem gave no response, sitting as before, and the telltales remained quiescent A forlorn hope, but it had to be tried.
At times ultra-radio had freakish ways, and, if nothing else, it would prove by negative response the captain's
delusion.
Seleem stirred as Mayenne fell silent.
"It was something like that." he said. "Not exactly the same, but something—"
The radio burst into life.
It was a reflection, thought Dumarest wildly. A return of what had been emitted, bounced back from some scrap
of cosmic debris. Crystals, perhaps, vibrating in sympathy and rebroadcasting what they had received. And then he
noticed the subtle differences. The song was not exactly the same: not even a mirror-image. It was as if someone had
heard a shout and answered it with a blast of similar sound.
"There!" Seleem was trembling. "I told you I heard something! I told you!"
"Sing again," Dumarest ordered. "Use sequential notes in varying series and pause between each group."
"Earl?"
"Do it!" Urgency sharpened his voice, making it hard. "Aim for a response. If it is identical, it could be a reflection.
If not, it could be the result of intelligence. Hurry."
He timed the song, the answer, checking and testing as Seleem adjusted his controls.
"Too low," he said after a prolonged space of silence. "Higher? Sing higher!"
The girl had a tonal range more than twice that in normal use. Her voice was a trained instrument capable of
delicate variation and pure harmony. A Ghenka could smash glass and curdle milk, kill bacteria even, with the power
of her voice. Dumarest felt the ache in his ears as her tones soared, saw the captain's eyes become suffused with
blood and felt the thin vibration of the control panel on which his fingers rested.
"Enough!"
Tensely he waited for the response. When it came, there could no longer be any doubt. It was not a reflection.
Dumarest spoke into the radio. "This is a ship in distress. Do you understand? We are damaged and without
motive power. We need assistance badly."
Nothing. The screens remained empty, the radio silent. Seleem stirred fretfully in his chair.
"Try again," he urged. "Dumarest, there's a ship out there somewhere. We've got to remain in contact Try again."
"We don't know that it is a ship," said Dumarest. "All we can be sure of is that something, somewhere, is emitting
a signal." He boosted the radio to the limit of its power. "Listen," he said harshly. "You out there, listen".
"This is. a ship in distress. We have suffered damage and are drifting. Unless we get help, we'll all die. Locate our
position and come to our aid. Quickly. We have no time to waste."
Again no response.
"I don't understand this," muttered Seleem. "It answered the girl, why not you?"
Pitch, frequency, perhaps even the casual dictates of curiosity, how could they tell? Dumarest caught Mayenne by
the arms.
"Sing to it. Attract it. Bring it to us, somehow. I don't know how," he said as he saw the question in her eyes. "But
it answers you, and that is enough. Call to it, girl. Bring it close."
"But, Earl—" Her hand rose and touched her throat, "For how long must I sing?"
Even a trained voice had its limitations. Dumarest checked the panels, found the recorder and switched it on.
"As long as you can," he said flatly. "And then well use the tape. Now, Mayenne."
Kara entered the control room as she began. He stood, listening, as she sang for her life, the lives of them all. Her
voice rose in a plaintive wail, shrilling, sobbing with a terrible yearning, calling, pleading in the universal language of
despair.
As she paused he said, "Captain, I—"
Seleem cut him short. "Be quiet. We are in contact with something. Listen."
The song rose again, a little different than before, but still tearing at the nerves with the same impact Kara felt a
bleak helplessness, a fury at unresolved suffering and pain, a burning determination to help and aid whenever the
opportunity arose.
The answer came in a roar of sound.
It blasted from the radio, lilting, wailing, seeming to hold a question. Dazed, Dumarest flung his hands to his ears.
Kara caught Mayenne's look of anguish and heard Seleem's cry of pain. Then the sound changed. Now it no longer
posed a question, but held decision.
The ship moved!
On the screens the stars shifted, flickered and were replaced by others, sparse and dull against the sky. A handful
of somber points were backed by unending darkness, broken only by the smears of distant galaxies.
A world hung before them.
 Seleem cried out and flung his hands at the useless controls. Dumarest caught a glimpse of harsh roughness, of
rounded nubs which could once have been mountains, and then they were closer, hurtling toward a deep valley
barely visible in the weak light of the stars.
"Earl!"
He heard the cry and felt Mayenne grip his arm. He caught her to him, cradling her tight, giving her the useless
protection of his flesh as his skin crawled to anticipated destruction.
"Earl," she whispered. "Kiss me good-bye."
He felt the touch of her lips, the softness of her hair against his cheek, the warm pressure of her body as,
helplessly, he waited.
And then, incredibly, the ship came harmlessly to rest.

***

"God!" Kara was sweating; his hands shook as he dabbed at his face and the trickle of blood from his bitten lips.
"Landings like that I can do without. Are you all right? Earl? Mayenne?"
"Yes," she said. Like the officer, she was dazed. With her emotions set on approaching death she was slow to
recognize the abrupt transition. Her eyes widened as they stared past Dumarest to the big chair. "The captain!"
Seleem was dead. He lay sprawled on the padding, blood edging his mouth, his eyes filled with the terror he had
known at the last. Shock had sapped the remaining strength from his weakened body. Kara gently closed the staring
eyes.
"A good man," he said bleakly. "And a damned fine captain. I know just how he must have felt. A dead ship and a
certain crash. All he'd ever worked for on the edge of destruction and not a damned thing he could do about it A hell
of a way to end a life."
Dumarest said, "You're in command now."
"In command of what? A useless vessel stranded on an unknown world? You know why I came to the control
room? It was to tell the captain that we didn't have a hope in hell of ever being able to repair the generator. I've tried
everything I know and it isn't enough."
"It's still your command. And you have decisions to make, responsibilities. There are the passengers; have you
forgotten?"
"No," said Kara. "I haven't forgotten. But how am I going to explain? One minute we were in space, the next…?"
He shrugged. "What happened, Earl?"
"You saw it. You should know."
"Instantaneous transmission. I saw it but I still don't believe it. It goes against all the accepted laws of nature. The
energy requirement alone would have been fantastic." Kara looked at the screens, at the rough terrain outside. To
either side the cliffs framed a solitary star. "Something moved us," he said wonderingly. "Shifted us from where we
were to where we are now. And where is that? Somewhere remote, that's obvious. We must be at the edge of the
galaxy. But why?"
Mayenne said, "I called for help. Something answered."
"You call this help? The ship stranded and the captain dead?"
"That was an accident," said Dumarest. "He was ill, dying, and the strain was too great."
"So they couldn't help that, but why bring us here at all?"
Kara moved to the radio and boosted the gain. To the silence he said, "This is the commander of the vessel which
has just landed. We are in distress and require immediate aid. Reply if you receive me."
He snarled at the lack of a response.
"Listen," he stormed. "You brought us here and you killed a man in doing it. Now talk to me, damn you. Talk!"
A rush of noise and then a single word came.
"Wait!"
Mayenne caught Dumarest's arm. "Earl! They answered! They can understand!"
"Then why don't they talk?" Kara adjusted the radio. "What are we supposed to wait for?"
"Wait," said the radio again. Then, in a disjointed rush, the voice said: "…Need to correlate data…
communication… stimulation of reserve… unrelated form of reference... micro-currents of various transmitters
occluded by engrossing irrelevancies… time… inconsistent with… manjhala hish… secal…"
"Crazy," said Kara. "What's the matter with that operator? He doesn't make sense."
"He sounds so cold," said Mayenne in a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard. "Like Gorlyk does at times. Flat,
dull, like a machine."
The radio emitted a series of clicks, a high-pitched whistle and then a dull, rumbling grating sound which fell to a
sonorous booming.
"Damn you," said Kara. "You're getting on my nerves." He glanced at Mayenne. "Perhaps she should sing to it
again."
"Use the tape," said Dumarest. "We recorded her last songs."
It was worth a try and they had nothing to lose. As Kara engaged the spool, he studied the screens. The edge of
the cliffs seemed a little different from what they had been before, the bleak stone hazed with a mist of light He
blinked, wondering if his eyes were at fault, but the soft glow remained.
Kara rested his hand on the control. "Here goes. Maybe, this time, we'll be sent back home. Right on the field at
Selegal would suit me fine." He froze as the radio broke into new life.
"…compounded error… communication by means of vibrating membranes… no… vibration conducted through
gaseous medium… no… unessential… signal medium restricted to limited range of cycles… correlate with
electromagnetic emissions… malfunction…"
The cold voice held a frightening detachment. Dumarest thought of a tiny insect lying on a path, a hand sweeping
it up and carrying it to a laboratory, there to mount it, examine it, perhaps dissect it. Would the creature comprehend
the forces which had moved it? The musing of the technician probing into its life?
"Earl," whispered Mayenne. "I'm afraid."
Had she grasped the analogy too?
Before he could ask, sound thundered around them: a blast of noise so intense that it created physical pain. It
was as if the very walls of the vessel quivered to invisible energies, vibrating in the aural spectrum, but so strongly
that they could only cringe and wait for it to end.
"Stimulus inappropriate," said the radio. "Adjust."
Again the ship quivered with sound.
And the planet spoke.
It needed no mouth; mouths are only a means of vibrating gases. It needed no radio; it could control the passage
of electrons, the emission of energies, as a part of its integral existence. All that was required was a diaphragm which
could be vibrated within a range discernible to the ear. And the ear itself contained such a diaphragm.
To such a being it was a small thing to correlate words, to assign meanings, to construct the terminology and
extrapolate from proven data. A man could do it, given time.
They could understand that. The sense of purpose and the taint of frustration was understandable too. Beyond
understanding was the element of time.
It was old.
It had gained awareness and, inevitably, it had acquired an emotion. Just when it had made that acquisition had
engrossed it for an eon during which suns had faded into embers and the area of space in which it drifted had
become desolate and cold. The need for survival had driven it to regions where suns were hot and space full of
needed radiation. But those suns in turn had died and again it had moved.
On such a scale time ceased to have meaning. The repetitive pageant had unfolded itself so often they were like
the pages of a book; suns flaring to die, their planets disintegrating into dust; its own bulk maintained by
manipulations of which it was a master.
It had crossed intergalactic space, a planet-sized intelligence which had been attracted by a song.
And it was bored.

***

Kara entered the salon and joined the others where they sat at the table, all congregating as if for mutual comfort
and protection. There was no need for explanations; all had received the message. He nodded to Dumarest as he took
a cup of basic from the tray which Mari had provided.
"I've taken care of the captain. Sealed him in one of the caskets for later burial. He'd want to be evicted into
space, not planted in that thing out there."
"A worm," said Harg. "It made me feel about an inch high."
"But it can help us," said Lolis to Dumarest. "It can do anything. Surely you can make it repair the ship and send
us on our way?"
"We can't make it do anything," he said flatly. "We can only ask."
"But you will do that?"
It was Kara's responsibility, not his, but he didn't bother to argue with her. Later they would ask. Later they would
do what had to be done. But it would be at Tormyle's convenience, not theirs. Tormyle, the name the world had given
itself.
 Daroca touched Mayenne on the arm. "Perhaps if you sang to it again?" he suggested. "Bribed it, perhaps?"
Chom thoughtfully nibbed at his chin.
"You know, Earl, there are opportunities here. The thing must hold secrets of tremendous value. The way it
shifted us, for example. If we could obtain such knowledge we could demand our own price."
He was serious, Dumarest decided. The man's natural defenses had narrowed his horizons to regions he could
comprehend. To him the giant intelligence on which they rested was nothing more than a potential source of wealth.
And he was right. The human mind could only grasp so much at a time. An enemy was no more to be feared because
it was large. A virus could kill as surely as a planetary brain.
"I must talk to it," said Gorlyk. "I think you should elect me as your spokesman. I am the only one here with the
training to deal with it. A machine must appreciate logical thought and I have devoted my life to perfecting mental
discipline."
Kara said, "Why do you call it a machine?"
"Could it be anything else? No organic life could have lived for so long. Nor could it have grown so huge."
"It is bored," said Daroca. "Could a machine feel emotion?"
"A brain, to remain active, must be constantly supplied with fresh stimuli," said Gorlyk. "To me it is self-evident
that Tormyle cannot be the product of natural life. Therefore it must be a fabrication. Perhaps a self-perpetuating
device of some kind."
"Not so fast." Sac Qualish stared down at his hands. They were rough, scarred with recent labor. "That thing
comes from a long way away. We have no idea as to what life-forms are to be found in other galaxies. All we know is
that it's bored and it wants us to provide intellectual stimulation. Can you do that?"
"Certainly."
"I couldn't." Sac glanced at his brother. "Could you, Tek?"
"No. I've been thinking about it and I know just how Harg feels. Like a child faced with a genius. A bug on a
carpet waiting to be crushed."
Kara said, "It didn't say anything about intellectual stimulation. It just said that it was bored and hoped to relieve
itself. That we would relieve it. Nothing was said as to how."
"What else could it be other than by mental stimulation?" Gorlyk looked around the table. "Do you agree I should
be our spokesman?"
Chom said, musingly, "Not so fast, my friend. There could be certain advantages in being spokesman, but it would
take a man used to devious ways to make the best of them. And not for himself alone, but for all. I am such a one. In
my profession it is essential to have a ready tongue and nimble wit—two things you lack."
"Tormyle would not appreciate dealing with a liar and a thief," said Gorlyk coldly.
"You dare to call me that!"
"Your actions prove it. Shall I elucidate?"
"Shut up," said Harg.
"Our lives may depend on the correct choice. I insist on being the one."
"Be what you like," said Mari quickly. Nerves were taut and, like the gambler, she knew too well how soon a
quarrel could become more vicious than words. "Just get us out of here and I'll give you a permanent free pass to any
house I own. That's a promise."
"Don't be so free with what isn't yours to give," snapped Chom. "I do not like to place my life in such hands. Earl?"
"Leave me out of it," said Dumarest.
"You then, Kara. You are the captain now. It is for you to make the decision."
"Toss for it," said the officer bitterly. "Or play cards. At least it will keep you from each other's throats."
"I'm willing," said Harg.
"I'm not." Daroca was firm. "Gorlyk is right when he says that our spokesman, should we need one, must be the
best man available. Our lives could depend on the way he handles the situation. With respect to all present I submit
that it should be either our captain or Dumarest. Kara will be needed to take care of the ship. Earl?"
"A good choice," said Mari. "You agree, Harg?"
The gambler nodded. Gorlyk said, "Why must the choice lie between them?"
"They are both officers," said Daroca mildly. "The only ones we have now. It could be that Tormyle will only have
respect for established authority. I don't know, but officer or not, Dumarest is my choice."
Lolis said, "And mine. Earl, darling, you will agree?"
"I will think about it."
"And other things, darling?"
The invitation was plain, and he caught Mari's scowl, the sudden hardening of Mayenne's lips. But he was in no
mood for the casual interplay of personal relationships. The girl was a fool and promised to be a nuisance.
 Flatly he said, "My lady, you waste your time."
"Why, Earl? You go with the Ghenka; why not me? Am I so ugly?"
They were all under strain. A sharp retort would have been easy but unnecessarily cruel. Deliberately he softened
his tone.
"You are very beautiful, my lady, as you well know. But you have much to learn." To Kara he said, "Captain, I
think we should resume our watch."
The view had altered. There was a softness about the valley which had not been there before. Above, the single
star winked and seemed to waver as they watched.
"Air," said Kara wonderingly. "But the planet is airless." He checked an instrument. "Three pounds pressure and
rising. Earl?"
"It is making a place for us," said Dumarest. "An environment in which we can survive outside the ship. It has
probably sealed the valley with force screens of some kind." He remembered the haze he had noticed earlier. "It
could be manufactured from the stone, water perhaps, even food."
"Like God," said Kara wonderingly. "Creating a world to order."

Chapter Seven
It was a paradise.
Dumarest stood just outside the open port of the vessel and breathed air which was rich and warm and filled with
delicate perfumes. The valley was thick with exotic plants, bushes and flowering trees covering the barren harshness
he remembered. Above the space between the cliffs was a shimmer of light as warm and as bright as any sunshine.
"It's beautiful," whispered Mayenne. "The kind of place I have always dreamed of. If I could live here, with you,
Earl, I would want nothing else."
"It built well," admitted Kara.
Well and fast, using information taken from their own minds, Dumarest thought. He watched the others drift to
either side, their voices clear on the scented air.
"A langish," said Daroca wonderingly. "I haven't seen one since I was a boy. They grow only in the foothills of the
Jade Mountains on Klark."
Mari laughed as a fungus popped and released a cloud of spores to hang shimmering in the air.
Sac Qualish pulled golden ovoids from a tree.
"Taste this fruit, Tek. It's really something." He snorted as his brother hesitated. "Hell, if Tormyle wanted to kill us
it wouldn't have to poison the fruit. Go ahead, there's nothing to worry about."
Kara said, "We should stop them, Earl."
"We can't, and Sac is right. I don't think we have anything to fear from the fruit and vegetation." Dumarest
watched as Mayenne plucked a flower and held it to her nose. Pollen rose and she sneezed.
Lolis danced on a patch of lawn, blossoms wreathing her hair.
"This is wonderful," she called. "When I am married I will have a place built exactly like this. A love bower. Earl,
come and join me. Let us explore."
She frowned as he made no move to obey.
"No? You then, Gorlyk."
"Wait!" Kara was unsure of himself, out of his depth and not knowing just what to do. "I think we should stay
together. It wanted us outside; well, we are here, but maybe we should stay close to the ship."
"You worry too much," she called. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
Dumarest wished he could be as certain. He reached for a leaf and let it lie in his hand, not plucking it, holding it
on its stem. Was it real or an illusion? The valley appeared to be a haven, but it could contain nothing except air. The
rest might exist only in their minds.
He heard laughter. Lolis was dancing again, Gorlyk looking foolish in a lopsided garland of flowers which she had
thrown over his head. The Qualish brothers stood beside the tree, their faces smeared with juice from its fruits.
Mayenne was lost in a dream as she wandered, gathering flowers. Even Kara seemed to have relaxed.
He opened his blouse and bared his chest to the warmth of the sky.
"Paradise, Earl. The thing which people have looked for since the dawn of time. We could have found it."
"At a price."
"We can pay it. There are ten of us and between us we should be able to provide Tormyle with what it wants. And
it can't be really bad, Earl. Would it have provided this garden if it was?"
A beautiful garden—if there was no serpent.
 Dumarest felt the leaf quiver in his hand, vibrating, forming words.
As every leaf vibrated, so did the very molecules of the scented air.
"I am Tormyle."
It was a statement of fact as cold as ice and carrying the bleak detachment of a machine. Startled, they waited.
"You are sentient forms of life each containing an electromagnetic unit of intriguing complexity. Why do you not
use it to communicate?"
"It's talking about our brains," said Kara wildly. "How can we answer that?"
Gorlyk took a step forward as if to attract attention.
To the air he said, "We are aware of our physical limitations. We are in the process of evolution and will, in time,
be able to achieve mental communication. Now we use machines to obtain the same ends."
"Understood."
A silence and then Dumarest tensed as he felt the impact of invisible energies. A soft pressure enfolded his body,
questing, probing before it vanished as suddenly as it had come. From their expressions he knew the others had
suffered a similar experience.
"Soft," droned the air. "And different. You are of two kinds. Why is that?"
"For reproductive purposes," said Gorlyk quickly. He was determined to be the spokesman. "We represent both
sexes. Male and female. The female bears the young." He added. "I am a male."
"Understood."
It was toying with them, Dumarest thought. Asking what it must already know. If it could have searched their
minds in order to discover the things needed to fashion a suitable environment, then surely it must have gleaned
other knowledge. And yet it was in the nature of a machine to verify all data. If it was a machine.
He said, "Will you repair our vessel?"
"Don't talk to it," said Gorlyk. "I am the spokesman. We agreed."
"Shut your mouth!" Chom snapped. "We aren't here to play games."
Dumarest ignored them both. He said flatly, "I asked you a question. Will you answer?"
The leaves rustled. "Dissension. A conflict of electromagnetic units. But there is more. I find it engrossing."
"Don't listen to him," said Gorlyk. "Tormyle, I am the one to whom you should speak."
"A metabolic alteration for no observable cause," said the air. "Increase in temperature and muscular tension.
Some aberration of the cranial unit. Explain."
Anger, thought Dumarest. Gorlyk's training had let him down. He must be feeling rage at the interruption and
overriding of his assumed authority. A cyber could never lose his temper. One minor problem, at least, had been
solved.
Aloud he said, "He is feeling a strong emotion."
"Explain."
"He wants to hurt me. To destroy my function."
"Explain what you mean by emotion."
"A strong feeling caused by internal or external stimuli."
"Feeling?"
"Joy, hate, anger, love, fear, hope." Dumarest added: "I can't explain them. They have to be experienced. To the
majority of our kind they make life what it is."
"Stimuli?"
"Opposition, possession, loss, achievement, failure, success." Dumarest paused. How to explain abstracts to
something so alien? "I can't make it clearer than I have. You either know what I'm talking about or you don't.
Obviously you don't."
The air stirred and Tormyle said, "Insufficient data to resolve unfamiliar concepts. Detailed examination essential
before further progress."
Gorlyk vanished.

***

He went without trace, one second standing with his face turned toward the brightness of the sky, the next
completely gone with not even a clap of air rushing to fill the vacuum he must have left.
Lolis screamed. "I felt it. Like a great hand snatching him away. I was standing right beside him and I felt it!"
"He must be somewhere." Kara ran to where he had been standing. The grass was unmarked. "Search," he
ordered. "Spread out and look everywhere."
"No," said Dumarest. "It will be a waste of time. We all know what happened."
 "Tormyle!" said Daroca. "Do you think it is responsible?"
"You heard it. What else?"
"A specimen, snatched away for detailed examination." Mari dabbed at the sweat which had appeared on her
face. "The poor devil. I never did like him, but at least he was human. Not like this." She stared uneasily at the
vegetation shrouding the walls of the valley, its floor. "Perhaps we should get back into the ship."
It would make no difference and they found it impossible. The port had been closed and sealed. Like it or not
they had to stay in the open; they clustered close at the base of the ramp.
Mayenne said, "Earl, what will happen to him?"
"Gorlyk? He will be studied."
"But how?"
"I don't know."
"Killed?"
Dumarest impatiently shook his head. Gorlyk was gone and it required little imagination to guess what would
happen to him. Taken apart cell by cell, perhaps, tested and probed to destruction, torn apart in search of an elusive
thing called emotion. Or perhaps Tormyle had more efficient means. Perhaps the planetary intelligence could test
without destruction.
"It's watching us," Chom said broodingly. "I can feel it. Like spiders crawling on my skin."
"It's busy," Mari said shortly. "It's got no time for us at the moment."
"A brain like that could have time for a thousand things at once. Do you think it's as restricted as ourselves? And
have you never done two things at the same time?"
"Yes," she admitted. "Often."
"And you have only a small brain," said Chom. "Think of what Tormyle can do. It's incredible."
He shivered a little and hunched himself small as if to escape the notice of a watching eye. It was a feeling they
all shared. The primitive defense to cringe, to hide, to wait until danger had passed. But in this place there could be
no hiding.
Dumarest said, "We had better eat. Let's gather fruits and see what else is available."
"You want us to go in there?" Mari jerked her head toward the undergrowth. "After what has happened?"
"You didn't want to search," reminded Kara. "You said it would be a waste of time."
"It would, and I'm not talking about making a search. But we just can't sit here. Tormyle will do as it wants and
there's nothing we can do about it."
"A philosopher," Chom sneered. "Well, Earl, this is something you can't tackle with that knife of yours. I suggest
we find some way of buying our way out of here. Has anyone any ideas?"
Their voices blurred as Dumarest left the company. With Mayenne at his side, he headed into the underbrush.
The bushes pressed close, but they were soft and devoid of spine or thorn. Water gushed from one side and they
found a narrow brook flanked by mossy banks. Clusters of some grape-like fruit hung thickly from low branches and
Dumarest gathered them, sitting, eating with quiet deliberation.
Mayenne said, "We aren't going to be able to leave here, are we?"
"We don't know that."
"I feel it." She sat close beside him, the bronze of her hair pressed against his cheek. "So much to happen so fast,"
she murmured. "A few days ago and my life seemed arranged. Nothing but work and travel and a slow fading as my
skill died. Do you know what happens to old Ghenkas? They move lower and lower down the social scale. A few open
schools of elocution. Some manage to find themselves a husband, but men are few who would be willing to tie their
lives to entertainers of such reputation. Most kill themselves. Did you know that, Earl?"
Eating, he shook his head.
"You find that strange? But then you wouldn't know what it means to watch a part of yourself die. The voice loses
flexibility, cracks, holds broken tones. To a Ghenka that is death. It is better to leave with a little pride. Each of us
carries a gem which, when sucked, will yield poison. There is no pain."
"You have no way of knowing that," he said quietly. "But you are not going to die."
"By the gem, no. I had thought about it, but then I met you and—" She broke off, drawing a deep breath. "I love
you, Earl. My life began when I met you. Still I cannot believe that you love me in return."
"Why do you find that strange?"
"I am a Ghenka."
"You are a woman who can sing like an angel," he corrected. "And you have given me happiness."
"As others have done?"
She reached up and touched him as he made no answer, letting her fingers trail across his cheek, the hard line of
his jaw.
 "As others have done," she said, and this time it wasn't a question. "But they lost and I have won—for now."
The brook made a little rippling sound and he wondered where the water came from and where it went. From the
wall of the cliff, he assumed, manufactured from the rock itself, vanishing beyond the protecting force fields which
must seal the valley. He finished the last of the fruit and washed his hands, ducking his head deep into the stream.
The water was cold, filled with tiny bubbles, tasting of iron.
"Earl!" She lay on the bank, arms lifted, eyes expressive. "Earl!"
"You should eat something."
"I am hungry," she admitted. "But not for food. Must I starve?"
He held her close and felt the tiny tremors which ran beneath her skin. A creature afraid and needing
reassurance. She saw the bleakness of his face.
"Is something wrong?"
"No."
"Do you feel that we are being watched?" Her laugh was a low caress. "My darling, does it matter if we are?"
He was not thinking of that. Tormyle had taken Gorlyk as a specimen to be examined, but Gorlyk was a male. To
be thorough, a female would have to be examined also. Mari, Lolis or Mayenne. Which would be chosen?
She cried out from the pressure of his arms.

***

The sky never changed. Always it seemed as if it were noon, and Dumarest could only guess how long they had
been away. Mayenne walked beside him, eating fruits he had gathered, golden juice on her lips and cheeks.
"You're a strange man, Earl. Here we are with all this trouble and yet you insist that I eat."
"An empty stomach doesn't help clear thinking," he said absently.
"But to worry about details when we've such a big problem. Aren't you concerned about the future?"
The future was to come; the present was at hand. Life was the extension of a moment and he had learned the
lesson too well for it ever to be forgotten.
The group at the base of the ship seemed the same as before. Dumarest could see Chom's squat bulk, the more
graceful shape of Daroca, Kara's open blouse, the two Qualish brothers, Mari.
"Earl!" Mayenne caught his arm. "Lolis isn't with them."
Lolis, young and fair and full of grace. Nubile and eager for love, a little foolish perhaps, more than a little selfish.
Why had she been chosen?
"She went shortly after you'd left," said Kara dully. "Vanished just like Gorlyk. One second she was sitting there,
making a garland out of some flowers, and then she was gone. Damn the thing!" he exploded. "Does it intend to kill
us all?"
"It's playing with us," said Harg. "Like a cat with a mouse." His hands trembled as he dealt out cards. "One after
the other. First Gorlyk, then Lolis; who next? Mari, perhaps? Chom? Me?" He grunted as he turned over the jester.
"The fool," he said. "We're all fools. Why didn't we stay safely at home?"
"I've checked the ship," said Kara to Dumarest. "I tried to get inside. There are lasers there, weapons we could use
if we had to. But it's still sealed tight."
"Weapons won't help us." Chom had overheard. "We need to use more subtle ways. The thing must be intrigued,
bribed, seduced into letting us go free. A bargain must be made."
"We've been over this," said Kara. "We have nothing to offer."
"I disagree." Daroca brushed a fleck of pollen from his sleeve. "We know the thing is bored. We know that it
needs something to hold its interest. A problem, perhaps. A paradox of some kind. There is one about a barber; do
you know it?"
"There is a village in which all men are shaved by the barber," said Harg. "No man shaves himself. Question, who
shaves the barber? Incidentally, every man in the village is clean-shaven."
"Stupidity!" snorted Mari. "Do you think Tormyle would be interested in a riddle like that?"
"He might be," said Daroca. "There is no answer, you understand. If all men are clean-shaven, and no man shaves
himself, and all are shaved by the barber, then the barber cannot be shaved. But he is clean-shaven. Can you grasp the
paradox?"
Mari said, "If our lives depend on a thing like that, then we had best end them now. Earl, can't you think of
something?"
"Daroca could have a point," he said. "It's worth considering. It would do no harm to give it something to think
about. Who knows? We may be lucky."
A voice said, "What is luck?"
 It came from the base of the vessel and they turned, staring. Mari gave a choking noise and Chom sucked in his
breath.
"God!" said Kara. "What is that?"
"I am Tormyle." The thing lurched forward. "What is luck?"
It was grotesque, a child's fantasy of an ogre, something which should have been a man but wasn't. It was tall and
broad and the face held certain disturbing familiarities. Gorlyk, distorted, could have looked like that Gorlyk, swollen,
stretched, partly melted and then frozen into a parody of a human shape.
Again it said, "I am Tormyle. What is luck?"
Harg licked dry lips. "The combination of fortuitous circumstances. Why—"
"Why do I appear before you in this guise?" The voice was not as cold as before. It almost held interest. "To be
viable in any frame of reference communication must be of an equal nature. It occurred to me that perhaps my
previous method may have disturbed you. I learned much from the original specimen."
Dumarest said, "And the second one? The girl?"
"She is of a more complex character. My investigation is proceeding."
"You've killed them," said Mari bitterly. "You've torn them apart."
"Destruction was essential for the complete reduction to elemental parts. But it is of no importance. The sample
was small and can be replaced by your normal reproductive methods. Tell me about luck." It nodded as Harg
explained. "I understand. The selection of variable choices so as to arrive at a desired result. To you it is important?"
"Yes," said the gambler.
A hand lifted, pointed. "You?"
"We had bad luck," said Mari. "That's why we're here."
"So the acquisition of luck is a prime directive?"
"Yes," said Harg.
"No," said Mayenne.
"Explain."
"A person has a certain thing which is of major importance in his life," she said. "Harg is a gambler and so , he
wants good luck. To me that isn't so important."
"What is?"
"Love."
"Love?" Tormyle sounded puzzled. "The word is familiar. The second specimen was obsessed with the concept.
Love is what you did beside the stream?"
"That is part of it, yes."
"There is more? Yes. An intangible. An emotion. Data is accumulating. A correct decision to attempt
communication by this method. More prime directives." The hand lifted. "You?"
Kara said, "I want command. Responsibility."
"You?"
Chom said, "To live in comfort."
"You?"
Dumarest said, "To survive."
"The basic prime function of any sentient being." Tormyle sounded approving. "A policy is being formulated to
achieve the desired result. Later you will be notified. There will be darkness. You will rest."
It vanished.
The sky went dark.
They slept.

Chapter Eight
Chom rose, muttering, his face creased as he stretched. "I ache," he complained. "At least Tormyle could have
given us softer beds."
Dumarest glanced at the sky. It was bright again, shimmering. He felt stiff and unrested. They had lain where the
thing had left them, falling into immediate unconsciousness when the sky had darkened. A forced period of sleep
which had contained little of value.
Around him the others had risen. Daroca dusted down his clothing, the great ring on his finger flashing with
reflected light.
"What have we learned?" he demanded. "It came to us and spoke; have we learned anything new?"
 "A policy is being formulated," said Harg. "Something to achieve the desired result. What result?"
"The alleviation of its boredom," said Chom. He winced as he rubbed his back. "And we have nothing to offer it.
Nothing."
Kara came from the vessel where he had been testing the port. "Still sealed. Earl, what should we do?"
He was the captain and should have made the decisions, but he was used to space and the obedience of
machines. In this environment he was at a loss.
"We must get organized," said Dumarest. "We need food, shelter, beds, weapons."
"Weapons?"
It would give them something to do and, armed, they would feel less helpless.
"We don't know what Tormyle intends," explained Dumarest. "It is only good sense that we should prepare for
anything we can imagine. We need beds so that we can rest in comfort. Food to maintain our strength. Shelter in case
the environment is changed. But most important of all is that we remain active."
"Why?" demanded Chom. "We are helpless. Must we run like a rat in a wheel for the sake of movement?"
Daroca said, thoughtfully, "The analogy is a good one. When I was a boy I kept some insects in a jar. They were
clever things and they amused me with their constructions. At times I used to tear down what they had built in order
to watch them build again. After a time they ceased to spin their fabrications, and so, bored, I destroyed them. Earl is
right."
"We are not insects."
"We are men," said Dumarest harshly. "No matter what Tormyle thinks of us, we are men. The moment we forget
that we deserve to die."
"The man of action," said Chom. "But there is more to life than physical endeavor. There is the logic of the mind."
"Logic?" Daroca shrugged. "All men must die, and so it would be logical to anticipate the inevitable. Do you
suggest we all terminate our existence?"
The entrepreneur scowled.
"You twist my words," he complained. "If we could think of something to intrigue Tormyle we could be gone in
an hour. I still say we should concentrate on that."
Kara made his decision. "We'll do as Earl says."
There were difficulties. The gathering of ferns for the beds was simple, but they had to make baskets in which to
hold the fruit, and Kara frowned as Dumarest mentioned water.
"Well need pots. There could be clay in the soil, perhaps, but how can we harden it?"
"With fire." Dumarest sighed as he recognized the other's limitations. "Daroca has traveled and must have
experience of non-mechanical cultures. And the Qualish brothers should know something of primitive engineering
skills. A fire can be made with a bow to generate friction. Baskets can be woven from leaves; some of these plants
could contain gummy saps which would make them water-tight. There are big leaves which could be sewn with a
needle of wood and thread of fiber."
"And the material for spears? We need long branches. You have a knife, Earl. Will you gather them?"
A clump of slender boles reared to one side, slim, topped with feathery tufts, each twice the height of a man.
Dumarest cut one down close to the ground and examined it. The material was hollow, like a tube, but one end could
be sliced at an angle so as to make a point. He chopped it to an eight-foot length, poised it and threw it toward Kara.
It stuck, quivering, in the soil.
"Will they do, Earl?"
"Try it."
The Qualish brothers came toward them as Kara threw the crude weapon.
Sac lifted it and flexed it in his hands. "Highly elastic," he commented as it snapped back into its former shape.
"We could make bows out of this. All we need are some feathers for the arrows."
"Leaves would do," said his brother. He took the shaft and flexed it in turn. "Anything will serve for use as a flight.
Our problem is in finding something suitable to use as a string." He plucked at his clothing. "Maybe we could tease
out a few threads and wind them together. It's worth a try."
"Cut some more, Earl," said Kara. It had been a comfort to hold the spear. "As many as are suitable."
Dumarest returned to the clump. The knife in his hand flashed as it sheared through the slender boles, the
feathery tips rustling as they fell. He reached for one to slice off the end and froze.
Tormyle stood before them.
It had changed. Now it no longer looked grotesque, but massively human. The rounded skull rose seven feet
above the splayed feet. The neck was thick, running into sloping shoulders, the arms and chest corded with muscle.
The face was a graven image and slanted eyes glowed from beneath prominent brows.
It said, "The original specimen considered this to be an optimum form. You agree? No. Some have reservations. I
find it intriguing that there is no accepted norm for the shape of individuals of your species. However, it will serve for
the matter at hand. I intend to test your prime directive. Certain limitations have been imposed for the purpose of this
experiment."
"I don't understand," said Kara. "What do you mean?"
"The prime directive of any sentient life-form is to survive." A thick arm lifted and pointed at Dumarest. "You
stated that on the previous occasion. Correct?"
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"You have repeated that conviction since wakening. In you it is very strong. In others not so strong. I am intrigued
by the differential. Explain."
"All men want to live. Some are more eager for life than others."
"A variation of intensity. I understand. The strongest, then, should be tested. Failure will result in complete
termination."
"My God!" whispered Kara. "Earl, it intends to fight you."
Dumarest backed as it advanced, knife poised in his hand, sword-fashion, edge upward so as to slash. To thrust
would be useless; the corded muscle would be tough and even if penetrated would trap the blade. And he had no
certainty that the thing held familiar organs. It was shaped like a man and there should be a heart, lungs and a brain.
But how could he kill a planetary intelligence?
Tormyle said, "This body is fashioned after your own. The destruction of certain areas will cause it to cease
functioning. Remember that you are representative of your species. Begin."
Dumarest threw himself to one side as it ran toward him. The knife blurred, hit and dragged as he drew it back in
a vicious slash. Red fluid like blood gushed from Tormyle's side. A man would have clapped a hand to the wound,
hesitated and perhaps withdrawn so as to resume the attack with more caution. Tormyle did not react like a man.
Before Dumarest could recover his stance the thing was on him.
A blow jarred the side of his head and he tasted blood as he went down. A foot slammed into his ribs, lifted and
stamped down at his face. It missed as he rolled and sprang to his feet. Again the knife lashed at the corded muscle
and a long cut opened across the belly. Intestines should have bulged, bursting free to hang in red and blue ribbons;
instead the wound gaped like a cut made in clay.
Tormyle moved back.
"We recommence," it said. "You have unnatural advantage. For the purpose of this test we must be even. The
implement in your hand must be discarded."
Dumarest snarled and threw the knife.
It halted an inch before one of the deep-set eyes, hovered a moment, then spun through the air to land with a
thud an inch from Kara's foot. Before it had landed, Dumarest had attacked. He ran forward, dropping, his right boot
swinging in a vicious arc to the thing's left knee. It hit with the dull snap of bone. As a hand snatched at him he had
rolled clear. Immediately he sprang to one side and kicked again, this time at the other knee. Crippled, the thing fell.
"Interesting application of mechanical principles," it said. "However, compensations can be made."
On its knees it shambled forward, hands outstretched.
Dumarest hesitated, glancing at the knife. If he ran for it, Tormyle would recommence the contest and he would
have neither the blade nor the advantage he had won. An advantage gained only because the thing was unused to
physical combat and lacked the hard-won experience Dumarest possessed.
But it could learn. Already it was moving faster, the big hands reaching out to rip and tear. To stop it bare-handed
might be impossible, but it had to be tried.
Dumarest ran forward, jumped and landed just behind the broad back. He lifted his hand, stiffened the edge and
swung it like an ax at the base of the neck. Again, a third time, then Tormyle had turned and the big hands gripped
his thigh.
Dumarest stabbed it in the eyes.
"Ocular vision now destroyed," said Tormyle. "Severe damage to upper region of torso and lower region of
guidance mechanism." It gurgled as Dumarest chopped it in the throat and then, quickly, slammed the edges of his
palms at the biceps and nerves which would control the hands if the thing had been a man.
The grip of the fingers slackened. Dumarest pulled free, lifted his doubled fists and brought them crashing down
on the thing's temple. Bone yielded beneath the sledgehammer impact. Again and the weakened skull showed a
noticeable impression.
"Extensive damage to frontal lobes of directive unit," said Tormyle. "Had this fabrication been a sentient
organism it would now be incapable of function. The test is over."
It vanished.
 ***

Between the mossy banks the stream made a liquid susurration, the surface flecked and dancing with light from
the glowing sky above. Dumarest stripped and dived, hitting the water with a shower of spray, arching his back and
arms so as to glide just beneath the surface. The water was as cold as before, numbing with its impact and he rose,
gasping, ducking to scoop up a handful of fine grit from the bed. Standing in the water he rubbed the grime and stains
from his hands. More grit and he cleaned his clothing; then he spread out his tunic and pants to dry. His thigh showed
ugly bruises where Tormyle had gripped the flesh and his hands were sore and swollen. Lying on the bank, he let
them trail in the water, the cold numbing and reducing the tenderness.
It was warm and the sultry air held the scent of growing things. Against the cliff the bulk of the ship reared, tall,
incongruous in the valley paradise, and thinly he could hear the sound of voices. One of the Qualish brothers calling
to the other, and the answer, Mari's higher voice, all muffled by the screen of vegetation. He turned at the sound of
movement, a lilting thread of song.
"Mayenne?"
The song died and was replaced by a soft laugh. The rustle of disturbed leaves came closer.
"Is that you, Mayenne?"
He frowned as there was no answer and rose, stepping to where his knife stood half buried in the soil. Before he
could reach it, she stepped from the undergrowth and stood smiling before him.
"Lolis! But—"
"Are you disappointed, Earl? Did you expect Mayenne?" She smiled and came closer. "What can she give you that
I cannot? Earl, my darling, must you be so blind?"
She looked as he remembered, tall and young and very beautiful. She wore a thin gown of some diaphanous
material which clung to the curves of her body. It parted as she sat to reveal the long lines of her thighs, the upper
swell of her breasts. One hand patted the ground at her side.
"Come, Earl, sit and talk to me. Why do you look so surprised?"
He said harshly, "I thought you were dead. We all thought that."
"Dead, Earl?" Her laughter was as sweet as the tinkle of the water. "Do I look as if I am dead? I am here before
you. Let us make love."
He ignored the invitation, sitting close beside her, his eyes probing her own. There was something beneath the
surface, a touch of hardness he had never noticed before, an assurance she had previously lacked.
Quietly he said, "What is your name, my lady?"
"Lolis Egas. I was to have been married to Alora Motril of the House of Ayette."
"Was to have been?"
"I think that I have changed my mind. He no longer appeals to me. Come, Earl, let us make love."
"On the journey here, in the ship, there was a man who took you to see a beast. His name?"
"Really, Earl, does that matter?"
"His name?"
She did not hesitate. "Bitola."
"And your guard? You remember her name also?"
"Certainly. Hera Phollen. What is the matter, Earl? Why do you ask so many questions? Don't you trust me?"
For answer he reached out and took her wrist between his fingers. The flesh was smooth, warm and silken to his
touch. He gripped and watched as the indentations he had made filled to leave small pink patches against the
whiteness of her skin.
Flatly he said, "Lolis is dead. Both specimens were tested to destruction. Why did you select this shape,
Tormyle?"
"You guessed," she said. "How?"
"Lolis was young and beautiful, but she would never have acted as calmly as you have done. You may have stored
every fact you discovered in her mind, but her emotional interplay eluded you. What do you intend?"
"At the moment, nothing."
"And later?"
"That I have yet to decide." She leaned back on the mossy bank, turning so as to face him, smiling as if she were
exactly what she appeared to be. "I like this form so much better than the other, don't you, Earl? And it allows for free
communication. I decided that it would be best to appear in a shape familiar to you all. The other tended to create
disturbing aberrations. A facet of the thing you call emotion. What would you call it? Fear. What is fear?"
"The anticipation of personal hurt or destruction."
"But you were not afraid when we fought, Earl. Why was that? Can't you experience the emotion?"
 "Yes," said Dumarest bleakly. "I know what it is to be afraid. But fear has no place in combat. A man afraid is a
man as good as dead. He slows, hesitates, misses his chances. When you are fighting for your life you have room for
only one thought. To survive. Nothing else matters."
"Not even love?"
"Lolis would have put that first," he admitted. "But the girl was a romantic who had yet to learn the essentials of
living."
"You miss her, Earl?"
"No."
"Could you have loved her?"
"How can I answer that?" He was impatient. "You have no idea as to the meaning of the word. What is love? Who
can answer? Love takes many forms. To some it is a weakness, to others a source of strength. A man can love many
things, his wealth, his life, his home, his children, his wife, his mother, his sisters and brothers, but each love is
different from the rest." He added, "And some men never love at all."
"Are you one of them, Earl?"
"No."
"You have loved," she said softly. "And a man like you would love deep and well. You could tell me about it and
teach me what it is. The girl thought she knew what love was, but now I see that it was a love of self. A facet of the
prime directive of survival. For you love has a different meaning. I must discover what it is."
He said, "You could call it the converse of being cruel."
"Cruel?"
"You are being cruel in keeping us here. Why don't you repair the ship and let us go?"
"Later, perhaps."
"Can you do it? Repair the ship, I mean?"
"That?" Her laugh was pure merriment. "That has already been done. A simple matter of selected forces and
synthesis of the missing parts. Your vessel is very elementary, Earl. I could build you a better one."
"That won't be necessary. Now, if you will unseal the ship, well be on our way."
He was being optimistic and he knew it, but it was worth a try. He was not disappointed when the girl shook her
head.
"No, Earl, not yet. There are still things I have yet to learn. About luck, for example. The selection of fortuitous
circumstances." She paused as if listening. "At this moment Harg is selecting a fruit from a tree. It is one of a cluster,
and half of them are filled with a substance destructive to his metabolism. If his luck is good he will choose one
which is harmless. Correct?"
Dumarest looked at his hands; they were clenched, the knuckles white. For a moment he was tempted to grab the
girl by the throat and strangle her to death. But it would only be a temporary thing, and Harg could still select
wrongly.
She said again, "Correct?"
"Yes."
"And if he picks one which is lethal, his luck would have been bad. Is that so?"
"Yes," said Dumarest again.
"He has chosen," she said after a moment. "And his luck was good. Now what made him pick that fruit and not
one of the others? How often could he do it? What factor determined his selection?"
"An intriguing question," said Dumarest. "And one which has engrossed some of our finest thinkers for millennia.
As yet they have found no answer. Perhaps you could."
"I will consider it."
"And, in the meantime, will you see that the fruits and everything else are harmless? If not, you will lose your
specimens."
She smiled, teeth white against the redness of her lips, her throat. "You are concerned. Do you love them all so
much?"
"That has nothing to do with it."
"What then?"
"I'm a specimen too," reminded Dumarest. "And my luck needn't be as good as Harg's."
"But concern is a part of love?"
"Yes."
"And what else? Sacrifice?" She rose before he could answer and waited until he stood before her. "A most
intriguing concept and one which I must fully investigate. I will devise a plan. In the meantime there will be no further
random experiments. The fruits and all else in the valley will be harmless as before."
 "And the ship? When can we leave?"
For a moment she looked a young and lovely girl pondering on which dress to wear for a special occasion, and
then he saw her eyes, the cold detachment, and remembered who and what she was. Remembered too that she could
destroy them all at a whim.
"When I have discovered what love is," she said. "Not before."

Chapter Nine
Chom lifted the bow, drew back the string and let fly. He swore as the arrow thudded into the dirt a good ten feet
to one side of the tree they were using as a target Daroca said, "You plucked. Don't jerk the string back as you
release. Just straighten the fingers when you're ready. See?" He demonstrated, the arrow hitting the bole. "Try again."
"What's the use?" Chom scowled as he rubbed his left arm. "I can't hit anything and the damn string's flaying my
arm. I'll stick to a club."
"It's a matter of practice," insisted Daroca. "You have to keep trying. Wrap something around your arm to give
protection. Pull the notched arrow back to the point of the chin and use the barb as a foresight Look at what you are
aiming at and release without plucking."
"I'll still stick to a club," said Chom firmly. "You learned how to use a bow when you were a boy; I didn't. I had no
time for games. Anyway, what good is a thing like that against Tormyle?"
Harg said, "We won't be fighting Tormyle; not exactly. We could be up against something like Earl fought. Man-
shapes or animal-forms of some kind. All we know is that we are to be tested in some way and have to be ready to
meet anything that comes."
Chom made no further objection. Instead, he squatted and recommenced work on his club. A large stone had
been wedged in the split end of a thick branch and lashed tight with strips of material pilfered from his blouse. Now
he tied more strips so as to make a loop which could be slipped over the wrist.
To one side Dumarest was making knives.
He sat before a heap of the thin boles he had cut and sliced them at an angle. The edges of the hollow stems
made sharp edges and a wicked point. He left the round handles untouched.
Mayenne said, "Will they be any good, Earl?"
"These?" He lifted one of the crude knives. "They can cut and thrust and will kill as surely as a blade of tempered
steel. All we need to do is to wrap some thread around the hilts so as to stop the hand slipping along the edges."
She hadn't meant that and he knew it, but had deliberately misunderstood. As he reached for another foot of
stem, she caught his hand.
"You were a long time at the river, Earl. I tried to join you, but there was a barrier of some kind which prevented
me. What did it look like?"
"Tormyle? I told you. Like Lolis."
"She was very beautiful."
"So?"
"And you were bathing and naked and—" She broke off. "I'm sorry, Earl. I guess I'm just jealous. But when I think
of you and her in the same place where we found happiness, well… forgive me?"
"For being in love?"
"For being a stupid fool. What does one woman more or less matter? And she isn't a woman, not really. Did you?"
"No."
"Would you have?"
He was coldly deliberate. "If it would have bought our freedom, yes. But it wouldn't and I didn't."
"I'm glad, Earl."
He smiled and stroked the edge of his knife down the length of wood. It was not as sharp as normal and he
reached for a stone to whet the blade. Over the thin rasping Mayenne said, "When, Earl? Did it say?"
"No."
"Nor what we could expect?"
"I told you what she said. When she knows what love is, then she will let us go. Not before."
"She?"
"It, then. Tormyle. What difference does it make?" Cautiously he tested the whetted edge. "Try handling one of
these knives. Get used to the feel and heft. Practice sticking one into the ground. When you do hold your thumb over
the end and aim for a point about three inches below the surface." He frowned as she made no move to obey. "Do it,
girl. Your life could depend on it."
 Mari called out as Mayenne picked up one of the wooden slivers.
"Teach your woman to use a knife and you buy trouble, Earl. Haven't you learned anything in life?"
"To dodge," he said, matching her humor. "To fight when I can't and run when I can. Have you made that sling
yet?"
"All finished." She held up a thonged pouch. "Can you really use one of these?"
For answer he slipped the knife into his boot, rose and took the sling from her hand. A pebble the size of an egg
rested in the dirt. He picked it up, fitted it into the pouch and, holding both thongs, swung the sling about his head.
"That tree," he said. "The cluster of fruit."
The sling spun faster, whirring through the air, the stone hurtling as he released one of the thongs. Juice and pulp
spattered the bole where the fruit had hung, the sound of the stone a soggy thud.
"I used to hunt with one when a boy," he said. "Game was small, scarce and agile. A sling was all I could afford."
"Not even a bow and arrows?"
"They were Daroca's idea. The Qualish brothers made them."
"And you don't think they'll be of much use?"
"Daroca can use one, but that's all. It takes a lot of practice to hit what you aim at with a bow. A crossbow would
be different, but we can't make them with what's at hand."
Not if they were to have any stopping power, he thought. For that they needed a strong prod, heavy bolts and
cord they didn't possess. And a heavy crossbow was troublesome to load. At close quarters a spear was as good.
Closer and a club was better.
Kara came from the base of the ship, the Qualish brothers at his side. The officer looked tired and haggard, his
eyes revealing his frustration. Logic told him it would do little good to gain entry into the vessel, but to him it was
home and he wanted to be in the familiar surroundings of his command.
"Nothing," he said to Dumarest's unspoken question. "We tried to force an entry through the emergency hatch.
The whole ship's sealed solid. Are you sure it has been repaired?"
"So I was told."
"It could be a lie." Kara scrubbed at his chin. "But what would be the point in that? If only I could make certain."
"We'll try again," said Sac Qualish. "Later."
His brother said, "Should we build more weapons, Earl? We could make a catapult of some kind. Or construct an
earthwork of sorts. A ditch and sharpened stakes in a ring around the ship."
"No," said Dumarest.
"You don't think it'll be necessary?"
"There's no point in tiring ourselves out making something we may not need. I don't know when this test is going
to begin, but we want to be fresh to meet it. You'd better get some food and rest now. You too, Kara. There's not much
more we can do but wait."
Wait and hope and practice and try to find the answer to a question. What was love?
And how to explain it to an alien intelligence who had no conception of the meaning of the word?

***

They had built a fire, a small thing of weak flames and a thread of coiling smoke which rose like a feather in the
still air. Mari threw on a handful of dried leaves and set others to bake, coughing a little as the fumes caught her
throat. Chom held a fruit speared on a thin wand and roasted it. He lifted the dripping mess, tasted it and spat his
disgust.
"Fruit," he said. "Well, I suppose we could make wine if we had to, but I would give it all for a bite of decent
meat."
Kara muttered in his sleep. "Seleem," he murmured. "Yes, sir. Full cargo on Ayette. Three riding Low."
Mayenne began to sing.
It began as a low dirge, tremulous, haunting, a bleak call for help from the midst of snowy wastes and endless
deserts, the empty expanse of enormous seas and the barren vault of the skies. It rose a little, a thread of pure sound
in which lurked words like ghosts, fragments of half heard, half understood communication, touching buried
memories so that the past lived again. Gath and the endless winds, the fretted mountains, the medley of voices, the
composite of all the sounds that had ever been or could ever be made. A voice whispering.
"I love you, Earl. I love you!"
Another.
"A thousand years of subjective sleep. A million of dreams."
A third.
 "There will always be a welcome for you on Toy… on Jest… on Hive… on Technos… on Dradea."
More.
"No, Earl! No!… ten High passages… the Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins… five hundred, ten-inch knives, to
the death… I love you, Earl. I love you!"
And another, utterly cold, speaking across the galaxy with frigid determination.
"Find him at all costs. Failure will not be tolerated. The man Dumarest has the secret the Cyclan must repossess.
Find him!"
A bell chiming.
"Charity, brother. Remember the credo of the Church. There, but for the grace of God, go I. Charity… charity…
charity."
The song wavered a little, soared almost to a scream, then plunged into a throbbing undertone reminiscent of
drums.
Daroca sighed. "Artistry," he murmured. "Never have I heard a Ghenka sing so well."
"If I can remain alive," said Chom with feeling, "and if I can gather the needed wealth, I shall buy a Ghenka for
my private pleasure."
"A recording would be cheaper," said Harg.
"True, but would it be the same? I think not. No true artist sings exactly the same twice; each performance is
unique to itself. And the mood is important—how could any recording guess my thoughts, the way I feel, the
adaptions essential to the creation of the moment? No, my friend, I have made my decision." He speared another fruit
and held it over the flames. "Perhaps this one," he murmured. "At least it may not dissolve into a pulp."
Mari said, "Earl, look at the ship. Something is happening."
A light glowed around the supports, a will-o'-the-wisp luminescence bright even against the glare of the sky. It
gathered itself into a ball and drifted toward them. It touched the ground a few feet away. Touched—and changed.
An insect, thought Dumarest wildly. Standing upright, winged, haloed with light, the face a mask of perfection.
"An angel," whispered Mari. "Dear God, an angel!"
A figment of some old religion caught and fashioned from the aroused images of her mind. A fragment of legend
brought to solidity by the magic of Tormyle. For a moment it stood resplendent and then it was gone and in its place
stood a familiar shape.
"Lolis!" Chom's fruit fell unheeded into the fire. "My lady!" He rose, bowing, his hands outspread. "I know, of
course, that you are not the person we knew by that name. But it will serve. A lovely name for a lovely woman. My
lady, I understand that you wish to know the meaning of love. I can teach you. In my travels I have come against it in
many forms and have mastered them all. My heart is yours to command."
She said, "The shape I wore before did not please you. It should have. Why didn't it?"
"I am a simple man, my lady, and used to simple ways. Not for me the esoterics of mysterious cults. I buy and I
sell and do what I can to please. Love, to me, is the desire to serve. To serve, to teach, to guide. To give pleasure and,
if in return I gain a little joy, it is the joy of giving. If I could talk to you, my lady, alone, I am sure that we could find
matters of mutual interest."
Mari said, "I don't trust that man. He's trying to make a private deal. Doesn't the fool realize that he's not talking
to a normal woman?"
She had spoken softly but her voice had carried. Daroca glanced at Dumarest, then at Kara. The officer cleared
his throat.
"As acting captain I represent these people. Any arrangements should be made through me."
"Captain?"
"I am in command of the vessel." Kara was bleary-eyed, freshly woken and unrested by his tormented sleep. He
made a vague gesture toward the ship. "Tell me the price for letting us go."
The girl smiled, young and lovely and as fresh as a spring morning. She moved a little closer to where the fire
plumed its thread of smoke. To one side Mayenne slammed her wooden knife viciously into the ground.
"We know the price," she snapped. "The thing wants the answer to a question. It wants to know what love is.
Love!" she repeated bitterly. "How can you teach a planet what that is? How can you love a world?"
"It's possible," said Daroca softly. "If the world is home."
Earth, perhaps; but it wasn't the same and Dumarest knew it. Daroca was playing with words and this was no
time for semantic games. It was no accident, he thought, that Tormyle had chosen to appear in a female guise. It
could have copied. Gorlyk's form as easily as that of Lolis. Why had it chosen to appear as a woman? He glanced to
where Mayenne stabbed at the ground in symbolic murder. Had she reason for her jealousy?
Aloud he said, "We are not in the mood for games. You have made a decision; tell us what it is."
"Impatient Earl?"
 "We spoke once of cruelty. To keep people in suspense is not kind when their lives depend on your decision."
"And love is the converse of cruelty. I remember. And you, Earl, could never love a person who is cruel." She
glanced at Chom. "Could you?"
"Love, my lady, knows no limitations. I could love you even while dying in your embrace."
She raised her arms and reached toward him and he moved toward her as if without a will of his own. His boots
trod in the fire and scattered the ashes so that he became wreathed in smoke. In the smoke they embraced, his thick
arms clasping the slender figure, her own arms around his plump torso, the hands pressing against his back.
"Love me," she said, and squeezed.
Chom made a sound like an animal in pain. His muscles bulged, the flesh of his cheeks mottling with a purple
effusion of blood, his eyes starting from their sockets. Desperately he fought against the constriction and then,
abruptly, relaxed, his face strained as he stared at the girl holding him close.
"Not the same," she said. "Not the same at all."
"My lady!" he wheezed. "My lady, please!"
She released him and he staggered back, tearing at the collar of his blouse.
"The problem is one of definition," she said. "To be genuine love must be strong, this much I have gathered. But
love seems to hold many forms, and which is the right one? To discover this I have devised an experiment. It should
be conclusive."
"Wait," said Harg. He stepped forward, a small man, aged, yet holding a strange dignity. "Listen to me, Lolis…
Tormyle, whoever you are. I don't understand all this talk of love. Maybe I've been unlucky in my time, but no woman
has ever wanted me for her own and I've never felt strongly about anything. Certainly not strongly enough to fight
and die for it. And I guess that is what you intend. So let's cut out all this nonsense and decide things one way or the
other. A turn of a card. High card, you win and do with us as you please. Low card, and we win and you let us go.
Quick, simple and decisive. You agree?"
"A gamble," she mused. "A test of the thing called luck. Do you all wish to participate?"
"Yes," said Dumarest quickly. "We do."
He caught Chom's arm as the man opened his mouth to protest and caught Daroca's look of sudden
understanding. It was a wager they couldn't lose. Harg had framed the terms well; already they were in Tormyle's
power to do with as it wished.
"Harg is in love with the laws of chance," she said. "For him joy lies in winning, and the touch of cards and dice
are equal to a caress. Luck is his mistress and good fortune his deity. A strange thing," she mused, "that a sentient
being could hold such high regard for something so intangible. But the concept is intriguing. Yet the wager is wrong.
He stands to lose nothing."
Dumarest said, "You heard the terms. Do you agree?"
"To the gamble, yes. But not on those terms. Each must risk his own fortune. Harg will be first. If he wins, I will
set him down on a safe place. If he loses, then I will take his life."
"A safe place," said Harg. "What do you mean?"
"A world on which you could survive. One of your inhabited planets." She paused. "Ayette? Yes, the world you
know as Ayette."
"You can do that?"
It was possible. To an entity which had snatched the ship across light-years in a second anything was possible.
Harg had asked only for reassurance. When it came he produced his cards.
"Wait," said Dumarest sharply. "It's your life, man. Remember that."
"My life," said Harg. "Such as it is."
"Don't be a fool," said Mari harshly. "Go to the table expecting to lose and you'll be ruined for sure. As a gambler
you know that. Stay with us and you've got a chance. Lose and you've got none at all." Her lips tightened as he riffled
the deck. "Remember our agreement? Shares in a new house? Don't do it, Harg."
He ignored her, riffling the deck. He held them out on the flat of his palm.
"Choose."
"You first."
He cut quickly, trusting his life to the luck he had wooed over too many years. The cards made a slight rasping
sound and he held his choice low, not looking at it, eyes instead on the young girl as she reached for the pack.
"A lady!" Sweat burst out on his forehead, clung like dew to his upper lip. His laugh was bitter as he turned up his
own selection. "A jester! Well, I was always a fool. What now, Tormyle?"
He died.
He did it slowly, horribly, his flesh melting and seeming to run like wax in a flame. His limbs arched, became
grotesque and his body puffed so that, as he fell, he looked like some monstrous spider. And, as he fell, he screamed.
Dumarest moved. He was a blur as he reached and snatched a spear, lifted it, thrust it with the full power of arms and
shoulders into the shrieking mass. The sharpened point sliced deep, penetrated the heart and brought instant
oblivion.
As Harg slumped into a lifeless heap he jerked free the spear and threw it at the smiling face of the girl.
The point, ugly with blood, dissolved into splinters, the shaft lifting to fall to one side.
Quietly she said, "That is twice you have used weapons against me, Earl. Will you never learn?"
"You bitch!" shouted Mari. "You dirty, sadistic bitch! Did you have to do that?"
"He wagered and he lost." And then, to Dumarest: "You killed him. For love?"
"For mercy—something you could never understand."
"Because he was in pain? Yet had you left him alone he would not have terminated his existence. I was altering
his structure, adapting it to a new form. An experiment to discover how malleable your species is. Now, perhaps, I
shall have to use another." Her arm lifted, pointed at Tek Qualish. "You."
He vanished.
To Mayenne. "You."
She followed.
To Mari and Kara. "You also."
They went and she followed.

***

Daroca had rebuilt the fire, gaining some small comfort from the flame, huddling close to it as his forebears had
done in ancient times when the red glow had spelled safety and the communion of kind. Facing him, Sac Qualish sat
with his head in his hands mourning his brother.
"A bad business," said Chom. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder to where Dumarest was busy selecting
spears. Harg had gone, not even a patch of blood marring the ground where he had fallen. "A warning, perhaps? Harg
tried to be clever, but he forgot that he was not dealing with a young and ignorant girl. How can any man hope to best
the might of a planetary brain?"
"He tried," said Dumarest curtly.
"He tried and failed and died with your spear in his heart. You were too quick, Earl. You should have waited. If
the girl spoke the truth he could be alive now. Changed, but alive."
"As what?" Dumarest dropped two of the spears and hefted two others. "A thing to crawl in the dirt? A crippled
freak?"
"He had a clean death," said Daroca. "No man could ask for more. If the same thing happens to me I hope that
Earl will be as merciful." He shivered and held his hands close to the flame. "Is it my imagination or is it getting cold?"
Dumarest glanced up at the sky. It seemed lower than before and the upper regions of the ship shone with a
sparkling frost. Around them the leaves seemed wilted, hanging limply from their stems. He walked toward the ship
and felt the bite of numbing cold. Returning, he headed down the valley and felt the familiar heat. Back at the fire he
said, "It's localized and spreading."
Chom was shrewd. "To keep us away from the vessel? But what's the point? It's sealed and we can't get in
anyway."
"We'll find out," said Daroca. "When it's ready to let us know." He threw more leaves on the fire, added slivers of
wood and leaned back from the rising smoke. "I've been thinking. We know that Tormyle is bored. We also know that
it wants to discover the meaning of the emotion we know as love. But it is alien and that could well be impossible.
What happens if it fails?"
"We die," said Chom bleakly.
"Perhaps not, at least, not in the way you mean. Time cannot mean the same to Tormyle as it does to us. I think
that, while we continue to amuse it, we will continue to survive."
"Amuse?"
"Intrigue, then. Interest would be a better word. What do you think, Earl?"
"I think we should get armed," said Dumarest. "And be ready to move."
To where?" Sac Qualish lifted his head. His face was strained, bitter, his eyes red. "To run in a circle until that
thing takes us like it did my brother? To take us and tear us apart like it did Gorlyk and Lolis? To change us like it did
Harg? Do you remember what he looked like? When I think of Tek like that it makes me want to vomit."
"Shut up," said Chom, and added, more gently: "Tek wasn't the only one. He took the Ghenka too, remember."
"And Mari and Kara," mused Daroca. "Now why should it have made that selection?"
"Does it matter?"
 "It could," insisted Daroca. "The girl was, is, in love with Earl. Tek and his brother are very close, and brotherly
love can be very strong. Kara? Well, he is in love with his ship."
"And Mari?" Chom blew out his cheeks and shook his head. "Once I thought that she might have a fancy for Harg,
but he is dead now. You perhaps? Are you in love with her?"
"No, but her profession is to deal in love, or what too many people call it. It is her business and her thoughts must
be conditioned to regard her houses as palaces of joy, mansions of endearment, abodes of love. We know the
difference; but would Tormyle?"
"A professional dealer in the emotion it seeks to understand," said the entrepreneur slowly. "If our situation wasn't
so perilous I would find the concept amusing."
But there was nothing amusing in the growing cold, the sealed ship, the too recent memory of the way Harg had
died. And still less in the voice which whispered from the wilting leaves, the very air itself.
"The experiment begins. Those who were taken will be found at the end of the valley. Your actions will determine
their continued existence. Go now."
"Tek alive!" Sac sprang to his feet, his eyes glowing. "Did you hear that? They're still alive!"
Alive and waiting to be rescued, the bait in an alien trap to determine an emotion impossible for their captor to
comprehend.

Chapter Ten
The valley had changed. The cold welling from the region of the ship had blighted the vegetation and turned the
stream to ice, but it was more than that. Now every leaf held a hint of menace as if things watched from behind its
cover and thin threads glistened with silver between the trees.
A maze, thought Dumarest, through which they were being guided, spurred by the advancing cold and urged by
the bait lying ahead. Mayenne and the others. Thought of the Ghenka lengthened his stride. She would be waiting,
hoping. He could not fail her.
Yet, even so, he was cautious.
"Wait," he snapped as Sac Qualish plunged ahead. "Take it easy. We don't know what may be waiting for us."
"My brother is waiting, that's all I care about."
"Can you help him if you're dead?" Dumarest halted and glanced around. The trees soared high, their feathered
tops hiding the sky and casting patches of thick gloom. The ground felt soggy and he trod carefully down a narrow
path. They had left the cold behind and, here, it was still warm.
Chom sucked in his breath as something moved to one side.
"What was that?"
A thing, a shape, something fashioned at Tormyle's whim. It appeared again, low, crouching, eyes like gems in an
armored carapace. A watchdog, perhaps, to keep them on their way, or perhaps something to be feared more than
that.
Dumarest said, "Daroca, your bow."
"You want me to kill it, Earl?"
"If you can." He watched as the other man took aim, drawing back the arrow, holding, then releasing the string
with a vicious hum. The arrow whispered between the trees and hit with a hollow thud.
It was like bursting a balloon. There was an empty plop and a scatter of segments. Chom sighed his relief.
"If that's all we have to face we haven't much to worry about." He lifted his club and swung it against a tree. The
stone made a dent in the soft bole. In his other hand he carried a spear and two of the wooden knives were thrust in a
band tied around his waist. "We could stand off an army of the things."
"Perhaps," admitted Dumarest. "But not if we get separated. And there could be something else. Keep close and
cover each other. You to one side, Chom; you the other, Sac; Daroca, take the rear." He paused and added, "And keep
an arrow on the string, just in case."
He moved ahead, spear extended in both hands, ready to thrust or block. It was a clumsy thing compared to the
quick mobility of the knife he was used to, but it had the advantage of length. Like the others, he carried wooden
knives. Sac had a club. Daroca had his bow. Like savages, they plunged into the deepening gloom.
"What now?" Sac fumed his impatience as Dumarest halted again. "Damn it, Earl, well get nowhere like this. Why
don't we just push on and find the others?"
"Through that?" Dumarest pointed with his spear. Ahead the path was crossed with silver threads.
"If we have to, yes." Sac pushed ahead. His spear touched one of the strands. The ground opened beneath it.
He yelled once as he fell and then Dumarest caught him by the arm, dropping the spear and flinging himself to
the edge of the opening. Below gaped emptiness, a hollow void smoothed as if by machines. Sac hung, suspended,
his spear falling like a splinter to vanish in darkness. His face, strained, turned upward to look at Dumarest.
"Earl! For God's sake!"
He was heavy and the ground at the edge of the hole loose. Dumarest gritted his teeth and concentrated on
clamping his fingers about the arm, feeling the weight of the body tear at his muscles as the dirt below him fell into
the hole. Then Chom had gripped his ankles, hauling back with all his weight. Sac rose, caught at Dumarest and
heaved. One foot lifted to rest on the edge of the hole and, with a rush, he was safe, sweating as he rolled on the dirt.
"Trip wires," said Chom. "I don't understand this. If Tormyle wants us to reach the end of the valley, why does it
make it so hard?"
"Perhaps it wants us to give up," suggested Daroca. "But then why the cold? We have no choice but to move. Rats
in a maze," Daroca said thoughtfully. "I saw an experiment like that once. Food was placed at one end and the rats at
the other. They wanted the food, but they had to move through the passages to get it. And there were dangers, things
which drove them to frustrated madness, other things which killed. The idea was to find the most clever rat or the one
with the greatest compulsion."
"We aren't rats," said Sac. He stood, trembling, looking at the hole. "You saved my life, Earl. I was falling, as good
as dead, and you saved me. From now on you give the orders and I'll obey."
Dumarest looked at the silver wires, the shadowed path. To one side came the hint of movement; who could tell
what lurked above?
He said, "We go back."
"To the ship?" Sac hesitated; he had made a promise which already he found hard to keep. "But what about the
others? My brother?"
"We'll skirt the valley and keep the cliffs to one side. That way we'll only have to watch our flank."
"If we can get to the cliffs," said Daroca quietly. He lifted his bow and pointed with the arrow. More shapes had
appeared, clustering, moving as if to a plan. They were difficult to spot and details were vague in the gloom, but they
looked different from the one he had shot.
Chom drew in his breath.
"They're cutting us off," he said grimly. "Earl?"
"We charge. Together now and stop for nothing. Keep an eye open for wires and miss the trees. There is a
clearing back a little way. Make for it and, if we have to, well make a stand. Now!"
He led the way, running, spear at the ready and eyes darting from side to side. A glint of silver showed ahead and
he veered, the others following in his path. Another and he sprang aside, a third and he regained the trail he had left.
Before him something rose from the ground, mandibles snapping, rearing half the height of a man. The spear caught
it in the thorax, spilled a flood of ichor and ripped free as Dumarest jumped. His boot hit the flat head and the
rounded back; then he was running to turn and stab fiercely at a worm-like thing which hissed and coiled and then
vanished.
"Earl!" Chom came running, with Sac and Daroca following. "Behind you!"
He spun, dropping to one knee, the spear point sloping before him. A beast, striped and fanged, was in the air.
The point sheared into chest and lungs, the slender shaft snapping beneath the weight. Dumarest dropped it, whipped
out a wooden knife and plunged it into an eye.
"Quick!"
He was running again while behind him came the thrum of a bowstring, the soggy impact of Chom's club. Sac
cried out, swearing, and pounded after the rest. Ahead lay the clearing, a patch of open ground coated with soft grass
and edged by slender shafts. Dumarest raced toward them, the knife lifting from his boot, slashing, turning the hollow
stems into fresh spears.
Panting, he looked around.
Nothing.
No nightmare beasts or shapes from delirium. No silver threads. No attack. Only himself and the others, gasping,
hands strained as they gripped their weapons. And, as he watched, their breaths plumed in streams of vapor from the
sudden cold.

***

"Madness," said Daroca. He stumbled and dragged himself upright with a visible effort. His face was lined,
haggard, suddenly aged. Gone was the smooth dilettante who had ridden the ships down the odd byways of space for
the sake of novelty. Now he, like them all, was a man struggling to survive.
"Madness," he said again. "What kind of test is this? What has it to do with the determination of love?"
 Dumarest said nothing, plunging ahead, the soaring cliffs to his left, the massed vegetation to his right As he had
guessed the going was easier, a wide patch of debris lying between the cliff wall and the undergrowth, and though it
was strewn with boulders they were making good time. Since they had left the clearing, they had seen no silver
threads, no lurking shapes.
Only the numbing cold had followed them, forcing them to keep moving.
"We could make a fire," said Chom. "Sit and rest and maybe sleep a little. Food too; there must be fruit on some
of those trees."
"We'd freeze," said Sac.
"Maybe not. If we showed determination, what would be the point in killing us?"
"We keep going," said Sac doggedly. "My brother is waiting."
"Then let him wait!" Chom slammed his club at a boulder, chips flying from beneath the impact. "What is your
brother to me? If he's dead, there's no hurry; if he's alive, he can be patient. If we sit and refuse to move, she may
come to us again. Words could accomplish more than this journey."
Dumarest said, "Remember Harg? What happened to him?"
"He gambled and lost."
"Do you want to take the same chance?"
The entrepreneur scowled. "No, but need it come to that? We have played her game long enough. If she wants
love, there are four of us here to give it to her. No woman respects a man who acts like a mouse."
"She isn't a woman," said Dumarest. "Why don't you remember that?"
Dumarest realized it was easier for them to think of Tormyle in familiar terms: somehow a woman was less
frightening than a totally alien being. But she was no more a woman than the shapes which had attacked them, the
planet on which they trod. She, it, was all of them and more.
Daroca stumbled again, dropping his spear in order to catch a boulder and save himself. He clung to the stone,
panting, sweat dewing his face despite the chill. Old, soft, he could no longer stand the pace.
"Leave me," he gasped. "I'll come after you as soon as I can."
Chom beat his hands together; his skin was mottled with the cold.
"He'll die," he said dispassionately. "If you are merciful, Earl, you will give him a fast end."
"Kill him?" Sac looked from one to the other. "You must be joking. You just can't kill a man like that."
"No?" Chom shrugged. "You have a weak stomach, my friend, and a selfish mind. The product of a soft world
with neat laws and easy comforts. But I have lived on harsh planets and so has Earl. On such worlds a man must rely
on his friends. What would you do with him? Carry him? We have far to go and are weak. Leave him? He will sit and
freeze and shiver, then finally sink into a coma and die a miserable death. A thrust of a spear, a pressure on the
carotids and it is over. Quick, clean, merciful."
"Barbaric!"
Sac was wrong, but Dumarest didn't argue. The man was a product of his culture and not to blame for the
unconscious sadism which would condemn a man to lingering agony in the mistaken belief that he was being kind.
But Chom was wrong also; the mercy of death was not a thing to be casually given to save inconvenience. Daroca
was exhausted, ready to give up, but all men held within themselves unsuspected reserves of energy.
He said, "Daroca, listen to me."
"Leave me, Earl. Let me rest."
"If you stay here you'll die," said Dumarest harshly. "Is that what you want, to commit suicide? Now stand up,
man. Up!" He gripped the blouse and pulled Daroca upright, away from the support of the boulder. Deliberately he
sent the flat of his hand across the sunken cheek. Again, a third time, the blows measured to sting. He saw the shock
in the sunken eyes, the dawning of anger. Rage was an anodyne to apathy and apathy could kill.
"Earl! Damn you!"
"You hate me," said Dumarest. "Good. And you hate this valley and Tormyle and what it is doing to us. You hate it
so much that you aren't going to let it win. You're going to reach the end of the valley with the rest of us. All you have
to do is to keep putting one foot before the other. A child could do it."
Daroca touched his cheek, the red marks left by Dumarest's fingers.
"No, Earl. I haven't the strength."
"I saw a woman once on Jachlet. She crawled ten miles with two broken legs. Haven't you the guts of that
woman?" His hand lifted again, poised to strike. "Now move, damn you! Move!"
Sac took the lead, Daroca stumbling after him, leaning on his spear, the bow slung over his shoulder. Chom
stayed close and Dumarest took the rear. Before them the cliff wall curved to the right, blending with the vegetation
ahead. Above, the shimmering sky threw an even brightness. There was no sound, only the rasp of their boots, the
sound of their breathing, the gasps of the exhausted man.
 It was like a nightmare in which there was continuous movement but no progress. A false world of unreality in
which anything could happen, the cliffs, the sky itself the product of a whim. The boulders grew larger, cracks
appeared in the surface, and once the air became filled with drifting motes of sparkling dust.
Chom wiped at his sleeve and ran the tip of his tongue over his lips.
"Sweet," he said. "Like sugar."
Dumarest cautiously tasted it, gathered a small heap in the palm of his hand. It had a strong flavor and a texture
like that of nuts. Food, perhaps, a gift from Tormyle? A reward for good behavior?
"Leave it," he said. "Don't eat it."
Chom frowned, "Poison?"
"No, but we have no water and it will aggravate our thirst."
They pressed on. The sparkling motes vanished as the valley stretched before them. Ahead thrust a jutting wall
of rock, a barrier over which they had to climb. A crevasse had opened to their right which was impossible to cross.
"We could go back," said Chom, "Take a detour through the undergrowth."
Dumarest looked back the way they had come. The crevasse curved so as to enclose them in a narrow segment
and, as he watched, it widened, moving close.
"We climb," he said. "We have no choice."
At first glance the wall was sheer, but then he saw minor imperfections, cracks, fretted and splintered stone, a
ladder which an agile man could climb. Sac went ahead, Chom following, crawling up the face of the wall like an
ungainly spider, thick shoulders heaving as he lifted his bulk.
Daroca said, "I can't make it, Earl. I haven't the strength."
"You'll make it."
"How? Can you give me skills I don't possess? I have no head for heights and I couldn't support my weight. You
have no choice but to leave me."
Dumarest studied him. He was drawn, pale, haggard with fatigue. A man at the limit of his reserve. But he was
slim, light and could be carried for a short distance. Carefully he studied the face of the wall The others had reached
halfway to the summit, scrabbling as they sought for holds. As he watched, Chom slipped, hung suspended by one
arm and then, with a burst of energy, swung himself to safety.
But there was another route, one which offered more promise: a slanting crack running high across the wall, a
ledge, a series of fretted places.
Daroca said, "You'd best hurry, Earl. The crevasse is very close."
It was feet away, moving as he watched, widening, the bottom invisible.
Dumarest threw aside his spear.
"Climb onto my back," he ordered. "Put your arms around my neck. Hold tight, but don't throttle me. Close your
eyes if you have to, but relax. Don't fight against me."
"No, Earl. You cant do it."
"Move, damn you!"
The stone was granulated, sparkling with buried minerals, little gleams appearing to vanish inches before his eyes.
Steadily he moved upward, balancing the weight on his back which threatened to tear him loose, muscles cracking as
he gripped and hauled. He reached the slanting crack and moved along it, boots wedged tight to support his weight.
In his ear the sound of Daroca's breath was a rasping susurration and he could feel the heat of the man, his sweat, his
barely controlled fear.
"Relax," he said harshly.
"Earl!"
"I've climbed mountains before carrying a pack as heavy as you. Well make it."
He reached the end of the slanting crack, groped upward for a fresh hold and felt rock crumble beneath his
fingers. For a moment he swayed, fighting for balance; then his searching hand found a nub of stone, a rounded boss
which he gripped as his boot rasped at the wall. It found a hold and he heaved upward, his other hand lifting.
"To the left," whispered Daroca. "A foot to the left and three inches upward."
Dumarest grunted. "Too far. Look for another higher but closer."
"Up," said Daroca. "More. To your right. There!"
It helped. Face close to the stone, Dumarest inched upward, guided by the whispering voice, using discarded
handholds as resting places for his boots. He felt his muscles begin to weaken, the sting of sweat in his eyes and the
taste of blood in his mouth as he clung desperately to the rock. The weight dragging at his back seemed to have
increased and he knew that if he didn't make the summit soon he wouldn't make it at all.
Grimly he resisted the thought, concentrating on each movement as it came, not thinking of the inevitable result
should he slip or lose his precarious balance. From somewhere above came the sound of voices and they spurred him
on. If he could hear them they must be close.
"Earl!" Daroca's voice was a strained whisper. "I'm slipping. I can't hold on!"
"Lock your hands." He felt the sudden shift of balance, the backward tug. "Damn you! Do as I say!"
He choked as the locked fingers pressed against his throat, then tensed the muscles of his neck as he sucked in
air. Another foot of upward progress, two more, and he paused, fighting the blackness which edged his vision.
Daroca's foot found a resting place and he heaved, easing the pressure of his hands.
"Earl, I—"
"Shut up. Look for holds. Tell me where they are."
Dumarest listened, memorizing, then inflated his lungs. With a smooth surge of energy he recommenced to
climb, hands following a preconceived pattern, calling on the last of his strength. A yard, three, and then he felt hands
grip his arms, pulling, dragging him and his burden to safety over the edge.
He rolled, feeling Daroca fall away, rising on all fours, head low as he sucked air into his tortured lungs. His arms
were quivering, the muscles of back and shoulders, his calves and thighs. Above the surge of blood in his ears he
heard Sac's voice, high, brittle with surprise.
"The valley! It's changed!"

Chapter Eleven
There had been stone and a gentle slope leading from the edge of the cliff to a cluster of vegetation, trees thick
with bushes filling the area to either side while, beyond, a curtain of mist had reared. The slope remained, some of
the trees and a scatter of bushes, but where they had been thick now they were sparse, gathered in small copses
interspersed with an emerald green sward. Where mist had curtained the end of the valley a thing of dreams now
stood.
It rose in a mass of soaring towers, delicate spires and graceful cupolas, crenelated walls bright with streaming
banners. A fortress such as had never existed in reality—the needs which had made such a thing imperative based in
an age when its construction would have been impossible.
Dumarest examined it, eyes narrowed, catching the glint of metal against the somber stone. Helmets, perhaps, or
the heads of spears, the glints vanished as soon as they were seen, flashing like will-o'-the-wisps, tiny nickers which
teased the eyes.
Beside him Chom released his breath in a gusting sigh.
"Magic," he said. "Or madness. What game is the creature playing now?"
"A castle." Daroca rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes. "And are those soldiers on the walls?"
"It wasn't there before." Sac seemed dazed by what he had seen. "And then, as you came over the edge, Earl, it
suddenly appeared. The mist seemed to solidify, the trees to blur and then—" His arm rose, making a helpless
gesture.
"A castle," Daroca said again. "The concept of chivalry and of romantic love. Has Tormyle locked the others
within those walls? Are we supposed to rescue them? And, if so, how can the four of us storm that citadel?"
"Well storm it," said Sac. "If we have to. My brother's in there. Right, Earl?"
"Four men," said Chom. "No weapons to speak of. You must be mad."
"Earl?"
"Shut up," said Dumarest. It was no time to quarrel. "We'll do what has to be done, but first let us find out what it
is. Are you fit to move, Daroca?"
"With care, yes."
Dumarest nodded and led the way down the slope toward the enigmatic building. The ground was soft beneath
his boots, the trees and bushes bright with clustered blooms, great floral stars of red and purple, globes of violet and
azure, trailing fronds of scarlet and lambent green. An illustration from a child's storybook, he thought. Something
stolen from a vagrant memory. Mari's perhaps, or even Kara's. Men who spent their lives in space had peculiar ideas
as to recreation.
The slope flattened and then began to rise toward the castle. Details still remained vague; the walls were clear
enough, the turrets and banners, but the hints of metallic gleaming defied true description. They could belong to the
accouterments of men or things fashioned in the likeness of men. Or they could be the offshoot of opposed energies.
Chom came grumbling from where he had examined a clump of bushes. "No fruits. Nothing to eat or to assuage
our thirst." He grimaced at the glowing sky. "And it seems to be getting warmer."
The heat increased as they progressed until the sweat was running down their faces. Dumarest eased his collar
and tried not to think of rippling streams, the chill impact of crushed ice against his teeth. At his side Daroca
stumbled and halted, panting.
"A moment," he pleaded. "If we could sit for a while and rest I'll be fit again. An hour, surely, can make little
difference."
Sac forged ahead. "My brother is waiting. We have no time to rest."
His brother, Mayenne, the others. Yet exhausted men would be of little use in what could be waiting ahead.
Dumarest slowed, then headed toward a clump of trees. Shade, at least, was there to be enjoyed.
From the castle came the sound of a trumpet, hard, imperious.
It came again, a compelling note which seemed to hang in the crystalline air, urgent, summoning. A third time
and Daroca sucked in his breath.
"The drawbridge," he whispered. "Look!"
It was a slab of wood, thirty feet high, ten broad. As they watched, it lowered, moving quickly, silent until it
reached the ground, where it came to rest with a dull thud. Beyond it gaped an opening, dark, fretted at its upper
edge with the teeth of a portcullis. Again the trumpet sounded and something came from the darkness toward them.
Like the castle, it was a thing of dreams: a tall figure mounted on a horse, both mount and rider plated with
gleaming metal which shone like gold in the light from the sky. A lance rested in one gauntleted hand, the tip rising in
salute as the thing came to a halt facing the little group. From within the closed helmet boomed a hollow voice.
"Welcome."
A herald, thought Dumarest. A part of the furnishings of this present fantasy, as was the castle, the drawbridge,
the portcullis. Tormyle at play—but there was nothing childish in the stakes of the game it had engineered.
He said, "We have come for our friends."
"Those you seek are within the walls," said the hollow voice. "If you can enter, you may take them."
"There are formalities. Customs to be observed. A ritual to be followed."
Chom snarled his anger. "More tests? Will the thing ever be satisfied? What more does it want us to do?"
"My brother!" Sac fought against Dumarest's restraining hand. "Let me go, Earl! Tek is waiting!"
He would have to wait a while longer. The game Tormyle had devised had to be conducted on the rules it had
determined.
To the herald Dumarest said, "I don't understand what you mean. Explain."
"The explanation is obvious."
"Not to me."
"Earl!" Sac tore himself free and raced toward the lowered drawbridge. He reached it, put one foot on the
planking and then spun as something buzzed from the darkness and enfolded him with gauzy wings. Still spinning, he
fell as the shimmering creature vanished back into the darkness.
Ignoring him, Dumarest said, again, "Explain."
"That should not be necessary," boomed the herald. "You have a saying which provides all answers. Love will find
a way. Therefore—find it!"

***

There was no food, no water, little shade and the temperature was rising all the time. From beneath the scant
protection of the trees Dumarest stared thoughtfully at the castle. The herald had gone and the drawbridge had risen;
all he could see were walls of stone, the towers, banners and the enigmatic glints of metal. A puzzle. A box containing
the hostages. A stronghold which, somehow, he must find a way to enter.
He heard the rustle of movement and turned to find Daroca at his side.
"A peculiar construction, Earl." He nodded toward the castle. "I have been examining it too. Those towers seem
to serve no useful purpose. See? They do not widen into overhangs so as to protect the base of the walls and they are
too high to serve as viable platforms for archers. And who in their right senses would build a castle overlooked by the
cliffs at the rear? The drawbridge, too; there is no moat or trench and so no need of such a bridge." He tilted his head,
squinting. "My eyes are not as strong as they could be. Are those men on the walls?"
"An illusion," said Dumarest. "I've been watching them. A man would turn his head, alter his pace a little, be
curious if nothing else. They aren't men." He added, with sudden impatience, "But we know that."
"True," admitted Daroca. "We are the only men on this world—us and those within the walls. But old habits die
hard. We see a fragment of something familiar and fill in details from our own knowledge of what should be. A castle
should contain armored men—therefore we see them. And yet the herald seemed real enough."
Real as the trees were real, the grass beneath their feet, as real as anything on this peculiar world. Dumarest
turned and looked to where Sac Qualish was lying. The buzzing thing had rendered him unconscious; now Chora was
cooling his forehead with a mass of leaves.
 "He's coming round," he said as Dumarest stepped toward him. "He's stirred a couple of times and once he gave
a groan." He lifted the leaves and used them as a fan to cool his own face. "What was it, Earl? The thing which
attacked him? It looked like a giant butterfly to me."
"I thought it was a web," said Daroca. "Something like the mesh-symbiotes of Chemelophen. Not that it matters.
The castle is obviously protected against direct attack."
Chom wiped his face and licked at his fingers, scowling at the taste of salt.
"First the cold," he grumbled. "That was to get us moving toward this end of the valley. Now the heat—how long
can we last before taking some sort of action?"
"Not long," said Daroca. "But what kind of action can we take? Aside from illustrations I've never even seen a
castle, much less learned how to take one. Earl?"
Sac groaned before Dumarest could answer. He stirred and sat upright, one hand to his head, his face creased
with pain.
"What happened?" He frowned as they told him. "I remember something which buzzed, a sting as if I'd touched a
live wire, and then nothing. You should have all followed me," he accused. "Together we might have been able to get
inside the castle. Instead you were content to argue with that creature of Tormyle."
Chom said, "You talk like a fool. What did you gain by your action? What would any of us have gained? This is a
time for thought, not stupid heroics." He threw aside the wad of leaves. "The herald spoke of customs, a ritual which
should be followed. Have any of you any idea of what it meant?"
"It also said that love would find a way," reminded Dumarest.
The entrepreneur shrugged. "Maybe, but I am not in love."
"Not even with your own life?"
"That, perhaps." He rose, eyes shrewd in the rounded planes of his face. "A spur to the intelligence, you think?
Find the answer or die in this heat? Daroca, you are a man of intelligence and one who claims to have studied many
strange cultures. Can't you solve this riddle?"
As the man hesitated Dumarest said, "You spoke of chivalry and the concept of romantic love. Just what did you
mean?"
"A legend, fable rather, but one based on fact. At least I think so. There was a time in some remote past, probably
on a primitive world, when men built strongholds and wore armor and fought with simple weapons. They had a code
of behavior which we know as chivalry. Kindness to the weak, help for the afflicted, adherence to a given word—a
society which probably never existed but which the romantic wish to believe actually had. The legend probably arose
from when men fought to exist on newly-settled worlds and had to band together against a common enemy.
Something of the sort is to be found on Kremar and Skarl."
Dumarest was patient. "I know that. An aristocracy given to symbols and ritual. And the rest?"
"Romantic love?" Daroca shrugged. "An ideal based on a concept of purity. A man could love a woman for
everything but the reason normal men love women. A distortion which placed high value on fetish instead of natural,
sexual desire. A form of insanity, of course, but not without appeal to those who yearn for a reality which could never
exist."
Chora made a sound of disgust. "Madness. And where could a thing like Tormyle gain such ideas? From Mari?"
"From Tek." Sac Qualish rose painfully to his feet. "As young men we were interested in old legends and codes of
behavior. At one time we thought of writing a book based on stories which are enjoyed by children and which seem
to be found on most worlds. Tales of great heroes and mighty deeds."
"And women who are more—or less—than human." Chom laughed. "You should have got married, Sac. A woman
in the home would have cured such dreaming. But how does it help us to know all this? Will it help us scale those
walls?" His broad hand gestured toward the crenelations, the glints of metal and streaming banners. "Destroy the
things which are no doubt waiting for us?"
"You asked a question." The engineer was sullen. "I answered."
"With nonsense," snapped Chom. "With words when we need lasers and explosives."
"With ideas," corrected Dumarest. "With the answer we need."
Daroca looked his surprise. "Earl?"
"Tormyle is logical; we know that. Therefore this fantasy must contain elements of logic based on the things we
see: a castle, banners, a herald wearing full armor. Tek's fantasy brought to life. Romantic love and what it means."
"I see." Daroca drew a deep breath. "You know," he said, "I think you've known all along what has to be done. The
only thing which can be done. You knew, Earl. Admit it."
"Admit what?" Chom glared his bewilderment. "What are you talking about?"
"The way into the castle. The only way. Sac?"
The engineer was thoughtful. "A challenge. If all this is based on Tek's imaginings, then the castle will hold a
champion. We must challenge him—it—and thus gain victory. But how can we do that?" He looked at what they
carried, the crude weapons of wood and stone, remembering the armored creature on the horse, the thing which had
buzzed and stolen his senses.
Dumarest said, "Chom, give me your club."

***

There was no sound as he walked toward the drawbridge. The soft ground muffled his boots so that he seemed to
be walking on velvet. The heat now had grown so that the air quivered; breathing was a thing of conscious effort.
Already they were suffering from the effects of dehydration; soon they would be too weak to do anything but lie and
wait for death.
From above sang the single note of a trumpet.
Dumarest ignored it, concentrating on the planks of the drawbridge. As he got closer he could see anomalies—
the planks were too exposed to fire, a thing never permitted in a real stronghold, and the ground lifted as it reached
the walls instead of falling into a trench or moat. The walls, too, were seamless, the rough surface artificially streaked
with what would have been mortared blocks. A facade, he thought, covering what? The rugged walls of the cliff
perhaps. A cavern. A pit leading to the heart of this strange world. Anything which Tormyle desired. He could only
trust in the logic of the machine and the determination of the thing to learn what it could never know.
The drawbridge was very close. He stepped to one side, cautious in case it should suddenly be lowered to crush
him like an insect beneath the heel of a boot. Again the trumpet sounded and, as the clear note died, he sent the
massive head of the club thundering against the wood. Twice more he beat the panel, hard, measured strokes, the
stone gouging into the planks.
Something fell from above.
It buzzed, shimmering, twisting like a near-invisible skein of thread, bright colors shot with ebon, silver merging
with scarlet. It shrilled and darted toward him, wide wings spread so as to engulf him, the buzzing higher and taut
with menace.
Dumarest sprang backward, the club lifted, falling, lifting again to hammer once more at the wings, the shimmer,
the tiny body he could see at the center of the mobile web.
As it squashed the buzzing died. For a moment the webs were still, multicolored lace spread on the sward and
then, in a moment, both crushed body and wings had vanished.
From beneath the shelter of the trees he heard Chom's bellow of warning.
"Earl! The bridge! It's coming down!"
He sprang backward as the great slab of wood swept down from where it rested against the walls, reaching safety
as the end jarred against the ground. Logic, he thought grimly. A double-edged weapon. Though there was no moat
one was implied and, by beating against the structure, he had, in a sense, attacked the castle by frontal assault. The
attack had been answered by the buzzing thing falling from above.
Three feet from the end of the drawbridge he stared at the dark opening, the fretted portcullis, the flanking walls
of stone. A glimmer showed in the depths, the sound of hooves and the herald, magnificent in golden metal,
advanced with lance at rest, the point aimed at his breast.
Dumarest said, "I challenge you!"
"Challenge?"
"You spoke of formalities, customs, a ritual to be observed. Send out your champion and let us fight. If I win, then
the prisoners you hold are mine. The laws of chivalry demand that this be so."
The booming voice said, "You would fight me?"
"Yes."
"For love?"
"For life."
"The prime directive," mused the creature in the golden armor. "But why you, Earl? Why must it always be you?
Have the others no desire to continue their existence? Or is your love for the woman so strong that it has overridden
all caution and logical consideration? You will fight, you say. And the others?"
Dumarest said harshly, "Let us keep to the point. This is your game, Tormyle, your rules. Will you keep to them or
not?"
For a long moment there was silence as if the thing were checking possibilities, weighing consequences, gauging
the logic of the situation. And then, "I accept. In one hour we will fight."
 Chapter Twelve
It was a long hour. The heat did not increase, for which Dumarest was thankful, but still the air remained
oppressive, the sweat streaming from his body robbing him of precious salt. Sac, recovered, stared gloomily at the
castle, his eyes narrowed as he tried to determine the nature of the enigmatic glints on the crenelated walls. Daroca
too was wrapped in introspection, musing, his ringed hand lifting often to touch his cheeks, the lobe of his right ear.
Only Chom was practical.
"That thing is armored, Earl. Wooden spears will be useless against the metal. Before you can use a club you'll
have to get close, which means dodging the lance and whatever else it may be carrying. The bow?" He shrugged,
thick shoulders heaving beneath his blouse. "How will you handle it. Earl?"
Sac said abruptly, "There! On that tower! Look!"
Dumarest followed his pointing hand and saw nothing but vagrant glimmers.
"He's gone. But I'm sure I saw him. Tek was standing watching. The others too."
Were they images created by imagination and the need to be reassured? Chom echoed his impatience.
"Dreaming won't help us. You're an engineer; can't you think of some way to help Earl defeat that creature?"
"No."
"Think, damn you! His life depends on it. All our lives. If you hope to save that brother of yours, quit staring and
use your brain."
"I'm not a fighting man," said Sac dully. "I don't know anything about weapons. But what about the mount it
rides? Metal is heavy and if he could he thrown, it might help."
If it could be thrown. If the champion would be the herald. If it were a normal man with human limitations.
Dumarest fought the inclination to regard it as anything more. If the champion was invulnerable, then he could not
hope to win. But in that case there would be no point to the conflict. The rules of the game, he thought. The insane
fantasy constructed by the world-intelligence must offer the hope of success or the entire experiment would be
useless.
His knife whispered from his boot.
"Give me your blouse," he said to the engineer. "Daroca, search around and find me some stones. All you can get,
any size, bring them to me here."
"Earl?"
"Do it!"
The knife sliced through the fabric of the blouse, cutting it into narrow strips which Dumarest plaited together to
form three long cords which he joined together at one end. The stones Daroca had found were too small. His blouse
yielded more material which Dumarest fashioned into pouches. He filled them with stones and lashed them to the
free ends of the three cords. Rising, he spun the device over his head, faster, faster, releasing it to fly, spinning over
the clearing to hit and wrap around the bole of a tree.
"Neat," said Chom as he unwrapped it. "Where did you learn to make a thing like that?"
"On Marakelle. They hunt small animals which are very fast." Dumarest jerked at the cords, tightening them and
checking the pouches which held the stones. "A trained man can bring down a running beast at a hundred yards." He
sorted other stones for use in the sling. Both weapons would serve to attack at a distance, but for close-quarter work
he had nothing except the knife and the club. Neither were much use against an armored man.
"We could help," said Daroca abruptly. "If we all attack at the same time, it would make things easier. We could
distract its attention if nothing else."
"No," said Sac.
"Why not? Are you afraid?"
"The challenge was for single combat. If Earl should be killed, then our turn will come." Again the engineer stared
at the walls of the castle. "If Tormyle allows it. If it doesn't kill us all or let us die for want of food and water."
Chom said, "Stop talking about food and water. Earl will do his best; if he can't win, then we are as good as dead."
His big hand ripped a mass of leaves from a tree. Wadding them, he thrust them into his mouth, chewed, then spat in
disgust. "Nothing. Even the taste is vile. All you can do now, Earl, is to rest."
Rest and wait as he had done so often before during the moments before combat. To force himself to relax, to
ease the tension which could weaken if maintained too long, the keen edge of concentration blunted by over-
stimulus. Dumarest lay in a patch of shade, eyes closed, apparently asleep but, as Chom knew, far from that. A man
summoning his energies for violent action, a killing machine ready to explode.
From the castle came the sound of the trumpet.
"Now," whispered Daroca. He drew in his breath with a sharp hiss as the clear note sounded again. The
drawbridge lowered and the champion rode from the darkness into the light of the glowing sky.
 ***

It was not the herald. It was not a thing of golden grace but big and broad, wearing black metal spined and
curved in baroque monstrosity. The animal it rode was not a horse but a scaled thing with six legs and a long,
prehensile tail. Jaws gaped, showing rows of savage teeth and fire spurting from the cavernous throat. A giant lizard
or a dragon from fable, a part of the fantasy which Tormyle had constructed.
Chom sucked in his breath. "Earl! How the hell can you ever beat that?"
Dumarest watched as it came over the planking. The rider, cased all in black metal, carried a long lance, a mace,
a sword and shield. A pennant fluttered from the lance, forked and bearing a device of red and yellow on a field of
green. The thing itself, if constrained to human limitations, was no real danger. The armor would slow it down, the
weapons it carried of use only at close quarters. The dragon was another matter.
It was green flecked with red, the scales limned with scarlet, the eyes, hooded by bony protuberances, gleaming
like jewels. It was fast and quick and agile. The tail could swing like a club, the teeth rip like a hundred knives, the
spurting flames burn and incinerate. Helpless before it he would be easy prey for the rider with his long lance.
Daroca said, "It's giving you no chance, Earl. None at all."
"We can't let him face it alone." Sac was trembling. "If we're going to die we may as well all go together."
Dumarest ignored the comments and checked his weapons, inflating his lungs. As the dragon and its rider
reached the end of the drawbridge he stepped from beneath the shelter of the trees. He was ready as it came toward
him over the soft ground.
The eyes were the only vulnerable point and, protected as they were, it wouldn't be easy to hit them. He stood,
the loaded sling in his hands, judging time and distance. As the beast came closer he began to rotate the sling. It
hummed through the air, making a thin, vicious sound. The dragon heard it and paused, head lifting, jaws gaping and
bright with fire. The rider touched it with hooked spurs and the beast lowered its head, claws ripping at the dirt as it
loped forward.
Dumarest waited, tense, concentrating on the glowing jewel of an eye, ignoring the gleaming tip of the lance, the
teeth, the spurts of flame. The thongs of the sling were taut against his hand. One final turn and he released the
stone, running as it left the pouch. He heard it hit, the soggy impact it made and then the dragon roared, head rearing,
turning, blood streaming from the ruined eye.
Before the rider could regain control, Dumarest had raced forward, knocking the tip of the lance to one side,
gripping it in both hands, and continued to run alongside the stricken dragon. Leverage did the rest It was impossible
for the rider to maintain its grip on the weapon without turning in the saddle and it could turn only so far. Dumarest
tore it free, jumped over the lashing tail and ran another hundred yards before turning, lance in hand.
From the air Lolis whispered, "Well done, Earl. So very well done."
So far, perhaps, but the danger still remained. He had lost his sling, the thongs and pouch trampled and burned
and the lance was poor exchange. He poised it as the dragon advanced, grounding the butt and aiming the point at
the pulsing throat. An unthinking beast would have charged against it, but the dragon was more than that. Half
blinded, fuming with rage, it had instilled cunning and the rider on its back recognized the danger. Dumarest felt a
gush of fire and saw the wood of the shaft begin to smoke, the metal point glow with sudden heat. He ran as the tail
lashed like a whip toward him. Turning, he threw the lance with all the power of his back and shoulders. It slammed
into the side of the beast's neck and blood spurted from a gaping wound. Before it could recover he was spinning the
bolas, the weights stretching the cords as he hurled it at the jaws. It hit, spun tight, cutting short the plumes of fire.
Then Dumarest was running forward again, reaching for the lance which had been shaken from the creature's
neck, gripping it as the tail slammed against his side with numbing force. He rolled, fighting for air, seeing the clawed
feet rise above him as the beast reared ready to rip out his intestines. A second and he would be dead—but a second
was long enough. He crouched, lance upraised, the point burying itself into the scaled hide as the dragon crashed
down, the metal shearing through flesh to impale the heart beneath.
Again the air whispered a compliment.
"So fast, Earl, so very fast But you have not won yet."
The rider still remained. It had been thrown clear of the dying beast and now stood, grim in black plating, shield
and sword ready for action. Against it Dumarest had nothing but his knife.
He circled warily, watching as the thing turned to face him. It was like a machine, a robot without discernible
weakness, armed and armored against any attack. Dumarest lunged, the knife held like a sword, the point glittering as
it swept toward the visor. The shield lifted, the sword hissed as it cut the air, the tip ripping the plastic of his blouse as
Dumarest sprang back just in time.
Fast then, but careless, the creature should have used the point to thrust, not the edge to slash.
 Again Dumarest lunged, leaping sideways as he feinted with the knife, forcing the thing to turn to guard its rear.
He edged toward it, feinting, ducking, darting like a wasp at the armored shape, using his speed to avoid the sword,
the slamming blows of the shield.
Then Dumarest sensed the dead creature at his side and turned, springing over it, stooping to tug at the lance. It
was buried too deep. He released it as the sword whined down, the edge aimed at his head. He caught the blow on his
knife, feeling the jar as he turned the blade. He snatched with his left hand at the mailed arm and threw himself
backward as he gripped the limb.
Caught off balance, the armored figure toppled over the body of the dead beast. Before it could recover,
Dumarest was on it, the knife in his hand stabbing at the visor, grating as it slipped through the eye-slits. Beneath him
the figure heaved once and then was still.
Chom's voice roared in triumph.
"You have beaten it, Earl! You have won! The champion is dead and the prize is ours!"
But nothing was dead. Dumarest dragged free his knife and looked at the unstained blade. He jerked open the
visor and saw nothing but emptiness within the helmet. A hollow man who had fought and would have killed, but
could lose nothing in return.
Then the armor was gone, the dragon, the castle itself with the high walls and crenelations, the banners and
soaring towers. The fantasy was over. Where it had stood was nothing but the merging cliffs of the valley.
And Mayenne.

***

She stood in a transparent cage, looking very small and helpless, her hair a glowing helmet of purest copper in
the light from the shimmering sky. Beside her stood Kara, his eyes sunken, anxious. In an identical cage, yards distant,
stood Mari and Tek Qualish.
Both cages were suspended on chains fastened to the ends of slender rods protruding from the cliff wall.
Between them ran a narrow causeway at the far end of which was set a tall lever. To either side gaped an abyss.
Dumarest walked to the edge and looked down. The bottom was invisible. He looked to either side; there was no
way to reach the cages aside from the causeway. The ground too had changed, the soft emerald of the sward replaced
by a stony barrenness, the sparse trees once again the thick mass of vegetation they had previously known.
Chom came panting toward him, Sac and Daroca close behind.
"What new deviltry is this?" The entrepreneur scowled at the cages, the people within. "You won the bout, Earl.
The prize should be ours now. Have we yet another test to pass?"
"Ingenious, isn't it?" Kara's voice came clearly from the confines of his cage. "A novelty devised by Tormyle. It
told us all about it. You can save half of us—but only at the expense of the rest."
Dumarest stepped onto the causeway and examined the lever.
"Don't touch that!" said Kara sharply. "Not yet anyway."
"You'd better explain."
"Yes," said Kara. "We were meant to do just that." His arm made a vague gesture. "We're suspended, as you see.
That lever will swing one cage to safety, depending on which way it is thrown. To the left, us; to the right, the others.
The cage chosen will drop to the causeway and open. The other will fall into the abyss. I don't have to tell you what
will happen to the occupants if it does."
"Mayenne?"
"It is as he says, Earl. We two against the others. You have to decide." She paused and added, "There is a time
limit. Ten thousand heartbeats. At the end of that time both cages will fall."
Over two hours, more than enough time for thought. Beside Dumarest, Sac Qualish whimpered like a dog.
"I don't believe it! Tek, she's lying, isn't she? She has to be lying."
His brother was calm. "No."
"Mari?"
"She's telling the truth as it was given to us."
Dumarest said, "Is there any way you can get out of those cages? Is there anything we can do to get you out?"
"No." Kara was positive. "I've been over every inch of it."
"Tek?"
"We're in sealed boxes. As far as I can make out both cages are solid." His calmness was unnerving, the
resignation of a man who had accepted the inevitable. "As Mayenne said, it's for you to decide."
A decision no man should ever have to make, Dumarest thought As Sac edged toward the lever Dumarest said,
"We must think about this. Discuss it. I suggest we all sit in the shade."
 "No," said the engineer. "I'll stay here."
"You'll do as Earl says." Chom closed his big hand over the other's arm. "Well gain nothing standing in this heat.
Come now. You too, Daroca. We'll go back to where we watched the fight."
Back beneath the trees Daroca slumped against a bole, Chom squatting like a toad at his side. The entrepreneur
frowned at the suspended cages.
"It must have got that idea from Mari. Some houses of pleasure specialize in displaying their wares in such a
fashion. The rest? Well, Kara would know about opposed balances, Tek also."
"And cruelty?" Daroca forced himself to sit upright with an obvious effort. The man was dying, thought Dumarest
dispassionately. They would all die unless the temperature fell and food and water was provided. "This shows a
refinement usually only to be found in highly sophisticated cultures. An application of mental torment Who is to
decide and how? No matter who is chosen, the winner will also lose. It will not be pleasant to carry the memory of
those he has doomed to extinction."
"Nobody is dead yet," said Dumarest. "And perhaps nobody will die. You're an engineer, Sac. Is there any way we
can lock the mechanisms?"
"Without being able to study it how can I tell?"
"You could try. Even I know that a stone in the right place could wreck any machine ever built. No," he said
sharply as Sac made a move toward the causeway. "I don't want you to touch anything. Not yet."
"Don't you trust me?"
Dumarest made no answer and looked instead at the cages, the abyss and the causeway. With fire they could
burn down trees and set the boles so as to prevent the cages from falling. With rope they could lash them fast in some
way. But they had no rope and no time to make it and they would never be able to fell trees in time.
"A problem," said Chom musingly. "And one of which I am glad to have no part. You, Earl, are concerned with
the Ghenka. You, Sac, with your brother. Only one can be saved. Perhaps you had better draw lots to decide which."
"No," said Sac.
"Fight then? You would be foolish to do that Earl would surely win."
Dumarest said flatly, "There will be none of that. We didn't fight our way here to kill each other at Tormyle's
whim. I have another suggestion."
Daroca stirred. "Which is?"
"We do nothing."
"And let them all die?" Sac stared disbelievingly. "No. I can't agree to that. Damn it, Earl; you forget that Tek is my
brother!"
"And you forget that if it hadn't been for Earl you would be dead," snapped Chom.
"I've not forgotten. But I'm alive and so is Tek. I want to keep him that way."
Daroca said quietly, "I suggest we lower our voices. It can't be pleasant for those in the cages to hear our
discussion. Now, Earl, what did you mean when you suggested that we do nothing?"
"What else can we do? Fight? Kill half in order to save the others? We've jumped to Tormyle's tune long enough.
Each test we've faced has been followed by another. Now I say it's time to call a halt. We sit and do nothing. If it
wants to kill us all, there is nothing we can do to stop it. But I'm damned if I'm going to cater any longer to its sadistic
pleasure."
"A bluff," said Chom shrewdly. "Is that what you think, Earl?"
"I don't know. I hope so."
"You hope?" Sac stared at his clenched hands. "Is that all?"
"You know the alternative."
"Tek alive and the others dead. Yes, I know it, but Tek will be alive. Alive, do you hear? Alive!"
"Be silent!" snapped Daroca. "Remember they can hear you!"
"I don't care if they can!" The man was almost hysterical. With an effort he forced himself to speak more quietly.
"Listen, Earl. I owe you my life and I won't forget it. Anything I can give you is yours for the asking. But not this.
Damn it, man; you can always get another woman. I can never get another brother."
"Logic," said Chom blandly. "And I am sure that we all appreciate it. So let us be logical. I was wrong when I said
that I had no interest in this problem. I had forgotten the captain and, as we are being logical, he must be considered.
Of what use to save the others if we have no one who is capable of handling the ship? Of them all Kara is the most
important and the fact that the Ghenka is with him is a happy accident for Earl. Save one and you save both, and the
captain must be saved if we are ever to leave this insane world. My regrets, Sac, but it seems your brother must be
sacrificed for the common good."
"No one will be sacrificed," said Dumarest sharply.
Chom shrugged. "No? You are one man, Earl, among four. I vote for the captain. Daroca?"
 "I say we wait and do nothing."
"Two to wait, one to save the captain. It seems, Sac, that you are in a minority." Chom added softly, "Unless, of
course, you decide to side with me."
Dumarest said, "There will be no decisions. If any of you choose to commit murder then you will be the first to
die. Now sit down, Sac, and relax. There is nothing to do but wait."
"We can talk." The engineer moved toward the stony ground. "There are things I'd like to say to my brother—and
have you nothing to say to Mayenne?"
He spun as Dumarest glanced toward her, swinging the club he had snatched up to smash at the unprotected
skull. Dumarest caught the movement and threw himself aside in time to avoid the full impact of the blow. Instead of
crushing bone and brain it glanced off the side of his head, sending him to his knees, half stunned, blinded with pain.
He heard Daroca cry out. Chom's voice exploding in a curse and the rasp of boots against rubble. He staggered
to his feet, right hand lifting with the knife. Then he dropped it as he realized the impossibility of the throw. Already
Sac was at the causeway and racing toward the lever at the far end. Quickly he scooped up a stone and threw it with
the full strength of his arm. It hit the running man between the shoulders, sending him sprawling, his outstretched
hands touching the lever. He rose as Dumarest reached for another stone. As he poised it to throw he heard the deep
thrum of a string, the vicious hiss of an arrow.
Sac cried out, lifting his hands to the shaft buried in his throat, twisting, falling, the weight of his body hitting the
lever.
It was thrown toward the left.

Chapter Thirteen
Chom laughed and tore at the smoking meat, filling his mouth so that juices ran down his chin. He chewed and
swallowed and reached for wine, filling a goblet full of lambent gold.
"Come, my friends," he said. "Let us celebrate. Tormyle has been most kind."
Food for the rats, thought Dumarest bleakly, comforts as a reward for successful endeavor. A house had appeared
from nowhere, a table loaded with meats and fruits, wine and a dozen varieties of pastry. The entrepreneur was
enjoying himself.
"Come," he said again. "Earl, Mayenne, all of you. Eat, drink and be glad that you are alive. A song later, maybe,
after other matters have been taken care of." His leer left nothing to the imagination. "I'll be content with simpler
pleasures. Synthetic as it may be, this meat is the finest I've ever tasted. The wine also."
Daroca nibbled fastidiously. Kara chewed with a vague abstraction as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Mayenne
sipped at some wine.
"Earl?"
She wanted to talk, to relive the episode, to feel again, perhaps, the relief she had known when her cage had
swung to safety. Dumarest preferred to leave things where they belonged among the dead memories of the past.
"Eat," he said. "You must be starving."
She frowned. "Why do you say that? We ate only a short while ago. At the ship, remember?"
Time, he thought. Moments for her had been hours for them. Had she been kept in some form of stasis? It didn't
matter. Not now.
"Earl," she said. "I must know. I heard you talking while I was in the cage. Would you really have sat and waited
and done nothing?"
The truth would have hurt. He said, "Does it matter?"
"No," she admitted. "Not now. But I wonder what would have happened if Sac hadn't forced a decision. Would we
all have died? Would Tormyle have repented?"
He moved, restless in his chair, conscious of the futility of the discussion. Conscious too of other things. Chom
was celebrating, using their assumed victory as an excuse to eat and guzzle wine, but they had really won nothing but
a respite.
"Poor Sac," said Mayenne after a moment. "And his brother. Mari too. They didn't deserve to die as they did.
Killed for nothing at all."
Dumarest said, "Don't think about it."
"I won't," she promised. "But you saved my life, Earl. I shall never forget that."
"Thank Daroca, not me. He fired the arrow which killed Sac."
"Daroca?" Leaning forward, she touched his hand. "I must thank you," she said. "For what you did. It was a
wonderful shot. Bad for Mari and Tek, but good for me and Kara. Earl too," she added. "I will never give him cause to
regret your skill with a bow."
He reached for wine, sipped and said, "I wish I could take the credit, Mayenne, but I didn't use the bow. I lacked
the strength to pull the string. It was Chom who shot the arrow."
Chom? Dumarest looked at where he sat, a man who had denied all skill with a bow. A lucky shot, perhaps? It
was a facile answer, but not good enough. Until now he had assumed Daroca had killed Sac but, if so, why had he
denied it?
Kara sighed and said to no one in particular, "How can I explain? When we get back to Ayette, what can I tell
them? All those passengers dead, the captain, the ship delayed."
Chom blinked his amazement. "That worries you?"
"They will want to know." Kara was insistent, clinging, Dumarest realized, to familiar routine, familiar problems.
"Tell them the truth," said Chom.
"You think they will believe it?"
"They will have no choice. You have witnesses and can pass any test they may devise for the determination of
truth. But why go to Ayette at all? The galaxy is wide, my friend, and now you have a ship of your own. With some
adjustment I'm sure that none of us will complain if you chose to open a fresh trading route. Partners, maybe?" Chom
smiled at the thought. "A regular income, comfort assured for old age, a nice home on some nice world. What do you
say, Earl?"
"Kara has his duty."
"And duty is sacred?" The entrepreneur shrugged and reached for more wine. "We have only one life, my friend.
We owe it to ourselves to spend it as best we may. Kara would be a fool to waste his opportunities. You agree,
Daroca?"
"It is a philosophy I have heard before."
"So short of words?" Chom lowered his goblet and thrust aside his plate. "What's the matter with you all? We
have come through great dangers and have won the test and all you can do is to sit and brood. Tormyle has proved to
be generous." His hand waved at the house in which they sat. "Soon we shall be on our way with a ship and a galaxy
to rove in. There are worlds I know on which we could do well. Contract labor for the mining planets, for example.
Peasants who would sign away their lives for cheap passage. Cargoes which the squeamish hesitate to touch. All ours
for the taking. And, friends, ours by right. We are the victors and to us go the spoils." He beamed and Dumarest
realized that he was more than a little drunk. "How about it, Daroca?"
"Do as you please—once I have landed on a civilized world."
"You then, Earl. Of us all you have the greatest right. You are truly the victor."
"Of what?" said Dumarest harshly. "Of meat and wine and a place to sleep? Or are you thinking of the dead?"
"They are gone," said Chom. "We are alive. Come, Earl, let us drink to that at least."
"Go to hell," said Dumarest, and rose from the table.

***

Mayenne followed him outside to where the shimmering sky threw its monotonous light. The abyss had closed;
the mechanisms of the test had vanished. Now there was nothing but the merging cliffs and the stony ground at their
feet. The temperature had fallen so now it was like a pleasant summer's afternoon on a gentle world.
He turned. The house was low, rambling, a place of colonnades and pointed windows, fretted woodwork and
peaked roofs. Over it hung trees bearing scented blossoms and flowers glowed in profusion on all sides.
"It's beautiful," whispered Mayenne. "Earl, darling, if we could only have a house like this for our own, how happy
I would be. There would be room for guests and parlors in which we could entertain. And other rooms where children
would be safe. Our children, Earl. I am not too old to give you sons."
And daughters who would sing as their mother sang. A home which would be his and the things most men
regarded as important. A fair exchange, perhaps, for his endless quest for a lost world. For the empty travel and
strange planets and the bleak life in ships which traversed the void.
He turned and faced her and saw the bronze of her hair, the smooth lines of her face, the eyes, jet with their
smoldering flecks of ruby. He reached out and touched her and felt the life throbbing beneath her skin, the blood and
bone and sinew which made her shape, the softness he remembered so well. Human and warm and vulnerable. He
felt a sudden wave of protective tenderness and held her close as if to shield her from all harm.
"Earl?" She looked up at him and gently touched his cheek. "Darling, is something wrong?"
She had recognized the embrace for what it was. He forced himself to smile.
"No."
"Don't lie to me, Earl. I can feel it when you do."
 "Nothing is wrong."
She was eager to be convinced and relaxed, smiling as she stepped back from his arms.
"I think it's time we were alone, darling. I have picked our room; it is a beautiful place. Let me show it to you."
"Later."
She did not argue, sensing with her woman's intuition his desire to be alone. Instead she said, "It is the third on
the left past the room in which we ate. You will not be long?"
"No."
Daroca emerged as she entered the house. He looked after her for a moment, then walked to where Dumarest
stood beneath the scented trees.
"A beautiful woman, Earl. You will never know how much I envy you." He paused and then, as Dumarest made
no comment, said, "A stupid remark, but old habits die hard and much of my life has been spent in making banal
conversation. Yet I was sincere. She loves you and will make you happy."
Dumarest said, "Perhaps."
"You doubt her? No. Something else, then?" He frowned as Chom's voice came booming through the open door.
"Listen to that fool. He is trying to talk Kara into turning pirate or slaver, but he is wasting his time. Our captain is a
man of honor. He will do his duty no matter what the personal cost."
"You are tired," said Dumarest. "You should eat and rest."
"Later, when my mind has quieted. Now, each time I close my eyes, I am back on that cliff riding your back to
safety. And there is something else. Chom thinks that our ordeal is over. I am not so sure, and, I think, neither are
you."
"No," said Dumarest bleakly. "I don't think that it is over."

***

He woke and knew immediately that something was wrong. He turned, reaching, but found only emptiness beside
him. Mayenne was gone, the room in which they had slept, the window framing the scented trees. Instead he lay on a
couch of some soft material in a room all of gold and crystal with cerise carpet on the floor and his clothes lying on a
chair. Quickly he dressed and commenced to search. A door opened on a bathroom, another on a kitchen, a third on
a long, low open space with a floor of polished wood and small tables bearing statues, ornaments, flowers caught in
transparent blocks. A montage of things he had known before, assembled—where?
"Do you like it, darling?"
"Mayenne!"
He turned, quickly, staring at the figure at the end of the room. The light was subdued and he had been misled by
the lilt in the voice. It was not Mayenne.
"You," he said. "Tormyle."
She smiled and came closer, dressed as he had seen her at the stream, the diaphanous gown parting to reveal soft
and glowing flesh. There were alterations. The face was not quite as he remembered. Lolis had been beautiful, but
young and with a certain vacuity. Now that touch of emptiness had gone. The hair too was different, glowing with the
sheen of bronze, and the figure was more mature. The voice also. A blend, he thought, something of Mayenne added
to Lolis. A composite.
"I asked if you like it, darling." Her hand gestured to the room, the apartment. "I made it just for you."
"As a cage?"
"As a place where we can talk. You would prefer that I whispered from a leaf ? My shape to be something else?
Earl, why do you fight against me? I want to be your friend."
He said bitterly, "You have an odd way of showing it."
"Because of the trials to which you were put? But, Earl, I had to make sure. I had to be positive. The experiment
had to be carried to its logical conclusion. You would care for some wine?"
"No."
"Why not? You drink with the woman, why not with me?"
He caught the sharpness, the note of petulance, and frowned. Mayenne had been jealous and he had wondered
why the alien should have adopted a female shape. The test, also, had contained elements of willfulness which would
have been alien to a true machine. And yet what else could the thing be?
He said, "Can you drink?"
"But of course!" Her laughter was music. "Do you think this shape is like those I sent against you in the valley?
Earl, my darling, I build well. This body is totally functional. See?" She stretched and turned so as to display her
curves. A decanter stood on a table and she poured two glasses of wine, swallowing hers without pause. "I can drink
and eat and do everything a female of your species can do."
"Bleed?"
"That also." She came close and held out her arm. "Cut me if you wish. Use your knife against me. Kill me if it
pleases you."
He could do it. He could slam his knife into her heart, but how long would she remain dead? Even if he managed
to destroy the shape before him, how could it affect the planetary being?
"You don't want to hurt me," she said, and lowered her arm. "You are gentle, Earl, and kind, and you think of
others. You have shown me what love really is."
He reached for his wine and sipped cautiously, wetting his lips while pretending to swallow. He felt the prickle of
danger as if he stood at the edge of an invisible chasm in utter darkness. A thing not seen but sensed with the
instinctive caution which had more than once saved his life.
"Love," she mused. "Such a complex emotion, as you once told me, Earl. And it comes in so many different
forms. The love of a man for his brother, for his companions, an emotion strong enough for him to risk his life. The
love of a man for a woman. A woman for a man. A passion strong enough to make him kill. Never before have I
experienced such a thing. Once I would have thought it madness."
Dryly he said, "There are those who would agree with you."
"But not you, Earl."
"In some cases, yes."
"No. Such an emotion would not be love as you have taught me it should be. Greed, maybe, the desire to possess,
a yearning to fulfill a personal need, but it would not be true love."
She had learned, he thought, and perhaps learned too well. He toyed with his wine, conscious of his inadequacy.
He could have sensed a real woman's mood and played on it, appealing to her pride and intelligence, manipulating
words and meanings to achieve a desired end. But a woman would have had obvious motives none of which could be
applied to Tormyle. This thing beside him, no matter how she appeared, was not a woman but the manifestation of a
planetary intelligence.
"You admit that we have answered your question," he said. "The thing you wanted to know."
"Yes, Earl."
"Then when can we leave?"
A couch stood against one wall. She moved toward it and gestured him to join her. As he seated himself, she said,
"Why are you in so much of a hurry, Earl? I have provided for your friends. They have comfort and pleasant
surroundings."
"It isn't enough. Men aren't animals to be satisfied with food and a comfortable prison."
"Other comforts, then? A larger house, a greater variety of food, entertainment which could amuse and please?"
Putting down his wine, Dumarest said, "You said the ship had been repaired and we made a bargain. We have
kept our side of it. When are you going to keep yours?"
"Later, Earl."
"You will let us go?"
Her laughter was music. "Of course, my darling. You worry over nothing. But not yet. I have waited so long for
novelty, do you begrudge me a little now that I have the chance to enjoy it?"
He said flatly, "More fights, Tormyle? More tests? More tricks to amuse you?"
"No." She moved against him, coming very close, her thigh touching his so that he could feel the softness of her
flesh, the warmth of her body. A real woman would have felt like that, but she wasn't real. Always he must remember
that. She wasn't real.
As if reading his thoughts, she said, "Touch me, Earl. Hold me. Close your eyes and be honest. Can you tell the
difference between me and that other?"
He could, but he knew better than to say so.
"Can you imagine what my life has been?" she asked softly. "The long, so long, empty years. Always alone. I didn't
realize how much alone until you came. Now things can never be the same as they were. I have seen what life can
really be like, the interplay of emotion, the sense of companionship, the sharing. Can you understand, Earl? Can you
even begin to guess what it means? The ability to talk to someone as I talk to you. The knowledge that there is
something wonderful which I can share. To love and be loved. To belong to someone. To have another entity care for
me so strongly that he would kill and die for my sake. You have it. To you it is a normal part of existence, but I have
never known it until now. I want it, my darling. I want it and you can give it to me. You must!"
He said, very carefully, "Me?"
"You, Earl."
"I don't understand, Tormyle. What can I give you that you don't already have?"
 She reached out to touch his shoulder and turned him so as to stare into his face. Her hair caught the light in
metallic shimmers, bronze, beautiful, as were her face, her eyes.
"You are not a fool, Earl. You understand well enough. But if you want me to say it I will. I love you, darling. I
love you—and I want you to love me in return."

Chapter Fourteen
Vast caverns filled with crystalline growths, endless tunnels through which ran conductive fluids, the blazing
heart of atomic fires; the brain, the veins, the heart of a planetary being. The control of tremendous forces were the
hands which could reach across space, move worlds, tear apart the hearts of suns.
A world demanding to be loved.
Dumarest was thinking in mechanistic terms and that was wrong. Tormyle wasn't simply a gigantic artifact There
was more, a life-form in its own right, an intelligence which was too vast to comprehend. It was better to sit and look
at the female shape and think of her as a woman with a woman's needs: to meet her on those terms and deal with her
as he could.
He said casually, "You have learned more than I guessed, Tormyle. It seems now that you also have a sense of
humor."
"Earl?"
"Surely you must be joking."
"You think that? No, darling, I'm serious. And would it be so hard for you to love me? If this shape doesn't please
you, there are others I can wear. Shapes without number. And there is more I can offer. Think of what you desire and
it will be yours. See?"
The apartment dissolved and became a great hall filled with bowing courtiers, creatures fashioned to obey his
dictates. The hall opened to show fields of crops, houses, snaking roads filled with traffic. Mountains reared, golden,
glittering with gems. They sank into an ocean filled with strange fish and on which armadas sailed. Ten thousand
women danced in the silver light of a sky filled with lambent moons.
All his for the price of love.
More power than any man had ever dreamed of. A world for his plaything in which he would rule as a king. A
god.
A pet.
He lifted his wine as the apartment returned, his hand shaking a little as he drank, deeply this time, quenching
more than a physical thirst. Every man had his need for heaven and she had shown him that and more. But at a price.
Unsteadily he said, "You offer much, perhaps too much, and I am overwhelmed. But you forget I am mortal and
will age. You will grow bored. What then?"
"I will never grow bored, Earl. Not with your love."
"And the rest?"
"Your age?" She laughed, triumphant. "Such a little thing. My darling, I can take your mind and the pattern which
makes you unique and I can store it in a part of my being. You will never die. Your body, the shape you wear, may
age, but then it can be replaced. We shall be together for an eternity, Earl. Always together. Always in love."
A girl in the grip of her first love affair making promises impossible to keep. For a year, ten perhaps, and then the
novelty would fade. She would become impatient with his limitations and he would become, at the best, a tolerated
pet; at the worst a thing to be eliminated. Even if neither happened, what would happen to his pride?
He rose and moved restlessly about the room. It was warm, comfortable, but it had no door and no matter how
pleasant a place it was still a prison. As the entire planet was a prison and one from which he had to escape.
He said, "You don't need me."
"That is nonsense, darling."
"You will forget," he said. "After we have gone, all this will diminish in importance. An interesting experiment
which has yielded a new fact no more. You feel this way because you have put too much of yourself in a female
shape. You have built too well. Change and you will no longer feel the same. Love is not as you think. It can't be
switched on. It is something founded in shared hardship, suffering and even pain. Unending joy would sicken and cloy
by repetition. Surely you understand that."
She sat very still and when she spoke there was no laughter in her voice.
"You refuse me?"
Carefully he tried to soften the fact. "Not refuse. Not in the way you mean. But I am a man and you are a world.
What could there be in common between us? You can give me everything I wish, true; but what can I give you?
Protection? You don't need it. Comfort? How can that be possible? Companionship? I can't even begin to understand
the complexity of your being. As I said, you don't need me."
"You are wrong, Earl. So very wrong. I need the one thing I cannot otherwise obtain. The thing which you alone
can give."
An obsession, he thought, or perhaps the culmination of an experiment in which he was an integral part. Or it
could be that he was observing the symptoms of a growing aberration. There was no way to be sure. He could be
cunning and agree to do as she asked. With a normal woman who held him in her power that is what he would have
done: given lip service and waited for an opportunity to escape. But how could he ever free himself from the tyranny
of a planetary intelligence?
He said flatly, "What you ask is impossible. I can't love a world."
"You must stop thinking of me like that, Earl," she insisted. "I am a woman."
"If you were I would kill you. For what you did out there in the valley."
"The experiment?" She shrugged. "Certain things had to be determined. The girl, for example. You care for her.
But why her and not me? How am I different from that entity for whom you risked your life?"
He said harshly, "Isn't that obvious? You have experienced none of the normal things which go to make a person.
You are a beautiful pretense and nothing more. Damn it, you aren't even human."
"And if I were?"
He hesitated, sensing danger, conscious that he had already said too much. A woman scorned could be a vicious
enemy and she was acting like a jealous woman, a woman determined to get her own way no matter what the cost.
And he knew how ruthless she could be.
It was a time for lies.
"If you were it would be different. You are lovely, as you know, and any man would be proud to call you his own.
But you are not human and we both know it." He added regretfully, "It is something I cannot forget."
"But if I were a real woman, Earl, as frail as you, as mortal?"
"Perhaps."
"And if I could bear you sons?"
He almost smiled at the impossibility, but this was no game, no pleasant bandying of words.
"Certainly. But that is beyond reason. Why don't you prove your love and let us go?"
"Perhaps I will, Earl," she said softly. "Perhaps I will go with you. You would like that. You and I together, sharing,
enjoying all the things which lovers do. It can be done, Earl. You know that."
He tensed, sensing the closing jaws of a trap. Carefully he said, "I cannot begin to understand the full extent of
your powers, Tormyle, but even you can't become wholly human."
"No?" Her laughter held a hint of mockery. "You know better than that, Earl. There is a way and you know it. You
will give it to me, as a token of your love."
The apartment vanished. Abruptly he was in the open air, staggering a little from the sudden shock of transition,
catching his balance as the ground seemed to move beneath his feet. Before him the house quivered, then dissolved
into streamers of colored smoke. From within the mist he heard Chom's startled roar.
"The meat! The wine! What is happening?"
A gust of air blasted away the mist. Dumarest felt the pressure on his back and turned to see the great bulk of the
ship standing at the end of the valley where the cages had hung suspended from their chains. It had been moved to
this place by the power of Tormyle.
He heard Kara cry out and saw him running toward the ship. Daroca stared and headed toward him, Chom at his
heels. Mayenne passed them both. She was shaking, her face wet with tears.
"Earl! I thought you were dead. When I woke and found you gone I didn't know what to do."
"We looked everywhere," said Daroca. "But I guessed what had happened. Tormyle?"
"Yes."
"A long, cozy chat?" said Chom. "A deal, maybe?"
"We talked, yes."
"About her letting us go?" Chom rubbed his hands. "I wish I could have joined the conversation. A woman like
that, crazy for love, how often does a man get such a chance? You took advantage of it, of course. Used your
attraction to get us free. A bonus too, perhaps? A cargo of precious metal to help us on our way? Food, at least; that
meat was delicious."
Daroca said, "Chom, you disgust me. What happened, Earl? Has anything been decided?"
"I'm not sure."
"But you spoke?"
"Yes, and something was decided, but I am not sure exactly what."
 He remembered the girl, the words she had used, the thin spite in her voice at the last, that and the expression of
triumph in her eyes. Human emotions for an alien being, too human, and he wondered if it had all been part of an
act. There had been something else too, a note of conviction that, in this game they were playing, she would surely
win.
And he would help her do it.
Kara came back toward them from the ship. He looked distraught.
"It's still sealed," he said. "I don't understand it. Why should Tormyle have brought the ship here, if it didn't intend
us to leave? Damn it, we did what it wanted; why can't it play fair?"
"You credit it with a sense of justice it doesn't possess," said Daroca, "and ethics it couldn't understand. Fair play
is a uniquely human attribute. It is a voluntary sense of duty toward another which dictates that it is moral to keep a
promise. It isn't even universal. On Krag, for example, there is a culture which has no time for such softness. They
think it a mark of insanity. On that world it is normal to lie and cheat and steal."
"Philosophy," Chom sneered. "At a time like this we have to listen to your spouting. You said that I disgusted you,
Daroca; well, you sicken me. It is all very well for the wealthy to prate of ethics, but when you've had to snatch a
living from the dirt you have no time for such luxuries."
"I hardly call acting like a civilized human being a luxury."
The entrepreneur shrugged. "What does it mean to be civilized? To live in houses and obey laws and consider
others? There are harsher jungles in cities than are to be found on primitive worlds. A code of ethics, then? If
Tormyle said that all could leave but one and that one was you, Daroca, would you be willing to sacrifice yourself ? If
it chose another, Earl perhaps, would you insist that he stayed?"
"That is an academic question."
"Is it?" Chom's eyes were shrewd. "Perhaps it is, but there has to be some reason why we still cannot leave. Is that
what happened, Earl? Was an offer made?"
"No."
"If it came to that, would you be willing to stay so that we could leave?"
"He wouldn't stay alone," said Mayenne. "I would never leave without him."
"Love," said Chom. "Madness. To hell with it. Kara, let's see if we can get into that ship somehow."
The ports were sealed as they had been before. Dumarest examined them, frowning. Chom and the officer
slammed heavy stones against the locks. The metal resisted the impact. Chom swore as a stone split in his hands, and
he flung aside the pieces.
"There has to be a way," he stormed. "We are intelligent beings with brains and imagination. A lock is nothing but
a strip of metal—surely we can find a way to break it Kara, can't we get in through the vents?"
"Without tools, no."
"Explosives?" Chom was clutching at straws. "A ram of some kind?"
A hammer was the best they could devise. Dumarest swung the long shaft made from a sapling he had cut down
with his knife. The head was a great stone lashed with strips of cloth. Three times he slammed the weight against the
port, denting the metal before the lashings broke and the stone fell to one side. Panting, chest heaving from the effort
of manipulating the heavy weight, he watched as Kara checked the lock.
"It's still fast," he said. "I don't think we can get in this way."
"We can try," snapped Chom. "Stop worrying about the damage to your precious vessel and help me repair the
hammer."
At Dumarest's side Mayenne said quietly, "It isn't over yet; is it, Earl? If Tormyle was willing for us to leave, why
should the ship still be sealed?"
"An oversight, perhaps." He was deliberately casual. "Or perhaps a final test. If we are intelligent we should be
able to gain entry."
"We couldn't before."
"Our motives were different. Then we wanted weapons and shelter. Now we are all together and want to leave,
Once we hammer in that port our troubles will be over."
He watched as Chom lifted the repaired hammer, thick shoulders heaving as he lifted the weight. He took two
steps toward the port and halted, pressing at the air.
Kara said sharply, "What is wrong?"
"I don't know." Chom grunted as he pushed forward, the hammer falling from his hands. "Daroca?"
"It's a barrier," he said wonderingly. "Invisible, soft, but I cant pass. It seems to be all around the ship."
"Not the ship," said Kara. He had been investigating. "About us."
It circled them in a cylinder of confining energy through which they could see the trees, the cliffs and the ship
now more remote than ever before. Dumarest looked at the others where they had spread to determine its
perimeters. As he watched they fell toward each other, pushed by the relentless pressure he felt at his back, moving to
halt in a circle ten feet in diameter. He lifted his hand. Two feet above his head he felt resistance. Stooping, he thrust
his knife at the soil. It halted an inch below the surface.
"Earl?" Mayenne's eyes reflected her fear as she caught at his arm. "What is happening?"
"We're in a box."
"Another cage? But why, Earl? What does it hope to gain by tormenting us like this?"
In his ear a voice whispered.
"Earl, my darling, now you will give me the means to make us one. A gift to prove your love. Act quickly or it will
be too late to save your friends." A pause and then, "Your friends, darling—and yourself."
The wall thickened and became opaque; only the low ceiling remained transparent and permitted the entry of
light. Kara moved restlessly about the area.
"I don't like this," he complained. "I don't understand it."
"A test," Daroca mused. "Another device of Tormyle's, but to prove what? Earl, did it give you any clue as to what
it intends?"
Dumarest made no answer as he probed at the walls, the ceiling, the soil beneath their feet. The barrier had
solidified so that he felt what seemed to be marble, hard, cold to the touch.
Mayenne said, "Look! Something's happening!"
Four feet above the ground, hard against the curved wall, a panel had appeared, an oblong board with fifteen
buttons in glowing scarlet each marked with a familiar symbol.
Chom said, "What is it? A combination lock of some kind? Are we supposed to solve the correct sequence in
order to get out?"
"Those are the signs of molecular units," said Kara blankly. "I studied biochemistry once. But what are we
supposed to do with them? Earl, do you know?"
He knew too well. They were to be arranged, set in the correct sequence for the production of the affinity-twin,
the secret he had carried and guarded for so long. Dumarest looked at the bright roof and enclosing walls and
recognized the trap for what it was. The enclosed space was small; the air could not last for very long. Sooner or later
he would have to operate the lock and release them—and give Tormyle the secret.
To be used—how?
"These buttons are loose," said Daroca. He stood before the panel, touching them, the great ring on his finger
glowing with reflected light. "They can be taken out and replaced and, obviously, they have to be rearranged in a
certain order. But which?"
He began to move them, setting them in various combinations, his long fingers deft as he worked. Dumarest
watched, his face impassive. The chance that Daroca could hit on the correct sequence was remote, but it existed and
he could afford to wait.
"This is useless," said Daroca after a while. "There are too many possible combinations. Perhaps we have to set
them in an order which has some relevance to biochemistry. Kara, you said you knew something about it. Is there an
organism or a creature which would contain these elements in a peculiar order?"
They are elemental building materials for organic life, but that is all I know." Kara scowled at them, bending close
as if to study the markings in greater detail. He moved a few of the buttons at random, then shrugged. There is
nothing I can do to help. You might as well carry on."
"The air's getting thicker," said Chom. "Hurry."
It was imagination, thought Dumarest The air could not be getting stale so soon. Then something caught at his
throat and he heard Kara's incredulous shout.
"Gas! The place is filling with gas!"
Dumarest coughed, retching, his nose and lungs filled with the stench of chlorine. Mayenne doubled and fell, her
eyes enormous as she fought to breathe. Daroca fell back from the panel, one of the buttons falling from his hand.
Dumarest scooped it up and faced the panel. He had no time for thought or for the testing of the possibility of a
bluff. He was dying, they were all dying, and only his knowledge could save them. The last button clicked home.
The gas vanished. The opaque wall, the glowing ceiling. Only the panel remained, falling to lie face upward on the
ground beneath the shimmering sky.
He dived for it, coughing. His eyes streamed as he reached for the buttons and tore them free, scattering them to
either side.
Rising, he faced Tormyle.

Chapter Fifteen
 She was more beautiful than before, with subtle changes that likened her more than ever to Mayenne. But the
Ghenka held a human warmth and slight imperfections while Tormyle was the personification of an ideal.
Chom sucked in his breath in naked admiration.
"My lady," he said. "This is indeed an honor. Never before have I seen a woman so rare."
She ignored the compliment, looking at Dumarest. "I must thank you for your gift, my darling. You see how easily
I am pleased? Now, soon, I shall be wholly a woman, one able to bear you sons."
Her voice matched her face and her body, singing like music.
"What does it mean, Earl?" Mayenne came to his side, her hand resting possessively on his arm. She was jealous,
hating her rival and afraid of her power. "How can a thing like that bear children?"
"She can't," said Daroca. "She is trying to upset you, Mayenne. Don't let her do it."
"But if she could," mused Chom, "what children they would be. Gods and goddesses to gladden the hearts of all
who saw them. My lady, I am a humble person and do not look as fine as I once did, but I would love you forever if
you would make me the same offer."
Smiling, she said, "You are not necessary. Soon you will leave. You will all leave, aside from Earl and the woman. I
can use her."
As a receptacle for the affinity-twin. Dumarest glanced at the Ghenka, cursing himself for the danger he had put
her in, the trap he had been unable to avoid: Tormyle's mind in Mayenne's body, sensing her every emotion,
experiencing what it was to be a real woman at last.
He said harshly, "You can't do it, Tormyle. It wouldn't work."
"It will, darling. I have assurance of that."
From whom? Chom? The entrepreneur was standing, puzzled, his face creased in a frown. Kara? He had eyes
only for his ship. Daroca? He stood, bland, the hand bearing the ring stroking the side of his face. Himself ? But if
Tormyle could read his mind, why had it forced him to disclose his knowledge?
Had it been another whim? The desire to show him who was the master? A feminine willfulness induced by the
shape it wore?
"No," he said. "I warn you, Tormyle. If you take over Mayenne's body I shall kill it. Do you understand?"
"More than you, I think, Earl," she said lightly. "You love Mayenne. I shall become Mayenne. When I do, you will
love me. You will not kill the thing you love. You see, darling? It is all so beautifully simple."
The elementary logic of a child, but in the field of human relationships logic was of minor importance.
"I would kill her," he said flatly. "For her own sake, if nothing else. And you are wrong about me loving you. It
wouldn't be like that. I would know that you were an intruder. If you've learned anything about love at all, you must
realize that it is more than the desire for a body. There is a heart and mind and personality, a warmth and affinity
which defies chemical analysis. She has it and you do not. As I told you before, you aren't a real woman. You are
nothing more than a beautiful pretense."
She said coldly, "You could never love a pretense?"
"No."
"You fool!" Her voice was acid, devoid of all affection, the snap of a woman scorned. "Look! See your friends as
they really are!"
It was an illusion, thought Dumarest; it could be nothing else. Kara was all metal and crystal, a hard, programmed
mechanism with set paths and robotic ways. He gazed at the object of his worship, the world in which he lived and
traveled between the stars. Chom was softness and oozing slime, decay and naked greed, feral hunger and a thousand
grasping tentacles. The others?
He had the impression of webs, of spider-shapes crouching, scarlet, shaven, robed and bearing a hated seal. Then
the moment had passed and all was as before.
Daroca lifted his hand and touched his cheek, his ring spilling fire. "You know. I can tell it by your eyes."
"You and Mayenne," said Dumarest thickly. "Agents of the Cyclan."
"There were agents on every ship in the area. Your probable paths were extrapolated and snares set before you.
But you must admit that it was neatly done."
"Very neat," said Dumarest, looking at the girl.
"It was a trap which couldn't fail. I knew you would be suspicious and on your guard, but against a dilettante and
a Ghenka?" Daroca shook his head. "Gorlyk was a fool who tried to live like a machine; it was simple to slip a drawing
of the seal into his papers. I did not underestimate you, Earl, but with me to feed you scraps of information about
Earth, the Ghenka to beguile you and Gorlyk to act as a decoy you didn't stand a chance. On Selegal you would have
been taken. We had radioed ahead and men would have been waiting, a ship also to take you to a place from which
you could never have escaped. A trap which couldn't fail," he repeated. "If it hadn't been for the beast, the damage,
the one thing impossible to anticipate."
Luck, thought Dumarest. The thing which had saved him before, that and quick thinking and his own, natural
suspicions. It was the one factor impossible to include in any calculated prediction, the unknown element which
defied even the power of the Cyclan.
How much longer could it last?
Mayenne stirred and said, "Earl, you must believe me. It was a job at first; nothing more than that. Just something
to be done for pay. But later, when we became close, I would have told you, warned you. You must believe that."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does," she insisted. "Surely you understand. I fell in love with you. Really in love. I was glad when the ship
broke down. It meant that I didn't have to betray you and that, at least, we could die together."
"The logic of a woman," said Daroca. "But, then, all women are fools." He glanced to where Tormyle stood,
watching, waiting, a peculiar expression in the shining eyes.
"You made a deal with Tormyle," said Dumarest, "Told it about the affinity-twin."
"Yes."
"What about Chom and Kara? Do you intend to kill them?"
"There is no need." Daroca smiled, at ease, in command of the situation. "They have been in stasis since your
eyes were opened to the reality of what we are, and have heard nothing of our conversation. The planetary
intelligence has been most cooperative since I showed it how to solve the problem of gaining your affection. When I
noticed its penchant to adopt a female form I guessed the way things would go. Predicted, rather; even though I am
not a cyber I have some skill. You know, Earl, too often we tend to become overawed by sheer size. A brain the size
of a world can become just as confused as that of a man. However, that isn't important. What really matters is that I
now have the correct sequence of the fifteen units of the affinity-twin. An eidetic memory," he explained. "A glance at
the buttons was enough. When I give it to the Cyclan I shall receive my reward. Money, but far more than that. A new,
young body in which to enjoy life. A fresh existence."
The bribe no old man could refuse, no matron resist. The bait which would tempt all those holding power into the
net of the Cyclan.
Daroca lifted his hand with the flowing ring. "Don't try anything foolish," he warned. "I am armed and will kill if
necessary. Now, Tormyle, with your permission, I will leave."
"Wait," said Dumarest.
"Why, Earl?" Her voice had regained its softness. "We don't need them. And you told me that I should always
keep a bargain."
"The ship repaired and returned to where it was found," said Daroca, "in return for the secret which will give you
everything you could ever want. A fair, exchange, I think." To Mayenne he said, "I must bid you farewell, my dear. Our
association has been most profitable. I wish you a happy future."
He smiled and lifted his hand as if to wave.
Dumarest moved. He stooped and lifted the knife from his boot, the blade poised to throw. He saw Daroca's
sudden look of fear, the realization that he held knowledge which Dumarest didn't intend he should keep. He had
declared himself an enemy and would pay the price.
The ring on his finger spat a thread of fire and something shrilled through the air.
Then the knife was turning, glittering, reaching out to end its point crashing through an eye and into the scheming
brain beneath.
"Mayenne!"
She was not hurt. The wild shot had missed and she stood, one hand to her hair, her face pale but very
determined. As he watched, her hand plucked a gem from the bronze tresses. Before he could stop her, she had
slipped it into her mouth.
"Good-bye, Earl," she whispered. "It is better this way. But I loved you. I loved you so very much, my darling. So
very much."
The Ghenka poison carried in a jewel. Quick, clean and painless. At least she had proved the last.
Gently he lowered her to the ground, to the soft grass beneath the scented trees.

***

He walked through a parkland of emerald softness touched with scented airs, low trees and shrubs heavy with
fruit and flowers, vagrant globes drifting in a kaleidoscope of form and brilliance. The playground of a child, the
heaven of an artist a haven of tranquility and peace.
The ship had gone and with it Kara and Chom, to find themselves in familiar space. The bodies of the dead had
vanished and Dumarest was alone with the woman-shape at his side. On the grass her feet were soundless and, when
he closed his eyes, she did not exist. There was no warmth of human presence. She was there like the flowers, the
trees, and like her they were fabrications of the moment, devices which could own nothing from the past.
She said, "Earl, I do not understand. Why did the woman choose to cease her function?"
The terminology of a machine. Harshly he said, "The girl was human. She killed herself. She died. She did not
cease her function."
"But why? It was not the action of a reasoning, sentient creature. To destroy the prime function is totally illogical."
"Humans are not logical, as you should know by now. Mayenne killed herself because she knew what you
intended and refused to be dominated."
Perhaps too because she was ashamed, and did not want to meet the accusation in his eyes, the doubts she
imagined would be there. She killed herself to save him from an impossible situation, making the only restitution she
could.
Bleakly he kicked at a rolling ball of purple and scarlet and smelled the scent of roses as it burst beneath his heel.
Three others sprang from where it had broken, darting aside, teasing, offering distraction.
He added, "And because she had pride."
"Pride?"
"Something, perhaps, you wouldn't understand. In every man and woman there is a point beyond which they
refuse to go. It can vary in degree and nature, but always it is there—an invisible line at which they call a halt. To pass
it would, in their own estimation, make them less than human." He paused and then said, "What do you intend to do
with me?"
"You know that, Earl. You have no need to ask."
"I'm not a pet, Tormyle."
"Call me Mayenne. I will be Mayenne and you will love me."
"No," he said flatly. "Can't you realize that your experiment is over? You have learned what you wanted to know
and now it is finished. Be logical, Tormyle. There is no one else here now and nothing you can use against me. The
girl is dead and, dying, she gave me freedom."
"Call me Mayenne."
"I'll call you what you are. A soulless, heartless machine which has somehow become contaminated with the
essence of your discovery. Can't you realize how insane this situation really is? You, a planetary intelligence,
demanding affection from me, a human being? Have you no logic? No pride?"
For a long moment she remained silent and then said, "Pride?"
"I'm a man; would it be sane of me to demand love from an ant? I could feed it, play with it, tease it, hurt and kill
it, but nothing I could ever do would ever enable it to give me what I demanded. Not even if I fashioned a part of
myself into a similar likeness. And there is more. No experimenter should ever allow himself to become involved with
his experiment. To do so invalidates his findings."
A floating star tapped him on the cheek, singing with cadences of muted harmony. He knocked it away and it
dissolved with a shower of trilling notes. Toys, he thought bitterly; compensation for what he had lost. These were
fragile things to titillate the senses and provide a moment of amusement.
She said, "You spoke of sanity, Earl, not pride. Who are you to question my motivations? How can you begin to
understand the needs of what I am?"
A prisoner, alone, crying for the touch of life, the common bond of protoplasm. He could understand that: the
thing which made men feed scorpions and spiders, talk to them even, consider them as friends, as welcome pets. But
never as lovers.
Madness, he thought. It was an aberration which had become an obsession, a blindness which had narrowed the
universe down to a single point, a determination which could destroy him at a whim.
He said, "You have chosen to appear as a woman, so let us consider you in those terms. Mayenne is dead,
therefore you have no reason to be jealous. The rest? You whine, plead, beg. The cheapest harlot in the lowest house
would have more pride. Didn't you learn from Mari how we regard a woman who pays for love?"
He saw the tenseness of her face, the sudden hardness of her eyes and knew that he was hurting her, shocking
her. To one side a clump of trees flew into the air, falling with a crash, a shower of dirt and stones.
"Stop it, Earl."
He laughed, deliberately feeding her rage, edging his voice with sneering contempt.
"Does the truth hurt, Tormyle? I thought that was what you valued: the cold, naked truth. Perhaps you can't stand
it any longer. You've been alone too long, grown too conceited. Or perhaps you've become insane. Is that it?"
A chasm gaped, ran to within inches of his feet and then closed with a snap.
She said, "I could destroy you, Earl, and unless you stop talking this way I will."
 "You could kill me," he admitted. "But what would that prove? That you are stronger than I am? We already know
that. That you are more clever? I think not. If you destroy me, you will only have proved one thing—that you have
failed. It would mean that you have become a petulant, stupid, illogical entity unable to either appreciate or
understand a simple problem in human relationships; that your experiment has taught you nothing and that all the
people you destroyed died for no real purpose." He felt his anger rising, his voice growing harsh. "Mari and the
brothers. Lolis and that poor fool Gorlyk. Mayenne!"
"You hate me," she said wonderingly. "You really hate me."
He looked down at his hands; they were clenched, the knuckles white. Thickly he said, "I hate you for what you've
done. If you were real, I would have killed you long ago."
"As you did the man?"
"And for the same reason. He deserved to die. But I don't have to kill you, Tormyle. You are destroying yourself.
You have become infected with emotion and it will ruin your mind. Once that is gone, what is left? An endless quest
for what you can never have. A search for contentment you can never know. I feel almost sorry for you. Pity you."
"Pity!"
"A human emotion which you have not yet displayed. Charity, consideration, concern for the weak and helpless.
One day, perhaps, you will need it."
She stood very still, very beautiful in her resemblance to Mayenne, the light from the sky turning her hair into
burnished flame. Then she changed a little, an inward thing, a hardness, a clinical detachment.
"Pity," she said. "An incredible concept—that you could pity me."
He tensed, waiting.
"Pity," she said again. "Pity!"
Then she was gone and with her went the trees, the grass, the drifting toys. Dumarest staggered as the ground
became uneven beneath his feet, stones and boulders and pitfalls to every side. Above, the sky grew dark, the
shimmer vanishing even as he watched. Air roared as it gushed into space, lifting a cloud of debris of which he was a
part.
He was thrown high into the emptiness of space where only death could be waiting.

***

There was a sun smoldering low on the horizon, dullness mottled with flaring patches and edged with a spiked
corona. Dumarest stared at it for a long time from where he lay, conscious only of the throb at his temple, the
rawness of his chest and lungs.
He remembered the gusting roar of air as it streamed into space. The debris, the rocks and stones carried upward
on the blast, the splintering impact as something had crashed against his skull. Tormyle must have saved him, flicking
him casually to where he lay as a man might flick an ant with the tip of a finger. Pity? Concern? Charity? Who could
tell? No matter what the reason, the planetary intelligence had saved his life.
He sat upright, fighting a wave of nausea. The side of his head was crusted with dried blood. More blood stained
his lips and chin, marring the neck and front of his blouse, coming from the capillaries which had burst as the
pressure had fallen and he'd tried to breathe in the void.
Rising, he stared at where he had landed. On all sides stretched desert, a sea of fine golden sand. He had no way
of telling if the sun were rising or setting. If the first, he would be caught beneath its heat to die of thirst and
exhaustion; if the latter, he could easily freeze. Nowhere could he see any sign of habitation.
The perversity of a woman, he thought. Tormyle could have set him down in the heart of a city or on a world
rich with water and growing things. At least he was alive and he should not complain.
Wetting a finger, he held it high. There was no breeze. One direction was as good as any, but only the right one
would offer hope of life. Shrugging, he began to walk away from the sun.
An hour later he came to a road running like a thread of silver over the desert. Now his choice of direction
narrowed to a single alternative. Left or right? As he hesitated, he heard a thin sound from the left. A bee-hum which
slowly grew louder and resolved itself into a wheeled vehicle powered by a noisy engine. A man sat in the front. He
wore rough clothing, a beard and a broad, floppy hat made of woven straw. He slowed, halting as he came level with
Dumarest.
"You in trouble, mister?"
Dumarest nodded, finding it hard to talk. He gestured toward his mouth. "Water?"
"Sure." The man handed over a canteen, watching as Dumarest drank and rinsed his head and face. "Man, you
look like hell! You lost?"
"You could say that."
 "Want a lift?"
The seat was hard, a board covered only by a thin blanket, but Dumarest relaxed on it as if he sat on cushions.
Leaning back, he examined the sky. It had grown darker, pricked with scant stars.
"Can't imagine how you got out here," said the driver. "There isn't a settlement for miles. If I hadn't come along,
you could have died. It's a bad place to be at night. Anyway, I can take you to town."
"Is it a big place?"
"Fair. Not big enough for ships, of course; they land on the southern plain." He was curious. "What happened?
You been dumped, maybe?"
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"Nice going." The man was bitter. "The bucks think it smart to take a man out, beat him up and leave him in the
middle of nowhere. You been playing around where you shouldn't?"
"I upset someone," said Dumarest.
"A woman?"
More than a woman, but he could never explain. He sat back, feeling the ache, the strain of past activity, the
reaction at his near-brush with final extinction. But there were compensations. He had escaped the Cyclan and not
even its most skilled adepts could have predicted where Tormyle had placed him. The pattern had been broken. Now
they had to search for one man in an entire galaxy, not an individual following probable paths.
"A woman, mister?" The driver was eager for conversation. "She had you dumped?"
Dumarest was cautious; the mores of this world were unknown to him. "Not exactly. I had an argument with
someone. You get many ships landing here?"
"An argument, eh?" The driver sucked at his teeth. "Those damned bucks! Lording it over everyone they meet.
You ought to be careful, mister. The next time you might not be so lucky."
"There won't be a next time," said Dumarest. "How about those ships? You get many?"
"A fair amount. You got money?"
"I can work. I'll get the money."
He would get the money and the passage on the ships which would take him where he wanted to go: to where
Earth waited to be found.

JONDELLE

Chapter One
Akon Batik was an old man with a seamed face and slanting eyes flecked with motes of amber. His lobeless ears
were set close to his rounded skull and his thin mouth curved downward as if he had tasted the universe and found it
not to his liking. He wore an embroidered robe of black and yellow, the wide sleeves falling low over his hands. A
round cap of matching color was adorned by a single jewel which caught the light and reflected it in splinters of
lambent ruby. Casually he stirred the heap of crystals lying before him on the solid desk of inlaid woods. His finger
was thin, hooked, the nail long and sharply pointed. At its touch the crystals made a dry rustling as they shifted over
the sheet of paper on which they lay.
"From Estale?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "From Estale."
"A hard world," mused the jeweler. "A bleak place with little to commend it aside from the workings which
produce its wealth. A single vein of lerad in which are to be found the chorismite crystals." He touched them again,
watching as they turned, his eyes remote. "I understood the company mining them was jealous of its monopoly."
"It is."
"And yet you have a score of them."
It was more of a question than a statement but one which Dumarest had no intention of answering. He leaned
back in his chair looking again at the paneled walls, the painted ceiling, the rugs of price which lay scattered on the
floor. Light shone in a yellow flood from recessed lanterns, soft, gentle, lulling with implied warmth and comfort. It
was hard to remember that this room lay within a fortress of stone, harder still to bear in mind that not all the
defenses were outside. There would be men, perhaps, watching, electronic devices certainly, means to protect and to
kill if the need arose. Akon Batik had not grown old in his trade by neglecting elementary precautions.
 He said, "Why did you bring them to me?"
"You have a reputation," said Dumarest. "You will buy what is offered. Of course, if you are not interested in the
crystals I will waste no more of your time."
"Did I say that?" Again the long nail touched the little heap. "But it is in my nature to be curious. I wonder how a
man could manage to elude the guards and the inspection at the field on Estale. A man working the vein could no
doubt manage to retain a few crystals—but to leave with them?"
"They are genuine."
"I believe you, but my eyes are not as young as they were and it would be well to make certain." The jeweler
switched on a lamp and bathed the surface of his desk with invisible ultraviolet The crystals blazed with a
shimmering kaleidoscope of color, rainbows painting the seamed cheeks, the slanted eyes, glowing from the dark
wood of the paneled walls. For a long moment he stared at them, then switched off the lamp. "Chorismite," he said.
"There can be no doubt."
Dumarest said, "You will buy them?"
The crux of the matter, but Akon Batik was not to be hurried. He leaned back, eyes thoughtful as he studied his
visitor. A hard man, he decided, tall, lean, somber in his clothing. Pants tucked into high boots, the hilt of a knife
riding above the right. A tunic with long sleeves caught at the wrists and high about the throat. Clothing of a neutral
gray and all of it showing the marks of hard usage, the plastic scratched and scuffed with minor attritions. His eyes
lifted to the face, studying the deep-set eyes, the determined set of the jaw, the firm mouth which could easily
become cruel. The face of a man who had early learned to survive without the protection of House or Guild or
Organization.
A traveler. A man who moved from world to world in search of something, or perhaps because he was unable to
rest. A wanderer who had seen a hundred worlds and found none he could call his own.
Quietly he said, "Estale is a bad world and not one a traveler should visit. There would be little opportunity for
such a man to work and collect the price of a passage. You agree?"
There were many such, dead-end planets, end-of-the-line worlds devoid of industry, poverty-stricken cultures in
which a stranded traveler stood no chance of making an escape. Dumarest had seen too many of them. Bleakly he
nodded.
"On Estale you work in the mine or you do not work," continued the jeweler. "And, once you sign the contract,
escape is rare. The pay is low, prices high, a worker remains constantly in debt. Yet a shrewd man could beat the
system. A man who saved every coin, who indulged in no pleasures, and who wasted no opportunity in order to build
his stake. A man who would bide his time, work out his contract, and leave without suspicion." He paused and added,
softly, "And who would suspect that a man riding Low would have a fortune hidden within his person."
And his visitor had ridden Low; the signs were plain. No body fat, a drawn appearance about the eyes, the hands
thinner than nature intended. The result of riding doped, frozen, and ninety percent dead in caskets designed for the
transportation of beasts. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.
"Will you buy the crystals?"
"I will give you one thousand stergals for them," said Akon Batik flatly, and translated the sum into more
recognizable terms. "That is the cost of two High passages."
Dumarest frowned. "They are worth more."
"Far more," agreed the jeweler. "But commissions will have to be paid and you are selling, not buying. My profit
will be little more than what I pay you—but you need have no fears once you leave my house. A thousand stergals.
You agree?"
He smiled as Dumarest nodded, a quirk of the lips, more a grimace than an expression of amusement. Yet his
voice held satisfaction as he said, "The money will be given to you as you leave. And now, a glass of wine to seal the
bargain. You have no objection?"
It was tradition, Dumarest guessed, a ritual which politeness dictated he should share. And, perhaps, things could
be learned over the wine.
It was dark, thick, and heavy with a cloying sweetness, pungent with the scent of spice which warmed throat and
stomach. Cautiously he sipped and then said, casually, "You have lived long and are wise. Tell me: have you ever
heard of a planet called Earth?"
"Earth?" Akon Batik stared thoughtfully at his wine.
"An odd name for a world, but no, I have not. A place you seek?"
"A world I intend to find."
"May good fortune attend you. Do you intend to remain long on Ourelle?"
"I don't know," said Dumarest cautiously. "It depends."
"On whether or not you find things to attract you?" The jeweler sipped at his wine. "I asked because it is barely
possible that I may be able to find you suitable employment. Men who can acquire chorismite are rare. It could be
that I will have a proposition to make you at some later time. Naturally, it will be of a profitable kind. You would not
be averse?"
"I would be interested," said Dumarest flatly. He sipped again at his wine, wondering at the other's interest A man
like Akon Batik would not have a need for men to do his bidding; certainly he would not have to rely on strangers no
matter how skillful they appeared to be. Setting down the goblet, he said, "I thank you for the wine and your courtesy.
And now, the money?"
"It's waiting for you at the door." The jeweler pursed his thin mouth. "You are a stranger on Ourelle, am I
correct?"
"Yes."
"It is a strange world and perhaps I could save you misfortune. If you are tempted to seek games of chance, do
not play in the Stewpot, the Pavilion of Many Delights, or the Purple Flower. You may win, but you will not live to
count your gains. The House of the Gong is as fair as any and you will be safe from violence."
Dumarest said, "You own it?"
"Naturally, and if you are eager to lose your money, I may as well regain what I have paid. Another thing: Ourelle
is not as other worlds. If you remain in the city, that need not concern you; but if you wish to explore, take nothing
for granted. You have plans?"
"To look around. To see that is to be seen. You have a museum? A scientific institute?"
The jeweler blinked his surprise. "We have a House of Knowledge. The Kladour. You will recognize it by the fluted
spire. It is the pride of Sargone. And now, if you would care for more wine? No? Then our business is completed. If
the need arises, I shall contact you. In the meantime, good fortune attend each step you take."
"And may your life be full of gladness," responded Dumarest, and knew by the sudden shift of light in the slanted
eyes that he had enhanced his standing in the jeweler's estimation. A man who insisted on wine to complete a
transaction would be sensitive to such courtesies.
A moving arrow of dull green guided him through a labyrinth of passages to the outer door where a squat man
handed him a bag of coins, waiting phlegmatically as Dumarest counted them. The money safe in his pocket, he
stepped into the street, blinking at the comparative brilliance of the late afternoon. An emerald sun hung low in the
sky, painting the blank facades of the buildings with a dozen shades of green; dark in shuttered windows and
enigmatic doors, bright and pale on parapets and trailing vines heavy with blossoms of blue, gold, and scarlet Above
the roofs, seemingly close, he could see a peculiar spire twisting as it rose to terminate in a delicate shaft topped by a
gilded ball. The Kladour, he guessed, and made his way toward it.
In Sargone no street could be called straight. Every alley, avenue, road, and byway was curved, a crescent, the
part of circle, the twist of a spiral, all wending in baffling contradiction as if designed by the undulations of a gigantic
serpent. A guide had taken him to the jeweler's house, another would have taken him to the Kladour, but the street
had been empty and the spire deceptively close. Dumarest had trusted to his own ability and soon found that he was
completely lost.
He halted, trying to orient himself. The sun was where it should be, the spire too, but it was more distant now and
the street in which he stood wended in the wrong direction. Traffic was light and pedestrians few. An alley gave onto
a more populous street which irritatingly sent him away from his objective.
A man rubbed his chin, his eyes sharp as Dumarest asked directions.
"The Kladour? Hell, man, you won't find nothing there. You want the Narn. Everything to satisfy a man in the
Narn. Girls, wine, gambling, sensitapes, analogues—you name it and it's to be had: Fights too. You like to watch a
good fight? Ten-inch blades and to the death. Tell you what—you hire me and I'll take you to where you want to go."
A tout eager to make a commission. Dumarest said, "Forget it. I want the Kladour."
"First right, second right, first left, third left, straight ahead. If you change your mind and hit the Narn, ask for
Jarge Venrush. If you want action, I can show you all you can use. Remember the name. You'll find me in the
Disaphar."
Dumarest nodded and moved on. The second on the right was a narrow alley thick with emerald shadows, a gash
cut between high buildings and prematurely dark. He trod softly, keeping to the center, ears strained with instinctive
caution. Something rattled ahead and he tensed as a shape darted from behind a can. A small animal seeking its prey;
lambent eyes glowed as he passed where it crouched, feeding. Beyond it, the the left-hand turn showed an opening
little wider than the alley.
He slowed as he neared it, his skin prickling with primitive warning. It was too dark, too convenient for any who
might choose to lie in wait, and the tout could have sent him into a trap. Sargone was a city no better than any other.
It had its dark corners and own species of savage life. Men who lived on helpless prey. Robbers and those who would
find it more convenient to kill from a distance.
 Dumarest halted, then turned to retrace his steps, halting again as he heard the cry.
It was high, shrill, more of a scream than a shout, and it came from the opening behind. He spun, one hand
dropping to the knife in his boot, the nine-inch blade glowing emerald as he lifted it from its sheath, faded sunlight
bright on needle point and razor edge. Two steps and he had reached the opening, was racing down the alley as the
cry came again. A woman, he thought, a girl, then corrected the impression as he saw the tableau ahead. Not a girl, a
child, a small boy pressed tight against a wall.
He wasn't alone. Beside him stood a man, thickset, his hair a tangled darkness, his face drawn and reflecting his
fear. His hands were clenched in baffled helplessness as he faced the three standing close. They were decked and
masked, glittering tunics bright with a variety of symbols, the masks grotesque with beak and horn. Camouflage or
protection—it was impossible to see what lay beneath the masks, but Dumarest had no doubt as to what they
intended. Robbers, armed with knives, willing and perhaps eager to use them against defenseless victims. To cut and
stab and slash in a fury of blood-lust. To kill the man and perhaps the boy. Degenerates out for a little fun. The scum
inevitable in any civilization.
One turned as he approached. Dumarest saw the mask, the glitter of eyes, the sweep of the blade held like a
sword in a gloved hand. It lanced forward in an upswinging thrust which would have disemboweled an unprotected
belly. Dumarest jumped to one side, his own blade whining as it cut through the air, the edge hitting, biting, breaking
free as it slashed through the hand just behind the fingers. Fingers and knife fell in a fountain of blood, the blade
swinging up again in a return slash at the lower edge of the mask, the tip finding and severing the soft tissues of the
throat.
Without pause, he sprang at the nearest of the other two, left arm blocking the defending blade, his own point
lifting to aim at an eye, to thrust, twist, and emerge dripping with fresh blood.
"Hold it!" The third man had retreated, dropping his knife, his hand now heavy with the weight of a gun. "You
fool," he said. "You interfered. No one asked you to do that. All we wanted was the kid. You could have walked past
and forgotten what you'd seen. Instead you had to act the hero. Well, now you're going to pay for it," He poised the
weapon. "In the belly," he said. "A hole burned right through your guts. You'll take a long time to die and scream every
minute of it. Damn you! Here it comes!"
Dumarest moved, leaping to one side, his arm reaching back, than forward, the knife spinning from his hand. He
saw the mask, the gun, the ruby guide-beam of the laser, and caught the stench of seared plastic and metal. Pain tore
at his side and then the beam had gone, the gun swinging upward, the mask, the hilt of the knife protruding like an
ugly growth from the flesh beneath.
Then pain became a consuming nightmare.

Chapter Two
He looked to be six pushing seven, a stocky lad with a mane of yellow hair and eyes deep-set and vividly blue.
His back and shoulders were straight, his stomach still rotund from early fat, his hands dimpled, his mouth a soft rose.
He stood beside the bed, very solemn, his words very precise.
"My name is Jondelle. I must thank you for having saved me when we were attacked in the city."
Big words for a small boy, thought Dumarest, but, equally solemn, he said, "It was my pleasure to be of service.
Can you tell me what happened?"
"After you were shot?"
"Yes."
"Elray saved you. He helped you to our raft and brought you back home. I didn't forget to bring your knife. Do
you want it now?"
"Please," said Dumarest.
"I've cleaned it," said the boy. "It was all sticky with blood but I washed it and polished it. Have you used it to kill
many men?"
"No more than I had to."
"I saw how you threw it. Will you teach me how to throw a knife?"
"Perhaps." Dumarest sat upright on the cot. He was naked beneath the sheets, a transparent bandage tight against
the left side of his body. Beneath the covering he could see the flesh almost totally healed. Hormones, he thought, or
perhaps even slow-time, the magic chemical which speeded the metabolism so that a man lived a day in a few
minutes. But he doubted it. The use of slow-time brought ravenous hunger and he did not feel that. And there were
no marks on his arms to show the use of intravenous feeding.
"Makgar nursed you," said the boy. "She is very good at that, but I think Weemek helped."
 "Weemek?"
"A friend who visits us sometimes. If you stay here, you will meet him. I call it a 'him,' but I can't be sure. He isn't
human, you see."
Dumarest didn't, but he didn't correct the boy. He leaned back, faintly amused and more than a little puzzled. The
lad spoke too precisely for his apparent age as if he'd had intensive schooling during his formative years. Or perhaps
it was normal for children of this culture to be so forward.
He said, "May I have my knife now?"
It was clean as the boy had said, the edge freshly honed, the steel polished.
"And my clothes?"
"Makgar has those. She has refurbished them. Is there anything else you want?"
Information, but that could wait. Dumarest shook his head, and as the boy left looked around. He was in a room
made of slabbed stone, the ceiling low and heavily beamed, the floor of wood smoothed to a natural polish. Rugs
softened the spartan simplicity, a few prints made bright patches of color against the walls, and a broad window was
bright with a pale green light. The sun was high over rolling plains and fields thick with crops. Trees stood at the crest
of a distant ridge and a narrow river wended down a slope to vanish in a curve which led beyond the house.
A farmhouse, he guessed. The center of an agricultural complex. Somewhere would be barns for livestock, silos
for storage, sheds for machinery. Other houses also for the workers. He opened the window and breathed deeply of
the air. It was warm, scented with unfamiliar odors, rich and invigorating. Suddenly he was hungry.
"You shouldn't be up," said a voice behind him. "Get back into bed now."
He turned and looked at the woman. She was tall, with a closely cut mane of dark hair, her dark eyes holding a
hint of amusement and something of anticipation. Her figure was full and lush beneath a dress of some brown fabric
belted at the waist. Her feet were bare in leather sandals, her hands broad, the fingers long and tapered. The hands of
a sculptor, he thought, or those of a surgeon. Unabashed by his nakedness, he stood and met her eyes.
"Bed," she repeated. "Immediately."
"You are Makgar?"
"Yes, but I am also your doctor, your nurse, and your hostess. Also I am very grateful and would hate to see you
suffer a relapse. If it hadn't been for the protective mesh buried in your clothing, the beam of that laser would have
killed you. As it was the heat was dissipated just enough to slow penetration. Now please get into bed."
He obeyed, conscious of a sudden weakness.
"How long have I been here?"
"Ten days. You lost a great deal of blood, but that I was able to replace. However, you were greatly debilitated, no
fat and showing signs of long-standing malnutrition. I've had you under hypnotic sedation and used fast-acting
hormones to promote rapid healing. I would have used slow-time, but, frankly, you were in no condition to take it,"
She paused, hesitating, and he guessed at her question.
"Six months working in a mine and skimping on food," he said dryly. "Then riding Low. It isn't the best way to
stay in condition."
"I wondered," she said. "Thank you for confiding in me."
"You are the doctor—you need to know." He added, quietly, "You mentioned hypnotic sedation."
"A technique of my own. You felt no pain and were able to eat at regular intervals, but your privacy remained
inviolate, Earl." She smiled at his expression. "Some things I had to know—your name for one. For therapeutic
reasons, not official. We don't bother with such things here at Relad."
"The farm?"
"The area. At times you became a little delirious and the use of your name enabled me to strengthen your libido.
Anyway, that is all over now. Good food and rest will make you as good as new."
"As my clothes?"
"You know?"
"The boy told me that you were refurbishing them. A big word for a small boy to use."
"He is a very unusual boy." She swallowed and added, "I am not good at displaying emotion, my training perhaps,
but there it is. And some things are impossible to put into words. But know this. Anything I have, anything you want,
is yours for what you did. Had Jondelle been taken—"
"He wasn't," said Dumarest.
"Elray was helpless. You mustn't blame him. He would die for the boy but—"
"He isn't a killer," said Dumarest flatly. "And against three men with knives what could he have done? Died,
perhaps, and would that have saved the boy?"
"You saved him. Are you a killer?" She didn't wait for an answer. "No, you may have killed in your time but only in
order to survive. And you are no stranger to violence; the scars on your body told me that. Knife scars, Earl—there
can be no mistake. I've seen them before on men who fought in the ring."
Fought and killed to the roaring of a blood-hungry crowd. He smelled again the scent of blood, the taint of the
air heavy with anticipation, saw the animal stare from civilized masks as cultured men and women screamed for
violent death. The catharsis demanded by societies grown decadent, the chance for a traveler to make a stake, a
young man a reputation.
"A man accustomed to violence," she said softly. "But more than that Elgar told me of your speed, the incredible
way in which you moved. To throw a knife as fast as a man can pull a trigger! To send it across twenty feet before the
beam could reach you. Had it been less, you would not have been burned. You are no ordinary man, Earl Dumarest,
but I thank all the gods that ever were that you were at that place at that time."
Her voice betrayed her. Impassive though her face remained, the tones carried a vibrant note of raw emotion.
Another woman would have burst into tears, caught his hand, perhaps, even showed signs of hysteria. And it was
more than simple gratitude. It was as if a terrible fear had been realized and the reaction remained, all the more
strong because of thoughts of what might have been.
He knew that he could reach for her, touch her, and whatever he desired would be freely given. Instead he said,
"Those men wanted to take the boy. Do you know why?"
She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Ransom, perhaps?"
"Not unless you are rich," he said dryly. "Are you?"
"We have the farm and little else. You carry more money than we own."
"Assets, then? Is the farm of value?"
"Land is cheap on Ourelle. We have food and live well, but that is about all."
"Enemies?"
"No. None that I know of."
He said, flatly, "Someone for some reason wanted to kidnap your boy. He is your son, I take it?"
"The child of my body," she said. "Yes."
"Those men weren't there by accident," he said. "They knew what they wanted and where to find it. Does Elray
often take the lad into the city?"
"No. Not often. He went to collect a part for one of the machines and thought Jondelle would be interested. They
had walked for a while, at random, sight-seeing and visiting the Kladour. A normal day for any man to spend with a
young boy. And then, as they were making toward the place where they had left the raft, those men attacked them.
They must have intended robbery. When you appeared the one with the gun must have hoped you would believe him.
A warning perhaps."
"Perhaps," he said.
"It had to be that. Why should anyone want to steal a boy? How would they know where to find him if they did?
It was a coincidence—it had to be."
Dumarest doubted it, but one thing was obvious. It was a subject she had no wish to discuss with a stranger and it
was none of his business. And he had no desire to become involved. The boy was not alone. He had his mother and a
man who appeared to be his father, though the fact hadn't been clearly stated. He had a farm on which to live and
there would be retainers of a kind, workers, those dependent on the owners, obligated to defend both life and
property. The protection of a House, small though that House might be. And here, at least, he was isolated from the
dangers of the city.
More protection than Dumarest had ever known. More comfort and security and certainly more love. He leaned
back on the pillows, dreaming, remembering a time best forgotten when hunger had been a constant companion and
rocks and stones his only playthings.
Makgar said, "You are tired. The boy woke you too soon and your wound is far from healed. I shall send you food
and you will rest and soon will be well again. Need I say that you are welcome to stay as long as you wish?"
"You are kind."
"Not kind, selfish. You give this place strength and I—" She broke off, then resumed in a more casual tone. "I am a
doctor and do not want to see my work wasted. You are ready to eat?"
There were steaks, thick and almost raw, seared on beds of charcoal, served with eggs and mounds of butter. He
ate and slept and woke to eat again, a high-protein diet designed to restore lost energy and to replace the fat
consumed during the past few months. In two days he was on his feet, taking long walks over the fields and working
at laborious tasks in order to tone muscle and sinew. And with him, almost constantly, was the boy.
He was very solemn, dressed in dark brown pants and shirt, thick boots on his small feet, and a loop of beads
hung around his neck. They were large, each the size of a small egg, brightly colored, and strung on a length of wire
with the strong metal knotted between each bead. Seeds, thought Dumarest, the product of some exotic plant,
attractive to the eye and amusing to a child. Yet at times it was hard to think of Jondelle as a child. His words were
too precise, his manner too adult.
"How do you make sure the blade hits in the same place every time?" he asked as he watched Dumarest chop a
log. "When I tried to do it, I hit all over the place."
"You aim with the haft of the ax," said Dumarest. "The point near your hands. The blade follows."
"Can you throw an ax as you can a knife?"
Dumarest glanced at a trunk lying several yards to one side. He hefted the ax, feeling its balance, then threw it
with a sudden release of energy. The blade bit deeply into the wood.
"I wish I could do that," said the boy. "Will you teach me?"
"You can't be taught. You can be shown, then the rest is up to you. It's a matter of balance and judging distance.
That and plenty of practice."
"The knife, then. Will you help me to learn how to throw a knife? To use one?"
"Your father should do that."
"Elray isn't my father. He married Makgar, but that is all."
It was confirmation of what Dumarest had suspected. Two dark-haired, brown-eyed people could not have a
blond, blue-eyed son, yet even so Elray was in the position of a parent. It was his duty to teach the essentials to the
boy in his charge.
Jondelle said, shrewdly, "We could be attacked again. It would help if I knew how to defend myself. Please teach
me how to use a knife."
"You expect to be attacked again?"
"I don't know. But if it did happen, then I want to be able to do as you did. Elray won't teach me. He doesn't like
violence. He says that civilized people don't need to use it."
"He is right," said Dumarest flatly.
"But if a civilized man met one who wasn't?"
A question too shrewd for any young boy to ask… yet what was age when it came to understanding? At six,
Dumarest had been hunting game with a crude sling, with hunger the penalty should he miss. At seven—he drew a
deep breath, reluctant to remember.
"You hold a knife so." He demonstrated. "Thumb to the blade, the point held upward. Don't try to stab. You could
miss or hit a bone or wedge it in some way and so disarm yourself. You use the edge to cut, so." He swept the blade
through the air, turning it so that the late afternoon sun shone on the point and edge. "And if you have to defend
yourself, never hesitate. Go in fast and do what has to be done. Don't be afraid of getting hurt, accept the fact that
you may have to take a minor wound, and try not to be afraid. Fear will slow you down and give your opponent a
chance to get you before you can get him. Aim for the eyes and then—"
"That will be enough!" Elray had approached unseen, his boots silent on the soft dirt. He stood, his thickset body
tense with rage, his face mottled with anger. "Jondelle, go into the house!"
Dumarest watched him go, looked at the watching eyes of a cluster of workers, small men with lank hair and a
subdued manner, their women peering from the windows of the shacks clustered around the house.
"You are our guest," said Elray tightly. "But even if you were my brother, I would never allow what I have just
seen. What kind of man are you to teach a boy how to maim and kill? To use weapons of destruction? Is this how
you repay my hospitality?"
Dumarest looked at the knife in his hand, the whiteness of the knuckles, and the trembling of the point. Quickly
he sheathed the blade.
"We owe you much," continued Elray. "I admit it But some things I will not permit. Jondelle is a child and should
be treated like one."
"He is a man," said Dumarest harshly. "A small one and young, but a man just the same. He will grow and meet
others who did not have such squeamish guardians. If they think him soft, they will push and he will have no choice
but to yield. He will lose his pride or, if he has it will make a stand. And, dying, he will not thank you for the things
you failed to teach."
He turned before the other could answer, striding quickly past the watching figures, heading for the distant ridge
and the trees which laced the sky. Beyond lay more open ground, undulating plains unmarked by road or trail, the
river a winding streak of pale emerald edged with clustered rushes. To the north mountains loomed, their summits
capped with snow. A pastoral scene of peace and beauty, an oasis of tranquility in which a man could sit and dream
way his life. But beyond it, somewhere, lay the city and the field and the ships which would take him back into space
and to other worlds. His world, perhaps… already he had lingered too long.
It was late when he returned, the sky a glitter of stars, of curtains of shimmering brilliance, of globes and clusters
and sheets of glowing luminescence. The normal night-scene of any planet close to the heart of the galaxy, the
Center where suns were close and world teemed in profusion.
 Lights shone in the house and clustered shacks and the scent of cooking was heavy on the air. He heard voices as
he passed through the main door, and paused at the sound of his name. Elray and the woman, he guessed, talking
about the stranger they had taken into their home. He paused, listening.
"No!" Elray was firm. "I won't have it. Knives at his age. It's indecent!"
"Earl is a man who has lived hard. He has different values from your own." She paused and then added, softly, "If
he hadn't, would you be sitting here now?"
"Are you reminding me again of what you choose to call my weakness?"
"It isn't weak to be gentle, Elray, but sometimes it can be fatal. I want Jondelle to be strong. To stand on his own
feet and to rely on nobody. Damn it, man! I want him to survive!"
Her cry came from the heart, the eternal cry of a mother afraid for her child. Dumarest felt its intensity, and so
did Elray. When he next spoke, his voice was more subdued.
"I care for the boy, Makgar; you know that. It's as if he were my own. But what do we really know about
Dumarest? A stranger. A traveler and perhaps more than that. The attack could have been planned, his intervention
also. All of it designed to get him where he is at this very moment. And he is too close to Jondelle. The boy won't stay
away from him, always he seems to be at his side, talking, listening, learning perhaps, or perhaps it is more than that.
How can we be sure?"
"Three men dead, Elray. Dumarest badly wounded—that's how we can be sure. And—"
"Yes?"
"Their closeness worries you?"
"It does."
"And you can't guess the reason?" Her voice held a tender note of understanding. "A traveler, you called him, a
wanderer without a home or family to call his own. A man who, perhaps, yearns for a son. A boy to teach and train
and make into an image of himself. I've watched them together and I know something of the loneliness he must feel.
I had him under hypnotic sedation, don't forget, and in that condition there can be no deception. Dumarest is no
enemy. He is a very lonely person who is looking for something. Searching for it. Perhaps, subconsciously, he may
think that he has found it."
"The boy," said Elray thickly. "A surrogate son. And you? Are you eager to become his wife?"
Her amusement was genuine. "Elray? Are you jealous?"
"Can you deny it?"
"You're talking nonsense."
"You don't deny it," he said bleakly. "You cant, I've watched and I know."
Dumarest turned and moved softly through the door back into the star-shot night He coughed, scuffed his boot,
and slammed the panel hard against the wall as he reentered the house. Light shone through the open door of the
room in which Elray and the woman sat at the table, bread, wine, the remains of a meal scattered before them.
Entering, he said, "It is time that I moved on. If you could give me a lift to the city, I would be grateful."
"You're leaving?" He caught the note of anguish in the woman's voice, saw the sudden look of relief in the man's
eyes.
"Yes. There are things I have to do."
"But you aren't fit yet." Makgar rose to close fast the door and stood before him, the rise and fall of her breasts
prominent beneath the fabric of her gown. "Your wound isn't wholly healed and you need more food and rest."
"I can get both in the city."
"I will be going there tomorrow," said Elray quickly. "You can ride with me."
"But—" With an effort she controlled herself. "I think you are being foolish," she continued flatly. "That is my
opinion as a doctor. There is still the danger of complications from your wound. In five days I think you could walk to
the city, but, at this time, to ride would be to take a foolish risk."
"There are doctors in the city," said Elray. "And the raft is stable. We will travel slow and in comfort." He added,
"Stop fussing. Makgar. Earl is a grown man and knows what he wants to do."
"Yes," she said dully. "I suppose that he does." Her eyes fell to the food on the table, lifted to meet Dumarest's
level stare. "You haven't eaten," she accused. "We waited, but you didn't arrive and so—" Her hand made a little
gesture. "At least you will eat before you go to your room?"
"Yes," he said. "I will eat."

Chapter Three
There were small sounds, the creak of timbers, the rustle of a leaf, the settling of boards and stairs. The starlight
shone too brightly through the window and the air seemed to be filled with a restless urgency. Dumarest stirred,
uneasy on the soft bed, instinct keeping him aware. He was leaving, a decision had been made, there was nothing
more to do now but wait. Yet his uneasiness persisted and he could not sleep.
Rising, he crossed to the window and stared at the empty scene outside, the river a soft band of silver, the grass
so dark as to be almost black. A few clouds drifted in the sky to the impact of a gentle wind. Softly he padded to the
door and stood, listening. A murmur drifted to his ears as of voices wrapped and muffled and very distant. Dressing,
he stepped outside the room and crept down the stairs. The murmur grew as he neared the door, strengthening as he
opened it. A few lights shone in the clustered shacks and the sound grew louder. A chant, he realized, voices raised in
muted harmony. A paean or an appeal—it was impossible to tell which. It rose and then died with shocking
abruptness as a door opened to emit a flood of light. Framed in the opening Makgar stood, turned to face the interior
from which came the thin, telltale cry of a newborn child.
"He will be well," she said to those within. "He will grow strong and tall and run like the wind. Your son will bring
you joy."
The chant rose again as she closed the door and moved across the courtyard. She halted with a gasp as she saw
Dumarest, one hand flying to her throat. She wore a robe loosely tied at the front, open at breast and thigh to reveal
naked flesh. A thing quickly donned, he guessed, in order to answer an urgent summons.
"Earl! Is that you?"
"I heard the chant and came to see what caused it."
"A birth," she said. "There was some difficulty and they sent for me. A simple thing, but they are a simple people
and cannot cope with the unexpected. Always they have to appeal to someone or something. Gods, spirits, even the
wind and stars. Inbreeding has leeched all initiative out of their character, but they make good and docile workers."
"Where did you find them?"
"They've always been here, living in the woods and forests, primitive and riddled with superstition. I suppose they
must be the original people, though—" She broke off, staring at his face. "Is something wrong, Earl?"
"You called them the Original People."
"I meant those who were here first. Ourelle has been settled many times and there are all sorts of offshoot
cultures. The planet is stable now, but there was a time when it was every man for himself and to hell with the
consequences. You've seen Sargone? Of course you have… well, didn't you wonder why the streets are all curved? It
was built by thieves and robbers who wanted a defense against line-of-sight weapons. At one time they levied tribute
on every scrap of material entering or leaving the spacefield. Other fields were built, of course, and other patterns
followed, but they have never really merged into a whole as they have done on other worlds. Sargone is the city-state,
Relad the agricultural. To the west lies Frome and beyond it Ikinold. And then there is the sea-culture of Jelbtel." She
made an impatient gesture. "This is no time or place for a history lesson, and I doubt if you are really interested."
"You would be wrong," he said. "I'm very interested. Particularly in the Original People."
"The Hegelt? That's what we call them. They are human but hopelessly superstitious and, as I said, inbred to the
point of extinction. A cross would revitalize them, but they won't entertain the idea. No woman will give herself to a
man not of her own people and no man will look for a foreign wife. My guess is that in a few more generations they
will be either extinct or utterly degenerate. In the meantime they have their uses. Are you tired?"
"No."
"Then shall we walk a little? I won't be able to sleep now. Please?"
She took his hand and led him to a place beside the river where the bank fell gently towards the rippling water.
She first sat and then lay supine, one knee upraised so as to reveal the sweeping curve of her naked thigh. A posture
of abandonment or of calculated seduction, or perhaps it was merely an attitude of total relaxation in the company
of someone she could trust.
Dreamily she said, "Isn't it peaceful here? So very pleasant and calm. In time your life begins to adjust to the
tempo of the elements and seasons. I think men make a mistake to cling to cities when they could live closer to
nature."
"Nature isn't always kind," said Dumarest. He had sat beside her, facing the river, watching the ripple of the water.
"What did you do before you married Elray?"
"I was a doctor."
"And?"
"A historian of sorts. I never really practiced medicine after I qualified. A chance was offered at the Kladour and I
took it—biological investigation and gene structure of native life. That is why I know so much about the Hegelt. One
of the professors had a theory, or had heard of a theory, that all men originated on the same world. Ridiculous, of
course, but it was amusing to disprove it."
Dumarest said, "Did you?"
 "Disprove it? Well, I didn't really have to. After all, the concept is fantastical nonsense. How could one planet
provide all the people there are in the galaxy? And think of the different types." She stretched a little, careless of the
way her robe fell from her shoulders. "Are you really interested in the Hegelt, Earl?"
"Not the Hegelt. The Original People."
"There is a difference?"
"The Original People are members of a religious cult whose basic tenet is that all mankind stemmed from a
common source. They believe that source was a single planet which they call Terra. They are a secretive group who
seek no converts and whose activities are shrouded in mystery. Have you ever heard of them? Is there any
information about them in the Kladour?"
"To my knowledge, no."
"Can you be certain? In some old book, perhaps, a minor reference even. Anything."
She sensed the raw hunger in his voice, the hope, too often thwarted, yet constantly alive. She lifted her shoulders
from the sward, sitting with her hands clasped around her knees, looking at his profile, the hard line of the jaw stark in
the glow from the sky.
Quietly she said, "There is nothing that I know of. But why are you so interested?"
"Terra is another name for Earth."
"Earth," she mused. "Once, in your delirium, you mentioned it Earth. A place?"
"A world. My world."
"Could a planet have such a name?" Her voice was light, matching the tinkle of the water. "It's like calling a world
sand or dirt or ground. This is earth." Her hand touched the soil. "But we call this place Ourelle."
"Earth is real," he insisted. "A world, old and scarred by ancient wars. The stars are few and there is a great,
single moon which hangs like a pale sun in the night sky."
"A legend," she said. "I have heard of them. Worlds which have never existed. Jackpot and Bonanza, El Dorado,
and Camelot. Eden too, though I think there is an actual planet called that."
"There are three," he said bleakly. "And there could be more. But there is only one Earth and I was born on its
surface. One day I shall find it."
"But—" She broke off, frowning, and then said, carefully, as if talking to a child, "You were born on it you say, and
you must have left it. Then why can't you just go back to it?"
"Because no one knows where it is. It isn't listed in any almanac, the very name seems to have no meaning, the
coordinates are missing. People think it is a legend and smile when I mention its name."
"A lost world," she said thoughtfully. "One on the edge of the galaxy; if the stars are few, it must be. There would
be few ships and little trade. But you left it, you say?"
"As a boy. I stowed away on a ship and had more luck than I deserved. The captain was kind, an old man who
regarded me as his son. He should have evicted me; instead he allowed me to work my passage. And then there were
other journeys, other worlds."
Moving, always moving, and always toward the Center where planets were close and ships plentiful. Traveling for
years until even the very name of Earth had been forgotten and had become less than a dream. And the other years,
the empty spaces, the constant search for someone, anyone, who would know the way back. The coordinates which
would guide him home.
He felt the touch of her hand on his own and turned to face her, seeing her eyes, wide with sympathy, bright with
emotion.
"I think I understand now," she said softly, "I knew you were searching for something and I thought—well, never
mind. But I didn't guess—how could I have guessed?—that you were lost and searching for your home. Have you no
clues? Nothing to guide you?"
Fragments. A sector of the galaxy, some notations, a name, other things. Enough to go on, if he could find the
money to hire machines and experts, more to charter a vessel, still more to insure his survival. But, always, was the
hope that he could find another way. A person who knew where Earth was to be found. Figures that would provide
the answer.
"Earl!" Her fingers tightened on his hand and he sensed the heightening of her emotion. "Oh, Earl!"
Lightly he said, "There you have it, the story of my life. A runaway boy who thinks it's long past the time to go
back home. Which is why I'm leaving tomorrow. Or is it today?"
She glanced at the stars and said, "Today. But must you go?"
"Yes."
"But why, Earl? You are welcome here. More than welcome."
"By Elray?"
"Of course! Surely you don't think that—" She broke off and then said, flatly, "You heard. You must have heard.
You entered the house and then left to enter again. Well, what of it? What difference does it make?"
He made no answer, looking at the sky, at the silver thread of a meteor reflected in the water of the river.
"We're married," she said dully. "On Ourelle such a contract is not all that important and can be broken any time
either party wishes. But ours was never more than a marriage of convenience. My money paid for the farm and Elray
was willing to work it. A mutual arrangement for mutual protection, because even on Ourelle a woman alone with a
child finds life a little hard. And a boy needs a father, a man to emulate, to follow, with whom to feel secure. Earl!"
"No!"
"Jondelle likes you. He needs you. The farm is mine. If—"
"No," he said again, harshly. "Forget it!"
She knew better than to argue, leaning back instead to sprawl on the scented grass, the starlight warm on the soft
contours of thigh and shoulders, the rich swell of her breasts. Tempting bait for a lonely man, more so when coupled
with the farm and the security it offered, harder still to resist when there was a boy who had already won more than
his friendship. A child he could so easily regard as his son. A good exchange for the bleak emptiness between the
stars, the endless quest for a forgotten world.
Quietly she said, "This is what could happen, Earl. We could all go into the city, the divorce arranged, the
marriage performed, provision made for Elray. You would rule here and you could watch Jondelle grow, teach him the
things he should know and guide him on the path he must take. But you don't want that. So instead I'll make you a
proposition. Stay here for a while. Guard the boy. Give him a year of your life."
A determined woman, he thought, and a clever one. In a year he would be trapped, unwilling or unable to leave
the boy, ready to fall into a new arrangement. And it would not take a year—not with her pushing and Elray aiding by
his own sullen aggression.
"Earl?"
"It's getting late. We had better get back to the house."
"Aren't you interested?"
"No."
"Not even for the boy's sake?"
"If you're afraid for the lad, then sell your farm and move into the city. Hire guards and watchers. Better still, take
ship and hide on some other world."
"As you have done, Earl?"
He caught the inflection and remembered that she had held him beneath her hypnotic influence, helpless to resist
any investigation she had cared to make. And a curious woman would not have stopped at merely discovering his
name.
"As I have done," he admitted. "But you know that."
"I guessed. I didn't pry, you have my word for that, but some things are obvious. A fear you try to hide, a thing
you must keep secret and—" She broke off, looking at the sky. "Earl!"
"What is it?"
"There! See?"
A patch of darkness against the splendor of the sky. An oblong which moved and grew even as they watched, to
settle beyond the house and the cluster of shacks.
"A raft," he said. "Visitors, perhaps?"
A roar gave the answer. The crash of explosives followed by a pillar of flame, repeated as the workers screamed
and ran into the sheltering darkness. More flame rising to paint the area red and orange, leaping tongues feeding on
walls and roofs, filling the air with smoke and the stink of char.
Dumarest felt the woman leave his side and race toward the house. He followed her, caught an arm, flung her to
the ground, one hand clamped over her mouth.
"Be silent," he hissed into her ear. "You promise?"
She nodded, gulping as he released her mouth, sobbing as she looked at the devastation.
"The boy, Earl! Dear God, the boy!"
He was in the house together with Elray and a handful of servants and, as yet, the house was untouched.
Dumarest narrowed his eyes as he stared at the mounting glare. Against the burning shacks he could see bizarre
shapes, men with protective armor pointed and fluted in spiked curves, heads masked and helmeted with plumes and
ribbons. Madmen hell-bent on wanton destruction—or men who wanted to give that exact impression.
He watched as one lifted an arm and hurled an object into a barn. Thunder, smoke, and flame gushed from the
open door. Others ran over the courtyard, lances thrusting at cringing shapes, keening laughter rising above the dying
screams.
"Melevganians," said the woman. "From the lands beyond the deserts to the south. Madmen the lot of them. Earl!
We must save the boy!"
He held her close to the dirt, one hand hard against her back, feeling the bunch and jerk of muscle as she tried to
rise.
"We can do nothing," he snapped. "Not yet. And the boy is in no immediate danger." He stared at the house.
The windows showed no lights, the glass ruby with reflected firelight, and that was wrong. There were no internal
lights—but it wasn't that—what was wrong was that no window had yet been opened. Elray must surely be awake, the
servants too, and there would be arms, lasers perhaps, missile weapons which could kill an injured beast if nothing
else. And a gun which could kill an animal could just as easily kill a man. Elray now should be behind an open
window ready to defend his own.
He looked again at the attackers. A dozen, he guessed, at least ten, but it was hard to tell in the dancing firelight.
They moved in sudden darts, stabbing, moving on, grotesque in their helmets and armor. A raiding party intent on
easy destruction and wary of approaching the house and the danger it could contain—or a group eliminating
opposition with calculated precision?
He said, "Are you sure of what they are?"
Again be felt her strain beneath his hand, then relax, sobbing.
Deliberately he slapped her cheek with his free hand, "Control yourself ! Answer me: are you certain?"
"The way they're dressed," she said. "The way they are acting. Lunatics, insane, drugged and degenerate, and
having fun. They will burn and destroy and kill everything alive. Everything, Earl! Everything!"
"Why isn't Elray shooting them down? Are there no weapons in the house?"
"A couple of rifles, but he wont use them. He hates violence." Her voice hardened. "The damn coward! If he lives
through this, I'll tear out his throat! Earl, what can we do?"
A dozen men armed with grenades, lances, and probably missile weapons. Protected by helmets and armor and
drunk on blood-lust And against them he had only a knife.
He said, "Move toward the back of the house. Be careful; drop if you see anything and freeze until it's gone. Get
inside if you can and get the boy. A rifle too, if you can manage. Then get back outside and head for the river. Follow
it to the crest and hide among the trees. If anyone tries to stop you, shoot without hesitation. Shoot, then run."
"And you, Earl?"
"I'll attack from the other side and try to create a diversion." He saw a gout of flame rimmed with flying sparks
burst from a point close to the house. Against it armored figures began to move with grim purpose toward the
untouched building. "Move!"
He rose as she slipped away, crouched, running in a wide circle so as to hug the edge of the firelight. A dark
shape raced toward him, one of the workers breaking free, whimpering in terror, an armored figure close behind. As
Dumarest watched, the lanced lifted, aimed, spat a tongue of fire. The worker exploded in a gout of flame.
Lasers would have been silent and more efficient but to madmen, reveling in the sound and fury of destruction,
less satisfying. The lance was a double-duty weapon, a sharp point and a missile launcher of some kind built into the
shaft Dumarest sprang to one side as it leveled toward him, sprang again as fire jetted from the tip, a third time as
flame and noise blasted from where he had stood. Then he was within the length of the weapon, left hand sweeping it
aside, right foot lashing out in a savage kick to an armored knee.
He felt something yield and heard the figure scream with maniacal rage. A fist lifted, clenched, and swept down
like a mace, firelight glinting from the spikes set on each knuckle. Wind brushed his cheek as he dodged and before
the fist could strike again he was behind the armored figure, left hand clamped around the throat, the knife in his right
scraping as he thrust it through the vision slit in the helmet. Twice he stabbed, blinding, killing, rending the brain,
tearing free the steel as the figure collapsed.
Quickly Dumarest searched the body. A pouch held three round objects, grenades, simple things with a pin and
safety catch. He thrust them into a pocket of his tunic. The lance was long, clumsy, a button set close to the end of
the shaft. He looked toward the house. Three figures were close to the door, one almost touching the panel, the others
a little toward the rear and to one side. Still more, apparently tired of ravaging the shacks, moved to join them.
The dead man made a convenient rest. Dumarest sprawled behind him, the lance resting on the armored chest,
his eyes narrowed as he stared along the shaft. The weapon probably fired a rocket of some kind and he doubted if it
would be too accurate. The light was bad, the shadows deceptive, and if he missed the figure close to the door he
could well blow in the panel. He moved the tip a little, steadied his aim, and pressed the button.
Fire blossomed from the wall of the house high and to one side of the little group. Adjusting his aim, he fired
again, twice more, then the weapon was empty. Before the house a man staggered, shrieking, beating at the fire which
wreathed his helmet. Two others lay in twitching heaps, a third crawled like a broken insect over the dirt. As
Dumarest watched, he rose, staggering, shaking his head: semi-stunned by concussion but otherwise unhurt.
Four down but there were others and the woman had to be given her chance. Dumarest stood upright, a grenade
in his hand. He drew the pin and threw it toward the house, turning before it fell, running as it exploded, his figure
clear against the light from the burning shacks. Somewhere beyond the fires would be their raft, probably unattended
or, if guarded, watched by restless and impatient men. To those who had seen him it would be important—they
would want to save it from damage, and they would follow.
Almost too late he saw the twin figures with raised lances, ribbons bright on crested helmets, firelight warm on
points and flutes of armor. They stood at the end of the open ground, blocking his path, others running from the rear
to trap him between. Without hesitation he lunged to one side, hit the burning wall of a shack, rolled through fire,
holding his breath, eyes tight-closed, feeling the kiss of flame on his hands and face, hearing the crisp of his hair. The
shack was small; momentum carried him to and through the opposite wall to roll in a shower of sparks on the ground
beyond. Rising, he threw a second grenade, running before it exploded, hearing the roar, the screams, and shouts of
command.
And another scream, high, shrill, coming from the back of the house.

Chapter Four
Makgar had been taken. She stood, an armored figure holding each arm, very pale in the starlight. The house
shielded the little group from the light of the fires, the shadow accentuating the darkness so that for a moment
Dumarest couldn't see the third man. Then he moved and the light shone on yellow hair—the boy caught in his arms.
"Please," she begged. "Don't take the boy. Let him go. I'll give you anything you want, but let him go."
One of the men holding her tittered, his voice thin and high, crazed and ugly.
"What can you give, woman, that we do not already have?"
"Money. I'll sell the farm and give you what I get More. "I'll work and you can have that too. I'll be your slave if
you want—but don't hurt the boy."
"A fine child," said the one who had spoken. "A strong child. A young one who can be—manipulated. Clamps and
cramps and bindings to guide his growth. Racks and weights and implements to alter and stretch and turn him into a
thing of joy. Have you seen our menagerie? Some of our specimens you would never take for men."
He laughed, the sound like the rasp of a nail on slate, a degraded keening devoid of amusement.
"No!" Sweat shone on her face and her eyes were wild. "Not that! Dear God, not that!"
"The prospect amuses you, woman? After all, why should he be as other men? An ordinary person when he could
be fashioned to become a thing unique. The arms, for example, lengthened to twice what they would normally be.
The legs too, the head shaped into a cone, the back guided into a serpentine curve. It amuses you to think of it?"
The man holding the boy said, "Enough."
"You object?"
"There will be no more such talk." His voice was deep, reverberating from the closed helmet. "We have the boy
and now we can leave."
"So soon? When there is sport yet to be had? I think not." The thin voice held a menacing snarl. "The house still
stands, the woman lives, and there is another. He too must be taken care of before the dawn."
"Do as you wish, but the boy must not be harmed. Attend me to the raft."
He stepped forward, confident of being obeyed, his figure huge as he stepped into the light from the burning
shacks. Behind him the woman strained against the metal-clad hands which gripped her.
"Jondelle!"
The boy gave no answer. He seemed to be asleep in the big man's arms, his head lolling against the armored
shoulder. Drugged, thought Dumarest, certainly not dead. They would have taken less trouble with a dead boy, and
the lad was not that. He caught the movement of the lifting chest, the beads accentuating the slight inhalation, bright
colors shifting beneath the light. On the pale cheeks the lashes looked like delicate lace.
The big man halted. "Come," he boomed. "Attend me. I shall not ask again."
The thin voice tittered, "You ask? Not order?"
"I ask."
"Then we shall accommodate you. We are reasonable men, most reasonable, but we do not take kindly to orders.
And, as we walk, I shall think of how to amuse this woman. A fire at her feet, perhaps, not too hot or too large, but
just enough to shorten her height. And then—well, such things must not be hurried. I shall dwell on it as we walk at
your back."
As they passed, Dumarest rose like a ghost behind them. Helmets limited vision; they could see ahead but not to
either side and certainly not where he followed. And there were no others at the rear of the house; he had made
certain of that. But he would have to act fast before they met their companions.
 Three men. The one holding the boy would be hampered, slow to turn, slower to act. The ones holding the
woman were more dangerous, to beat them would need speed.
If she could forget her concern for the boy, resist her natural impulse to run toward him, and take advantage of
her opportunity.
Stepping forward, he tripped up the man to her right.
It was a thing quickly and easily done. One foot caught on his instep and lifted so as to catch behind the other. He
toppled, dropping his lance, releasing his hold on the woman in order to save himself. As he fell, Dumarest lunged
forward, gripped the other man's right shoulder, and jerked the trapped arm hard against his body. He felt the snap of
bone as the elbow yielded beneath the armor and snapped at the woman as the hand fell from her arm.
"The other one. Take him!"
He snatched the knife from his boot as a spiked fist drove toward his face, feeling the rip as the cruel points tore
at his scalp. The blade lifted and lanced at the helmet, seeking a slit and finding only perforations. Again the left fist
came toward him like a club, catching his shoulder, ripping at the plastic to reveal the glint of metal beneath. Before it
could lift again, Dumarest had swung up his left arm, lifting the visor and exposing the face beneath. It was painted,
snarling, a vicious mask of animal ferocity. The mouth gaped to show filed teeth, closed to send them clashing
against the steel of the blade. Dumarest jerked it free, thrust again at the glaring eyes, sending the point between the
ball and the bony ridge of the eyebrow, driving it deep into the brain.
From behind came a frenzied screaming.
Makgar had taken her chance. The fallen man had tried to rise and she had jumped on his back, sending him to
the dirt, her hands lifting his visor and busying themselves beneath. She raised them, red with blood, naked breasts
heaving beneath the parted robe.
"He isn't dead," she panted. "But he can't see. I got his eyes. The boy?"
The big man had gone, the boy with him. Dumarest snatched up a lance and ran past the burning shacks. A dark
figure came from one side, arms empty, a lance raised. Dumarest fired, thumbing the button, sending a stream of
missiles toward him. One hit the ground at his feet, another slammed into the armored chest The third was wasted.
"Jondelle," she said. "Quick!"
The fires fell behind, lapping at a wall of star-shot night. The contrast was too great; against the firelight all was
darkness and illusive shadows. Dumarest halted, conscious of the danger, the fires at his back, and enemies waiting.
The woman threw aside all caution.
"Quick!" she gasped. "Hurry!"
Somewhere was the raft and one man, more likely several. The big man with the boy and the others who must
have been left on guard. Dumarest hit the woman, throwing the weight of his body against her flank, and sending her
sprawling on the ground. He followed, holding her down as streaks of fire passed overhead to explode among the
burning shacks.
"Earl!"
"Be silent!"
Sound could betray their position. He lifted his head cautiously, staring at the glittering sky. Against it something
moved, dark, regular in shape, and slowly rising.
"The raft! Earl, they're getting away!"
She rolled from beneath his hand, rising before he could stop her, running over the grass toward the ascending
vehicle. He reared upright, snatching out the last grenade, then throwing it aside as useless. He could throw it and
maybe send it to explode in the body of the raft, but that would certainly kill the boy. But he could damage it perhaps,
slow it in some way, maybe even bring it down. He lifted the lance, aimed, and touched the button.
Fire exploded against metal, a brilliant gush which showed the underside of the raft, the helmeted heads peering
over the edge. Two of them. There would be another, the pilot, and maybe yet one more, that of the big man who
held the boy. He fired again, the missile hitting the back edge, the light revealing the shafts pointing toward him. He
fired twice more, guessing where the engine would be, the generator of the current which fed the anti-gravity units of
the raft.
And then the lance was exhausted and he had thrown it aside, falling to hug the ground, covering his ears as the
return fire blazed around him.
Miraculously he was unhit, rising as the missiles ceased, conscious of the ache caused by bruising fragments, a
trickle of blood running over his face from a minor wound.
"Makgar!" He looked around, wiping blood from his eyes. "Makgar?"
She lay looking very small and fragile in the torn ruin of her robe, the bright fabric brighter than before with the
ruby of her blood. Around her the soil was pitted with jagged craters, the dirt burned and tormented, wet where she
lay. The distant firelight caught her eyes, enhancing their brightness, their pain.
 "Earl?"
"They got away," he said flatly. "I think I damaged the raft so they couldn't move fast or far. And you?"
"My side. It was like being kicked. Earl—"
"Don't talk," he said. "Don't do anything. Just lie there until I return."
"You're going?"
"They left in a hurry," he said grimly. "Some of them may have been left behind. I want to make sure."
The area was lifeless, silent aside from the rustle of flame. Close to the house Dumarest heard the keening of the
man Makgar had injured, but ignored him, moving to the back and an opened window, slipping inside with knife
ready and eyes strained. The workers were dead, the servants huddled where they had run to Elray for protection. He
lay beside a rifle, the side of his head a crushed mess, one hand outstretched as if in mute appeal. Perhaps he had
tried to do that, talk instead of act, beg instead of using the rifle which could have saved his life. Dumarest picked it
up, a good weapon, fully loaded, the missiles capable of penetrating any armor ever worn, Elray could have climbed
to an upper room, picked off the invaders as they stood before the fires, shot them down as they tried to climb the
stairs. Had he acted, the boy would be safe and the woman unharmed.
She looked at him as be stooped over her.
"Earl?"
"It's all right," he said. "I'm going to take you into the house."
"Elray?"
"Dead."
"I'm glad," she whispered. "He could have done something, used one of the guns, anything. He didn't have to let
them take the boy."
"Maybe he didn't."
"They were waiting," she said. "In the house. They grabbed me as I—well, never mind. That isn't important now.
But he could have done something. He promised to look after the boy. He promised that."
She groaned as he lifted her, blood welling from the torn wound in her side, dark, turgid.
"It hurts," she whispered. "God, how it hurts!"
Her head lolled as he carried her into the house, her eyes blank, glazed with pain. He snapped on every light he
could find, found her room, stripped off the bed covers and laid her on the sheet Flinging the robe into a corner, he
studied her naked body. The missile had hit her side, exploding, creating intense pressures, and causing havoc to the
internal organs. He found warm water and washed the wound free of dirt and fiber, using clean sheets to bind it close,
fretting out the material before applying it so as to promote coagulation. In a cabinet downstairs he found medical
supplies and studied them, frowning. Quick-time would have helped, slowing the metabolism so as to make a day
seem but a few minutes, but there was little need for it outside the ships which traversed space—the passengers who
rode High using it to shorten the tedium of the journey.
He found antibiotics and a hypogun, loading the instrument and testing it against a sheet of paper, the air blast
driving the drug through the material as it would skin and fat. Another vial contained a sedative, a third a means to
kill pain. He carried them upstairs and injected them all.
"Earl." The drugs were quick-acting; incredibly she managed to smile. "You're efficient, Earl. I like that in a man.
You know what to do and you do it without hesitation, but you shouldn't waste your time."
"It's my time."
"And my life—what there is of it."
"You're hurt," he said flatly. "Badly, but you're still alive. If you want to, you can stay that way. Give up and I might
as well bury you now."
"I'm a doctor," she said. "You don't have to lie to me."
"Am I lying?"
"No, but—" She caught herself, forcing open her eyes. "I feel so sleepy and I mustn't sleep. There is something.
The boy. Earl!"
"Hell be all right The man who took him won't let him come to harm. And we'll find him. I promise that."
She stirred, fighting the drugs he had blasted into her bloodstream.
Quickly he said, "Have you a radio? Some means of summoning aid?"
"No, no radio, we wanted to be isolated. Just—"
"Sleep now," he said.
"I mustn't." Again she dragged herself awake. "You shouldn't have given me that sedative. There are things I have
to say."
"Later."
"Now, before it's too late. You've got to promise me… Earl… you must…"
 She sighed and yielded to the drugs, relaxing and looking younger than he had ever seen her before. And yet she
was far from being a girl, the lines of her body held a lush maturity, the muscles firm, the fat giving a soft roundness.
He covered her, piling on soft quilts, arranging her pillow, and then, mouth cruel, he left the house and went into the
courtyard.
The man she had blinded was still alive. He crawled in his armor like a stricken monster, keening, his spiked
gloves scrabbling at the dirt. Dumarest watched him without pity, remembering the things he had said, the threats he
had made. Catching a shoulder, he spun the man over onto his back, the ruined face ugly with its paint in the fading
light of the fires.
"Listen to me," said Dumarest. "I want to tell you something amusing. You are blind and can't see, but I will
describe it to you. A new formation of a man. A fire to char away his feet, a knife to remove his hands, his ears, his
nose. The same knife to slit his tongue and to release the intestines from his stomach. Acid to burn a pattern on his
flesh. You appreciate the image? A work of art suitable for inclusion in your menagerie. You will be that man, unless
you talk."
The thin lips parted to show the filed teeth.
"My eyes! The pain—"
"Will get a damn sight worse if you don't tell me what I want to know! Who are you? Where are you from?"
"They lied!" The voice was a fretful whine. "They said there would be no opposition. Just a few Hegelt, a woman
and a boy."
"Who lied?"
"Those who wanted to come with us. For amusement, they said. Money and a raft and we could do as we
pleased. A raid, that was all. A night of fun. My eyes!"
"The man who took the boy. What is his name?"
"Why should I care?"
"Where did he come from?"
"What are strangers to us?"
"Damn you!" snarled Dumarest. "Talk!"
Incredibly the creature smiled. "I will talk. I am Tare Krandle, a noble of Melevgan, and if you will take me to
where I can receive medical aid I will reward you well. Your own weight in silver, women of chosen attractiveness, a
selection from my private—" He broke off, laughing, the thin sound echoing madness. "Or I will sing you the dirge of
the Emphali. They sing when they are being slowly torn apart—did you know that? I have a most entertaining
recording and will give you a copy, if you will only aid me. Or—" He tittered. "Or perhaps I won't talk at all. You can't
make me. No one can force a member of my race to do anything they choose not to do. Not you, not anyone. We are
the elect."
"You will talk." Dumarest rasped the knife from his boot and rested the flat of the blade against the flaccid cheek.
"Feel that? It's a knife. I'm going to make it red-hot and then I'll touch you again. Need I tell you where?"
"You will not make me talk. No one can tell a noble of Melevgan what to do. We know how to live—and we know
when to die."
"You will die," promised Dumarest savagely. "But you will take a long time and the waiting will not be pleasant.
Feel the heat of the fires? They are close and could be closer. Now tell me who the man was and why he wanted the
boy."
"I don't know. What are such things to me?"
"Where was he taking him?"
Dumarest jerked back as the man surged upward in a sudden explosion of energy, sensing rather than seeing the
gloved hands rising, the spikes turned inward toward his head. Easily he avoided them, watching as they clashed
together, to fall and beat at the armored chest, the protected groin. Screaming with maniacal rage, the Melevganian
rose, his fists beating at the air, the open front of his helmet. Blood shone redly on the spikes as, still screaming, he
staggered blindly into a glowing mound of ash, to fall, still shrieking, into the heart of the red-hot embers.
Bleakly Dumarest watched him burn. The man had created havoc, killed without compunction, and threatened
horrors all for his own amusement. An insane monster who had chosen the manner of his own death—and who had
died taking his knowledge with him.
He stretched, conscious of the ache in his body, the sting of the burns on hands and face, but there were things to
be done before he could apply medications. The shacks had burned, the entire area a shambles, the dead lying with
blank faces toward the sky. Dumarest let them lie. Beneath the helmets the faces of the armored men were the same
as those he had already seen. The strangers, whoever they were, had all escaped in the raft. Two of them at least, he
guessed. The big man would never have trusted the vehicle to the blood-crazed insanity of the Melevganians even if
they had been willing to forego their amusement. But there had been another raft, Elray's, and he had to find it.
 It was buried beneath a mound of splintered wood and stone, the metal bent, the engine damaged by fragments.
He cleared it, working until the rising sun threw a pale green light over the area and his head swam with fatigue. And,
with the dawn, came furtive shapes, the Hegelt returning to keen over their dead, their voices rising to blend with the
morning breeze.

Chapter Five
The room was as he remembered, warm, soft with golden light, the air scented with pungent aromas. At his desk
Akon Batik wore the same robe of black and yellow, the jewel in his cap a living, ruby eye. He poured wine and said,
after the first sip, "A sad story. A tragedy. But on Ourelle such things happen. On other worlds too, I have no doubt.
But why have you come to me?"
"For help," said Dumarest. "For information."
"Which you think I can provide?"
"Which I think you may be able to obtain. A boy was stolen. A young lad who lived quietly on a farm. I want to
know why."
Akon Batik shrugged, thin shoulders rising beneath his robe. "For ransom, perhaps? That is the obvious answer.
For the whim of someone who had seen the boy and desired what they saw? For revenge against the mother? As a
means to force others to obey their will? As a toy, a pet, or someone to train along a selected path? And what is it to
you? A boy… there are millions of boys. One more or less—what does it matter?"
"It matters," said Dumarest. "To me."
"But not to me. You can appreciate that?"
A man of business who concerned himself only with profit and loss. On this and other worlds a man of sense and
logic who took care of his own and remained clear of personal involvement Dumarest sipped at his wine, not tasting
the lambent fluid, knowing that he had to deal with the other on his own terms.
"You know the city," he said quietly. "You would be able to discover if men were hired to do a certain thing. You
might even be able to find out who had hired them."
"Perhaps."
"I have money, as you know. I would be willing to pay for whatever help you could give."
The jeweler pursed his lips. "A business proposition? You present the matter in a more attractive light But you
said the raiders were Melevganians."
"There were others with them. Not Melevganians and maybe from the city. And certainly it was men from the city
who tried to take the boy at first."
"Three men," said Akon Batik softly. "Yes, I heard of how they were found, but they were strangers." He paused,
then added. "Perhaps it would have been best had you let them have their way."
A farm ruined, men and women slaughtered like beasts, and still the boy had been taken. Dumarest looked at his
goblet, the tension of his hand.
"No," he said. "I couldn't do that."
"In any case, the thing is done and no man can reverse the passage of time. But I must warn you, those who took
the boy are obviously strong. They will not be gentle should they find you an embarrassment. And, to be honest, I
cannot understand your concern. He is not your son. You owe his family no allegiance. No one, as yet, has paid you to
find him. Why are you willing to risk your life?"
"I gave my word."
"And, for you, that is enough." Akon Batik sipped thoughtfully at his wine. "I am not a sentimental man, but I can
appreciate the strength of a promise given. Very well, I will do what I can. Be at the House of the Gong tonight and I
will send a man to tell you what I have found. You will give him ten stergals."
"And for yourself ?"
"You will give fifty to the man at the gate. You wish more wine?"
"Thank you, no."
"Then may good fortune attend you."
"And may happiness fill your days."
A cab took Dumarest to the Kladour and he stood looking up at the vast bulk of the building. The sun caught the
fluted spire, the gilded ball on the summit, turning it into an eye-bright point of flame. Inside it was cool, wide halls
sending soft echoes from the vaulted ceiling. A receptionist, a young girl, her face dusted with lavender, her eyes
bright with inset flakes of reflective material, stared with frank admiration at his lean figure, curious as she noted his
burned skin and singed hair.
 "Could I help you, sir?"
"Yes. I have a problem. I am trying to find a man, a professor who works here or who used to work here. I don't
know his name, but he once had a woman assistant named Makgar. Her field was biological investigation and gene
structure of native life. Can you help me?"
"No," she said reluctantly. "I'm sorry, I can't."
"But surely there would be records. It was a few years ago, I admit, but possibly someone would remember."
"Your interest?"
"I am making an investigation into the divergencies of various races from a common norm. I heard that the
professor would have valuable information, and it is barely possible that I could help him in his own inquiries. If you
could check with your personnel department?"
Professor Ashlen was well past middle age, with a balding scalp and muscles which had long since run to fat. He
sat in an office musty with old files wearing a stained smock over a shirt of maroon and gray. He rose as Dumarest
entered and held out his hand.
"You take it," he said. "You shake it and then let it go. It's an old custom."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I know." The touch of the palm was moist, clammy.
"So few people do," said Ashlen. He sat and waved his visitor to a chair. "It's a little test of my own. If someone
comes claiming to be an investigator of the human race, I assume that he has studied many cultures. If he has, then
he would know why I put out my hand."
"You told me what to do," reminded Dumarest.
"So I did. That was careless of me. Now tell me: how did such a custom originate in the first place?"
"As a means of proving peaceful intention. I show you my bare hand and you touch it with your own. Naked
hands can hold no weapons."
"And the other one? The left hand which is not extended?"
"Perhaps that held a knife behind the back," said Dumarest dryly. "Just in case. Do you remember a woman who
used to work with you? Makgar. Tall, dark, well-built A few years ago now."
"Makgar?" Ashlen frowned. "Is that what you came to talk about? I understood that you were interested in
divergent races."
"I am, and the theory that all life originated on one world. But—"
"That is nonsense," said the professor firmly. "It is an attractive theory and one which rises from time to time, but,
believe me, it has no foundation of truth. Men evolved on a variety of worlds much at the same time. There has been
movement, of course, new worlds colonized and settlements founded, but to seriously consider that all men came
from one small world is ludicrous. In fact, I proved it to be a complete fallacy."
"You and Makgar?"
"Makgar? Well, yes, she helped on the routine side, but I can fairly claim the credit for exposing the illogic of the
contention. Of course, I can understand how such a notion could arise. Take Ourelle, for example. You are a stranger
here?"
Dumarest nodded.
"A most peculiar world." Ashlen produced a map and unrolled it on his cluttered desk. "Here is the city of
Sargone where we are now." His fingers rapped a patch of yellow. "Here the plains of Relad where the majority of the
Hegelt are to be found. Then here we have the Valley of Charne where there is a most peculiar race of yellow-
skinned people. Note, the Hegelt are dark brown and the Charnians yellow. You see the implication?"
"Two races on one world," said Dumarest.
"Not so. The Hegelt are the original people and the Charnians the result of a later colonization. Then, to the
north, we have the Shindara. And there are Frome and Ikinold and others. I won't bore you with their names. The
point is they are all different in skin color, facial characteristics, and even physical peculiarities. It is natural to assume
that if such variety could be found on one world, then they could have coexisted together in the past. On the mythical
world from which legend has it they all originated."
"Earth?"
"You have heard the name?" Ashlen shrugged. "But then, as an investigator into the divergencies of race, you
would. A part of the legend, of course. My own conclusion is that it is another name for Eden which, as you must
know, was the name of the original paradise. Another legend born of the tribulations of the early settlers when times
were hard. They consoled themselves with talk of fabulous places and a world on which no man had to work and
everything was provided by some race of beneficent creatures called, I think, angels. However, as I was saying, the
existence of many races on Ourelle does not prove that all the races in the galaxy could have at one time shared one
planet. In fact, the reverse is true, because we know they came here in various waves of colonization. Small groups
which remained apart and still do. Societies and cultures which have found a stability and a certain harmony."
 Dumarest said, "Harmony? The Melevganians?"
"Perhaps I should have said stability, but the Melevganians—" Ashlen shook his head. "They are insane and I
mean that in a literal sense. Their gene structure has been altered due to the mutation-inducing radiations of the area
in which they live. Their sense of values has little if nothing to do with what we regard as the norm. They are willful,
caring nothing for anything but their most immediate desire. Unpredictable, dangerous, and yet fascinating to any
student of the human species."
"I saw one die once," said Dumarest. "He threw himself into a fire."
"Faced with an impossible situation they will seek self-destruction," said the professor. "A maniacal hate which
turns against themselves at what they regard as a failure to master their immediate environment And they have an
infinite capacity for revenge. They reside here." His finger tapped the map. "A sunken area surrounded by high
mountains. With rafts they could escape, but they have a limited technology and, fortunately for the rest of Ourelle, a
disinclination to leave their own territorial area. They make raids at times, disgusting affairs, but mostly they are
contained by the peoples in adjoining areas."
Dumarest said, thoughtfully, "But they have contact with the outside. They trade?"
"Yes. As I said, they have a limited technology and are unable to produce much of what they use. However, they
do find gems and heavy metals in the mountains which surround them. There are rumors that they have slaves to
work the mines, but no one knows for certain. My personal opinion is that they do. Their arrogance would not allow
them to perform menial tasks."
Ashlen reached for a thick pile of graphs. "And now let me show you the result of my investigations. You will see
that, based on a cross-section of a thousand samples, there is a distinct…"
Dumarest let him ramble on, sitting back in a wooden chair, his eyes thoughtful as he stared at the emerald patch
of the window. A girl brought them cups of tisane and he drank the tangy liquid more from politeness than from any
reason of thirst. Around him the Kladour hummed with quiet efficiency, the repository of knowledge on this world,
the pride of the city. And yet it contained nothing he did not already know about the planet he sought, and he could
tell the professor nothing he would be willing to accept. His mind was closed, his eyes blinded to the possibility that
he could be wrong. He was science and science had spoken and the world on which Dumarest had been born to him
simply did not and could not exist.
A familiar reaction and another hope frustrated, but he had come for more than information about Earth.
"The woman," he said as the professor paused. "Makgar. Tell me about her."
"A woman. A good assistant. What more can I say?"
"Did she have a child? A son?"
"I believe so." Ashlen frowned. "Yes, now that I come to think of it, she did."
"How did she get her position here?"
"How do I know? These things are done by personnel. I wanted an assistant and they found me one. She seemed
to know her job."
Short answers of little value. Dumarest restrained his impatience. "Did she talk to you at all about her past? Was
she born here? Do you know her home world?"
"She claimed to be a doctor. She could have been, it was unimportant and unessential to her duties. I don't think
she was born on Ourelle. Something she said once about the light. She mentioned a place called Veido, it was in
casual conversation, and she seemed to have made a slip of the tongue. That's why I remember it."
"Try to remember something else," urged Dumarest. "Has anyone, at any time, ever asked about her?"
"No."
"Why did she leave?"
"Really!" Ashlen blew out his cheeks, his eyes hard with anger. "I entertained you because I took you for a
colleague, but you seem to be more interested in the woman than my work. She left, I think, to leave the city. I simply
didn't take that much interest." He touched a button on his desk. "And now, if you will excuse me? The usher will
show you out."
"A moment," Dumarest rose and stood, tall and somber at the edge of the desk. Looking down at the professor,
he said, "One more question—and this time think about it. Did she, at any time, mention the father of her child?"
"Think about it, man! Did she?"
Ashlen swallowed. "No, she didn't. Not once. I assumed that he was dead, if I bothered to think about it at all. But
why ask me all these things? Why don't you ask her?"
"I can't," said Dumarest harshly. "She's dead."

Chapter Six
 She had died in the afternoon when the sun was high and casting a delicate patina over her hair. She had lain in
the body of the raft, cushioned by quilts and blankets, more covering her from feet to chin. She had been restless,
febrile, with an ooze of blood seeping from between her lips. And Dumarest, haggard from days without sleep, had
been unable to save her.
It had taken too long to repair the raft and the Hegelt had been useless. Numbed by their losses, they could only
sit and mourn their dead. Even when repaired the craft was slow, drifting over the ground like a windblown feather,
demanding constant attention to keep it aloft and on course. He had been forced to land many times to work on the
engine, more to bathe her fevered cheeks and wipe the crusted blood from her mouth. She had tried to remain
conscious, refusing more sedatives, knowing she rode with death at her side.
"I'm dying, Earl. Don't argue with me, I know."
"We are all dying, Makgar."
"Then I'm ahead of my time." Her hands moved, checking her body. "The spleen is ruined, the pancreas also. The
intestines are in a mess and both stomach and lungs are perforated." She tried to smile. "I'm not in what you'd call
very good condition."
"Well make it."
"In this wreck? God knows how you ever got it going in the first place. You could almost walk as fast. And how
much longer can you go without sleep?"
"As long as I have to. And you're going to keep going as long as you have to. Until we can get you to a hospital."
"To life-support mechanisms, regrafts and regrowths, slow-time and all the rest of it. It's already too late, Earl I'd
be dead now, if it wasn't for you. Earl!"
He caught her hand and felt the pressure of her fingers as she fought the pain.
Bitterly he said, "Where did you hide your medicines? The drugs we could have used. You had to have more than
what I found."
"In the shack, Earl. The one in which the baby was born. I left my bag there, I didn't need it, and there was no
need to take it. The baby," she said. "Dear God, how can things shaped like men be so vile? The baby—and my boy.
Jondelle!"
He saw the agony on her face and tore his hand free, lifting the hypogun and blasting pain-killers into her blood.
"No!" She shook her head as he adjusted the instrument. "I don't want to sleep. I can't. The boy—"
"I'll find him, Makgar."
"You promise that? Earl, you promise?"
"I promise."
"He's so small, so young and helpless. I can't bear to think of him in the hands of those beasts. You've got to save
him, Earl."
"I will. I give you my word."
A promise to ease the hurt of a dying woman, but one he would keep. She sighed and seemed to relax, her eyes
closing.
"Earl," she murmured. "I love you. I've loved you from the first. Elray was right. I wanted you, not him. I told you
that. You should have agreed."
It would have made no difference. Leaning close, he said, "Makgar, listen to me. Who knew that Elray was going
into the city?"
"No one."
"You said he had to pick up a machine part Was the time fixed?"
"I suppose so." She looked at him, startled. "Earl! Do you think that Elray—? No. He couldn't. He wouldn't."
There was no limit to what a hungry man would do, and the hunger for money could ruin a world. A date and
time arranged, a route chosen, and who would think to blame him? And he had made no attempt to fight the
invaders. He had died close to a rifle which could have saved them all. Had the big man paid him off with unexpected
coin? A dead man could not talk.
"Earl." Her voice was fading. "Earl."
"Tell me about the boy," he said urgently. "Where should I take him? Who are his people?"
"I… love you," she whispered. "You and me and the boy… happiness… why did… Jondelle!"
"Makgar!"
But she hadn't heard. She had died in the afternoon sunlight with a thin breeze whispering a dirge and the scent
of grass like delicate flowers. He had buried her beneath a flowering tree, leaving the useless raft as a marker.
A bad memory best forgotten.
He took a deep breath as he left the Kladour. The professor had been of no help, he had no idea where Elray had
arranged to get his part, and the peace officers of the city were uninterested in anything which happened outside of
their jurisdiction. There was nothing he could do but wait for the jeweler's messenger at the House of the Gong.
It was in the Nam, a sprawling, brawling place such as he had seen on a hundred worlds. An area filled with
places of synthetic joy where men and women drank and gambled and tasted unwise delights. The voices of the
touts were a droning susurration.
"See, be seen, watch, and be watched. The erotic fantasies of a thousand worlds assembled for your participation
and watchful enjoyment No limit, one fee, stay as long as you can stand the pace!"
"Honest tables and straight dealing. Free food and wine. Ten chips to leave with no matter what."
"Let the mystic crystals of Muhtua read the things which are to come. Good fortune, good health, and safe
passage."
"Real knives! Real blood! Young buckos willing to take on all contenders! A hundred stergals if you stay
unmarked for three minutes!" The tout caught Dumarest by the arm. "You, sir. I can tell you're no stranger with a
blade. Easy money for a single bout."
With a fixed blade, lights adjusted to dazzle, a spray of numbing gas, perhaps, to slow him down. Dumarest shook
off the arm.
"No?" The tout shrugged, sneering. "Afraid of a scratch or two?" He appealed to a group of onlookers. "You there,
sir, you with that charming girl at your side. I'll bet ten stergals you have more courage. Ten coins in your hand if you
enter the ring and a hundred more if you stay unmarked for three minutes."
He was young, little more than a boy, someone from the edging farms, perhaps, after a little adult fun. The girl at
his side gave him no opportunity to refuse the baited offer.
"Go on, Garfrul. Ten stergals! We could go to the Disaphar and try one of those analogues."
"The little lady has the right idea," shouted the tout He tweaked the baited hook. 'Ten in the hand before you start.
A hundred, maybe, when you finish. Think of what you could buy… the best food in the Narn, the best wine. A place
at the highest table. Who knows, with luck you could turn it into a fortune. It's been done before."
The boy hesitated. "I don't know," he said. "I'm not much use with a knife."
"You're fast," urged his companion. Her eyes were too bright, too eager, a she-cat lusting for excitement. "You can
dodge around for a little while. Three minutes isn't long and think of what we could do with the money. A new suit, a
new dress, a chance to better yourself. Oh, Garfrul I'd be so proud of you! I'd tell all the girls—no I won't. If I did
they'd be after you and I'm jealous."
Dumarest watched, knowing what was to come. Ten stergals for a slash which would sever tendons and leave the
boy maimed for life. A double handful of coins for wounds which would leave permanent scars. An evening of
innocent pleasure ruined before it had begun.
Abruptly he said, "Don't be a fool, boy. Don't be led to the slaughter."
The tout turned, snarling. "Why don't you mind your own business? He's old enough to make up his own mind.
What's it to you what he does?"
Nothing, but he had blond hair and blue eyes and looked as Jondelle might look if he were lucky enough to stay
alive.
To the boy he said, "You want to see what they were leading you into? Then follow me." To the tout he snapped,
"I'll take your offer. A hundred stergals for three minutes, you say?"
"If you stay unmarked, yes."
"How much if I win?"
The tout blinked, his eyes wary, but the crowd was pressing close and he could visualize a full house. "Double."
"First blood, no breaks, an empty ring?"
"Sure."
"Then let's get inside."
Dumarest thrust his way into the booth, nose crinkling to familiar scents, blood and sweat and oil, the intangible
odor of anticipation and the animal-stink of blood-lust. Behind him came the boy, the girl hugging his arm, her eyes
unnaturally bright. After them came the crowd from the street, scenting violence to come, willing to pay the extra the
tout demanded for the privilege of watching men cut and slash at each other with naked steel.
They filed into the booth, whispering as Dumarest examined the ring. It was a sanded area, twelve feet square,
raised four feet above the floor. Overhead lights threw an eye-bright brilliance. He looked at them, squinting, seeing
the other, unlit lights, aimed at each corner of the combat area. The lights which could be flashed to dazzle and
bemuse a combatant who proved too dangerous.
"All set?" The tout came forward, smiling, knives in his hands, his champion at his side. He was tall, lithe, dressed
only in pants and boots, his naked torso gleaming with oil and laced with the cicatrices of old scars. His hair was
close-cropped to a rounded skull and his face, broad, flat-nosed, held the impassivity of an executioner.
 "I'm ready," said Dumarest.
"Good. You'll have to strip, but I guess you know that." He watched as Dumarest removed his tunic and handed it
to Garfrul. "You've been in a ring before?"
"I've watched a few times and we used to fight a little at a place I worked at once. Practice blades only, of
course."
There was no need to lie when a part of the truth would serve as well.
"I thought so," said the tout. "I can tell when a man knows what he's doing. Get in the ring and I'll hand you the
blade."
The naked edge was ten inches long, dull, heavy, and ill-balanced Dumarest poised it, then held out his hand. "I'll
take the other one."
"Something wrong?"
"You tell me. No?" Dumarest shrugged and threw aside the knife. "Then I'll use my own." He lifted it from his boot
and turned it so the light flashed from the blade. "It's shorter by an inch," he said calmly. "I'm giving your boy an
advantage. Now blow the whistle and let's get this over with."
The tout hesitated. "That all right with you, Krom?"
His champion shrugged, confident in his own prowess. "Sure."
Still the man hesitated, looking at Dumarest, his knife, his scars, uneasy at the fear that he had been led into a
trap. Then a man yelled from the back of the crowd.
"Come on, there! Where's the action?"
Others took it up, a roar of sound, feral, demanding. Feet began pounding the floor, a rolling drumbeat of angry
impatience. The tout sucked in his breath and stepped from the ring. His whistle killed the noise as if it had been cut
by a knife.
Krom moved.
He was clever, skilled, moving more for the crowd than anything else, his knife held a little before him, waist-high,
the point upward, the blade twisted a little so as to provide a thread of brilliance along the edge. He took a step
forward, back, moved sideways, dancing on the balls of his feet, the point lifting, falling, rising again to eye-level. His
stance was open, inviting, left hand held far from his body.
From the crowd a woman screamed, her voice brittle with hysteria. "Cut him, mister! Cut him good!"
Dumarest ignored her as he ignored everything but the man before him. Krom was good, a veteran of a thousand
combats, his body trained to move by unthinking reflex action, the master of a dozen tricks. A professional who
intended to win; but even if he had been a raw amateur, Dumarest would have been just as wary. Too many things
could happen during a fight. Little things, a foot slipping, light reflecting from a blade to give temporary blindness,
anything. And the luck which had stayed with him so long could even now be running out.
Krom attacked, blade lifted, the edge toward Dumarest's face, moving slower than it should. He caught it on his
own knife, the steel clashing, clashing again as he returned the slash, the thin, harsh ringing echoing over the crowd.
Grandstand play to give the effect of savage violence. Krom was acting from habit, aiming at the knife, not at the
man, stretching the bout so as to make it look good and to encourage others to test their skill. Dumarest could have
cut him then, but he had his own motivations. A fight soon ended looked too easy. He wanted the boy to be sure of
what was happening.
He backed, confident that there would be no real attack as yet, but alert just the same. He weaved, seeing the
back of the blade turned toward him, allowing it to come closer than it might. He cut, clumsily, deliberately missing,
Krom springing out of range with smooth efficiency, blades clashing as he blocked a second attack. Dumarest
stooped, knocked up the knife arm, and sent the point of his weapon whining an inch from the glistening chest.
The crowd roared, screaming at the expected sight of blood, quieting as they saw the unmarked torso. A bell rang
sharply.
"Minute one!"
They parted, standing at either side of the ring, crouched a little, light on the balls of their feet Krom's left arm
lifted, swept down in a sharp gesture. A signal, perhaps? Dumarest thought of the aimed lights, the other devices used
in such a place to insure victory for the champion. Krom must know that his chest could have been cut in the last
encounter, and a man of his experience would take no chances.
He came forward, knife held up and out, the blade flickering as it weaved a pattern. An amateur would have tried
to follow it, to anticipate where it would be and when it would thrust or cut. Dumarest knew better. He backed,
keeping clear, his own knife ready and waiting. He felt the ropes behind him, sprang to one side as Krom lunged
forward, sprang again as the man turned and swept up the knife. He caught it on his own, lifted, and stared into the
broad face.
Krom jerked up his knee,
 Dumarest twisted, felt it slam against his thigh, and pushed hard against the trapped knife. Krom staggered back,
off balance and temporarily helpless. Dumarest sprang after him, saw the uplifted blade, the tiny hole below the edge
in the guard. He turned in midair, landing like a cat, leaping to the side of the ring as the invisible spray lashed toward
him. Krom followed it, holding his breath, cutting upward so as to hit the wrist and slash the tendons. The knives
jarred, held, broke free as Dumarest sprang to the center of the ring.
Above the sighing inhalation of the crowd he heard the harsh clang of the bell.
"Minute two!"
A lie, of course; the tout would be stretching the time. But lie or not, one thing was certain: the playacting was
over. And more than playacting. Krom had used his spray, the puff of gas which would stun and slow, and while
Dumarest remained in the center of the ring the lights could not be used. Now it was just one against the other with
naked steel and skill, luck and speed deciding the winner.
Krom attacked, feinting, changing the direction of his cut, backing as the blades clashed to attack again.
Dumarest moved in a tight circle, turned a little so as to present his knife-side to his opponent, mentally counting
seconds. Twenty… Krom would be getting desperate. Thirty… now, if at all, he would put out his major effort. A trick
he had learned, perhaps, a baffling move which had proven worthwhile.
From the crowd a woman shrieked.
It was a scream of utter agony, rising, demanding immediate attention. It shocked the crowd. It would have
shocked any amateur fighter, causing him to turn, to expose himself for the necessary second to be cut.
Dumarest didn't turn. He knew the distraction to be what it was. Before him Krom's knife flashed, vanished,
flashed again in his other hand. It came forward like a finger of light as his right hand lifted in an empty feint.
Dumarest moved to his right, his left forearm slamming against Krom's left wrist, his own knife moving out to gently
cut a shallow gash on the naked shoulder.
"Blood!" a man yelled at the sight. "He's cut him! He's won!"
The bout was over. Dumarest should have relaxed, lowered his knife, turned, perhaps, to the crowd in smiling
victory. Turned—and taken Krom's knife in his kidneys.
He had won—but a dead man could collect no winnings and who would care about a stranger?
He saw the man turn, the knife back in his right hand, the point lifting to stab at his heart. Dumarest caught the
wrist, fingers locking like iron around the flesh and sinew, halting the blade an inch from his skin. His own knife rose,
the edge hard against the corded throat.
"Drop it!" he said and then, as Krom hesitated, "Don't be a fool, man! You've lost, but you can live to fight again!"
"Fast," muttered Krom. "Too damn fast. You could have taken me in the first ten seconds. Althen was a fool to
have picked you." The knife fell from his hand. "You're a pro. Anyone else would have killed me. Now what?"
"Nothing," said Dumarest. "I'm going to collect."
Jumping from the ring, he snatched his tunic from the boy's hands and headed to the box office. The tout was
busy. He cringed as Dumarest caught his arm.
"Now wait a minute. There's no need to get rough. I was just checking the take."
"You owe me two hundred stergals. I want it."
"Sure, but—" Althen dabbed at his sweating face. "Look—you're a reasonable man. You know how we operate.
Ten stergals, yes, but how can I pay more? I've expenses, the concession to pay for, other things. Profits are low and
getting lower all the time. Tell you what, I'll settle for fifty."
Dumarest tightened his hand.
"You cheated me. You conned me into a trap. You had Krom beaten from the whistle." He looked at Dumarest's
hard eyes, the cruel mouth. "I can pay," Althen admitted. "Just. But if you take it, you'll ruin me."
"Damn you," said Dumarest harshly. "What is that to me?"

Chapter Seven
There were baths of steam and scented water, a masseuse with hands like petals with fingers of steel as she
probed and eased the tension from skin and muscle. Her voice was a tempting whisper.
"You wish delights, master? A girl to beguile you, chemicals to maintain your interest, visual effects to increase
your enjoyment. No? An analogue, perhaps? To experience what it is to wear another form, to mate in the shape of a
beast, to hunt and kill, to feed—we have a wide variety. Still no? Then to sit and experience death in a dozen different
ways. Sensitapes recorded with full stimuli from those who have burned, have fallen, have been slowly crushed. Or
other things—No? As you please, master. You will sleep a little, then? An hour of blissful peace induced by the
microcurrents at hand. No? Then rest, master, and let your thoughts wander. The bell will summon me in case of
need."
The bell which commanded every joy invented by man—at a price.
Dumarest ignored it, lying supine, looking at the painted ceiling and the images it contained. Vague scenes
summoned from the abstract design and fashioned by the power of his mind. Armored figures limned by flame,
savage faces, another with a rim of blood around the mouth. Hair of jet, of gold, of brilliant flame. Women he had
met and loved and lost. Worlds he had seen, the stars, a monstrous shape robed in scarlet engulfing them in a web. A
boy with golden hair and vivid blue eyes.
Damn Garfrul. He had looked too much like Jondelle and he had been a fool. It had been stupid to interfere, more
than stupid to fight. And he had shown the boy nothing except what seemed to be an easy way to make money. He
would practice, think himself strong, and pay for it with vicious cuts.
His girl would see to that.
Dumarest remembered her face, the planes and contours framed by a wealth of midnight hair, the eyes which had
betrayed her selfish nature. And yet was she so wrong to reach for what she desired? Lallia had been a little like that,
strong and ruthless in her fashion, knowing what she wanted and honest enough to admit it. Lallia who had died on a
world in the Web, killed by an agent of the Cyclan.
He thought again of the scarlet shape engulfing worlds. The symbol of the organization which sought complete
domination of the galaxy. Its agents spreading to influence every sphere of importance. The cybers who were living
robots devoid of all emotion, who could only know the pleasure of mental achievement. Men who had been taken as
boys, to be trained, operated on, the thalamus divorced from the cortex, so they could never experience hate or love
or fear. Creatures in human form who could take a handful of data and extrapolate from it in lines of logical sequence
and so predict the outcome of any course of action.
The Cyclan which hunted him and would always hunt him as long as he held the secret of the affinity twin given
to him by Kalin. Kalin of the flame-red hair. Red robes, red gems, red the color of blood which had stained his path
for as long as he could remember.
But there were no cybers on Ourelle. The culture was too splintered, too divided, without strong government or
rulers of influence. Ourelle, a backward world, almost ignored, an easy place in which to get lost.
Was that why Makgar had chosen it?
Dumarest turned again, restless, unable to wholly relax. The ceiling held too many images, inspired too many
trains of thought… Jondelle and what might be happening to him… what could happen unless he was found. Why
was he so concerned with the boy?
A promise given to dying woman. His word. It was enough.
To the air he said, "What is the time?"
"Three hours before midnight," a soft voice responded. "The night is dry but there is cloud."
Time to be moving. Outside the baths he paused and looked at the blaze of light which hung like a nimbus over
the Narn. More light shone from where the field lay beyond the city, floodlights which showed every inch of ground
with the perimeter fence. As he watched there was a crack of displaced air from high above and a ship, wreathed in
the blue halo of its Erhaft drive, settled to the ground below.
A ship, small, probably engrossed in local trade, but a vessel he could take, the cash in his pocket buying him a
High passage to where there would be other ships making longer journeys. But no ship he knew could take him where
he wanted to go.
A woman said, "You look lonely, friend. That ship remind you of home? Why don't you come to my place and tell
me all about it."
"Thank you, no."
"Not in the mood?" She shrugged. "Well, that's the way it goes."
She moved on and he walked to the House of the Gong.
It was large, bright, hung with a thousand lanterns in every shade and combination of color. Suspended gongs
throbbed softly to the impact of an artificial wind and a larger gong, pierced, formed the entrance which was reached
by a flight of low, broad steps. At their foot a cowled figure held a bowl of chipped plastic. Before him a plump man
with his gemmed woman roared with sudden mirth.
"Charity? I don't believe in it. A man should stand on his own two feet and not depend on alms. Give me one
good reason why I should put anything into your bowl."
The monk was of the Universal Church, drab in his homespun robe, feet bare in crude sandals. Within the cowl
his face was lined, pinched by age and deprivation, but his eyes were young and bright with infinite compassion.
Quietly he said, "You are about to tempt good fortune, brother. May luck attend you. But think of those who have
no luck and who lack for bread. It is summer now but winter will be with us soon. A bad time, brother, for those who
have no money or friends."
 "Not good enough." The plump man shook his head. "I'm still not convinced."
"You are a gambler, brother, and as such believe in symbols and omens. Who knows what brings good fortune?
Your first stake thrown to the ground? Your first win tossed to the servants? A wise man would surely make a small
sacrifice before he begins to play."
The woman said, "He could be right, Enex. Helga threw a beggar a coin once and won a thousand stergals."
A good psychologist, thought Dumarest as the plump man reached into his pocket. But the monks are past
masters of the art. Throwing a coin into the bowl, he mounted the stairs.
Inside it was warm with gusts of scented air driving coils of colored smoke past lanterns hanging from the
decorated ceilings. The place was as he expected, tables for cards, dice, spinning wheels. The games too were
familiar: high-low-man-in-between, poker, spectrum, sevens, starburn, brenzo. A transparent, tube-like container held
a mass of writhing spores, the voice of the houseman a steady drone.
"The battle commences. Bet now on your choice of red, blue, or green. The photometer will tell which color is
ascendant at the expiration of sixty seconds. Bet now. No more bets. Play commences."
He pressed a lever. Nutrients flooded into the container, the spores eating, breeding, fighting, and dying.
"Yellow wins!" The container spun, emptied, grew bright with fresh spores. "The battle commences. Make your
bets. The photometer…"
Dumarest passed on. A girl, dressed from throat to ankle in a clinging gown of embroidered silk, offered him a
tray of food and drink. Hollow pastries and strong wine. Fuddled men made careless gamblers.
He waved her aside and headed for the restaurant. Akon Batik would be in no hurry to send his messenger. It
would be good business to keep him waiting, gambling, perhaps, losing some of the money he had received for the
chorismite. There would be time and to spare for a meal and Dumarest had early learned to eat while food was
available. A traveler never could be sure when he would be able to eat again.
He ordered meat, light vegetables, cheese, and a weak wine. The meat was good and he ate it slowly. The cheese
held a strange pungency and was speckled with seeds which dissolved to a tart liquid. The wine was dry, scented with
roses, pink with streaks of red. He was emptying the bottle when a man slipped into the chair opposite.
"Dumarest? Earl Dumarest?"
Dumarest nodded.
"Akin Tambolt. You're expecting me."
"I am?"
"Sure. The jeweler sent me."
"Name him."
Tambolt laughed with a flash of strong, white teeth. "You're cautious; well, I can't blame you. In Sargone most
things can happen and usually do. All right, let's use names. Akon Batik, good enough?"
He was young with a hard maturity about the eyes and mouth. A broad, thickset figure which would later run to
fat unless he were careful. He was dressed in thick, serviceable clothing, pants and high boots, a shirt of ebon
scratched to reveal flashes of the wire mesh beneath. A traveler's garb, or that worn by a man used to rough living.
His hands were broad, strong, the nails blunt. One cheek bore a thin scar. His hair was thick, low over ears and neck,
brown flecked with auburn. He wore a heavy signet ring on the little finger of each hand. Wide metal bands set with
sharp stones. Serviceable weapons for a man who knew how to use them.
A bravo, thought Dumarest. An opportunist. A man who lived on the fringe and would do anything for gain.
Tambolt said, "There was talk of money. Twenty stergals."
"Ten."
"Ten it is, but you can't blame me for trying. Give."
"For what? Because you ask?"
"Do you want to learn what I know or not?"
"I'll find out," said Dumarest. "One way or another, I'll find out. You want to bet on it?"
For a moment their eyes locked, then Tambolt shrugged. "One day, perhaps," he said flatly. "But not now. How
about some wine?"
Dumarest ordered a bottle and watched as the other poured himself a glass. "To your health, Earl. Have you
eaten?"
"Yes."
"A pity, I'm starving." He called to the waitress and ordered. "You've no objection?"
"None," said Dumarest.
"That's generous of you, Earl. I like a generous man."
"I'm not generous," said Dumarest. "Just impatient What have you to tell me?"
"Nothing. That is nothing which seems to be of use. The jeweler passed the word and asked in the right places.
No one seems to have hired bravos to steal the boy. The lads you took care of in the city must have come from
outside. That or no one admits to ever having seen them before. The others, those that hit you at the farm, not the
Melevganians, the same."
The food came and he ate with a barely masked hunger.
"Of course the sources could be lying, but I don't think so. Akon is in well with everyone who matters and
Sargone isn't all that large. People listen, they learn, and they talk if they can gain by it. Whoever wanted the boy
must have played it close. They could have used their own men, in which case you're up a dead end."
"Perhaps not," said Dumarest. "The husband, Elray, could have told someone where and when he would be. The
attack in the city doesn't make sense otherwise. No one would have known when to hit."
"The husband?" Tambolt swallowed the last of his meal. "You think he agreed to have his boy stolen?"
"Jondelle wasn't his child. He was dependent on his wife and maybe he wanted to make a break. If the
opportunity was there, he could have taken it."
"Money for the child, some pretended grief, and then a quiet disappearance." Tambolt nodded. "It could have
been done that way, but who would be willing to pay in order to get the boy? Usually it's the other way around. Steal
the child and demand ransom."
"Yes."
"Which makes you think and gives rise to some interesting speculation. The boy must have a high value for
someone. Perhaps whoever stole him knows the market and what the goods will bring. But you've thought of that, of
course."
"Yes," said Dumarest again.
"Which maybe accounts for your interest? I'd wondered. You aren't related to the boy, so what's it to you if he
gets stolen? But if you knew where the market was—"
"If I did I wouldn't be wasting time here," said Dumarest curtly.
"Maybe. Or maybe you know where it is and want to have the goods to hand." Tambolt sucked at his teeth. "Say,
that meat was good. Mind if I have some more?"
"Eat as much as you like—you're paying for it."
"What?"
"From the money you hope to get from me. The ten stergals promised. It's down to seven now."
"Damn you!" Tambolt's hand clenched into a fist, light splintering on the sharp point of the gem in his ring. "You
can't do that to me!"
"No?" Dumarest smiled without amusement. "Did you think I was so easy to con? Grow up, man. So far you
haven't told me anything of value. You're a messenger, all right, so maybe it isn't your fault. But don't expect me to be
grateful." Deliberately he reached for the bottle of wine and helped himself. "Your health. From the way you ate that
meat things haven't been too good lately."
"You can say that again." Tambolt took a deep breath and unclenched his hand. "So I made a mistake," he
admitted. "I tried to get more than was due and fell flat on my face. Well, it's a lesson."
He refilled his glass and sat back nursing the wine, looking older than he had, more haggard. A man who had
dressed to a part, who had tried to live up to it and who now tasted the bitter fruit of failure.
"Akon gave me the job," he said. "I didn't know who or what you were—well, that doesn't matter now. How keen
are you to find the boy?"
"Produce him and I'll give you the cost of a High passage."
"Traveler's talk. The way you assess values. Riding Low, High, Middle when you can get a berth on a vessel. You
traveled much?"
"Yes."
"I've done a little. Not much, a couple of worlds, just enough to know that luck rides against me. I saw a man who
had taken one chance too many on my last trip. When they opened the casket he was dead. Young too, younger than
me. Ourelle seemed to hold promise, so I stayed. Now I haven't the price of a decent meal." He sipped at his wine.
"Would you think that I've got a degree in geology?"
Dumarest was curt. "Does it matter?"
"What do you think? No, not really. Only I know rocks and formations and I've done a little prospecting. I've
studied Ourelle, too, had a job in the Kladour for a while. They fired me because—well, never mind. Just say that we
didn't see eye to eye on expenses. Field trips can come high. And I found a few things I didn't turn in." Tambolt
looked at his rings. "Nice stones aren't they? Fakes, of course, but they'd pass a casual inspection. Only the Kladour
don't make casual inspections. I tried to build up the stakes at the table and lost the lot. One day I'll learn. When I'm
dead maybe. When it's too late."
He emptied his glass and refilled it, gulping half of it in a single swallow as if making a defiant gesture to some
private devil. Greed, perhaps, or inadequacy, or an intellectual blindness which made him underestimate all he met.
Or, thought Dumarest grimly, he could be lying, presenting a facade he hoped would appeal.
Bluntly he said, "The boy?"
"You want to find him. Maybe I can help you."
"How?"
"You know, Earl. You must have thought of it. I guess you think of most things. Melevganians attacked the farm,
but they weren't alone. The strangers took the boy. Where? We don't know. Who were they? We don't know that
either. But maybe the Melevganians do. So reach them and make them talk. Right?"
He poured more wine as Dumarest made no answer.
"I'm beginning to understand why the jeweler picked me to carry his message. He's old and shrewd and can see
the obvious. You want to go to Melevgan, there are gems there, things of value, and he knows we'd take him what we
found. Fat profits and no risk. No wonder he's rich."
Dumarest said, flatly, "I'm after the boy, not a handful of stones."
"You could get both—or get neither. You think it easy? Going to Melevgan isn't like taking a stroll in the park. I've
been there and I know. One wrong move and you'll wind up dead. You need me, Earl. Partners?"
Dumarest leaned back, sipping at his wine. From beyond the dining area came the susurration of gamblers at
their play, the rattle of dice, the inhalations, cries of joy, and expressions of disgust. Devotees of the goddess of
chance. Trying their luck as all men had to try it in order to stay alive. Yet not always were the odds so great. Most
could pick their gambles, others could not Jondelle for one.
He said, "What would we need?"
"A raft. Trade goods. Weapons and men. It won't come cheap."
"A thousand?"
"Not enough." Tambolt was emphatic. "A raft comes high—no one will rent one out so you'll have to buy. Trade
goods will take half of it, weapons more, and then you'll have to find some men. They'll want high pay."
Dumarest thought of the farm and what he had left there. There and on the way to the city. He said, "We don't
need a raft, only an engine. We can hire one with a driver to take us out to the farm. What do they need in the way of
trade goods?"
"The Melevganians? Manufactured items; missiles for their lances, some electronic circuitry, drills, machine tools,
stuff like that. The money will cover it, the engine too, but what about the men?"
Dumarest finished his wine. "I'll get the men."

Chapter Eight
It was going to rain. Brother Elas could tell from the ache in his bones, the sure sign of inclement weather, and
soon would come the winter, the snows from the north and the bitter, freezing winds. On Ourelle seasons were short
and all too soon the sultry days of summer would be over, the sun hidden by cloud, the ground hard, and misery
rampant. A bad time for monks as well as penitents. A bleak time for those who had nowhere to turn for aid but the
church.
The thought of it made him shiver; imagination, of course, for the night was warm and the rain would do no more
than bring wetness. But funds, as always, were low and he knew too well what was to come. Well, it was a thing that
could not be helped and would have to be accepted along with the rest. With his duties, for one, and they were
something which could not be shirked.
He walked slowly from the hut to where the church stood on a patch of waste ground. Small as such churches
always were, a prefabricated structure built up with flimsy sheeting, the body containing his seat, the benediction
light, the place for the suppliant. Brother Karl came to meet him, his young face showing signs of fatigue. Bowing, he
said, "We are busy tonight, Brother."
"That is bad?"
"No, but—"
"You are tired."
"True, but even so—"
"You are tired," repeated the elder monk firmly. "A dull brain sees things not always as they are. You must eat and
rest a little, and, Brother, remember what you are and why you are here."
A rebuke but a mild one, yet necessary just the same. The sin of impatience was close to that of pride and no
monk of the Universal Church must ever forget for a moment that he was a servant and not a master. That his duty
was to help and never to demand. To learn that frustration was a part of life and his task seemingly endless.
 Not an easy thing to accept, less so when the body was young and the soul restless. And yet Brother Karl would
learn as they all had learned that the universe could not be altered in a day. That it was enough to take one penitent
and give ease and comfort and to instill the creed which was the reason for their being. The one concept which alone
could bring true happiness.
"There, but for the grace of God, go I."
Once all men accepted it, lived by it, the millennium would be at hand.
Brother Karl bowed, humiliated. "My apologies, Brother. I have still to learn."
"You have learned, but at times you forget to remember. Now go and eat a little and rest for a while. A fatigued
body makes a bad servant and you have worked hard."
Too hard, he thought, as the young man moved away. Trying to do everything at once and yielding to irritation at
the apparent slowness of progress. It was nothing new. All monks felt the same when they left the great seminary on
the planet Hope, eager to take what they had learned and convert it into living fact. But he would learn as they all had
learned that patience was the greatest weapon they possessed. Patience and dedication and, above all an infinite
compassion.
He took his place in the church, bones creaking as he dropped into the still-warm seat. How long had it been
since he had listened to his first suppliant? Forty years… it must be at least that, probably more. Almost a half
century since he had gone to his first station to work with other, older monks, absorbing what they could teach,
treading the path they had shown. He could have been the resident head now of an established church somewhere
on a hospitable world, but always he had chosen to move on, to work at the beginnings, to go where he considered he
was needed most.
Hard worlds. A hard life, but he would have chosen no other.
He blinked, conscious that his mind was wandering, and straightened, touching the bell to summon the first of
the waiting suppliants. The man was thin, his skin febrile, his eyes unnaturally bright. He knelt before the benediction
light, the waves of color laving his face with kaleidoscope brilliance. His voice was a hurried murmur.
"…and I took what wasn't mine. I stole a cloak and a pair of boots and sold them and kept the money. I was
going to buy food but there was this place and I thought I could make it more so I gambled it and lost it and when I
got back the baby had died. The money would have saved it, maybe. But I tried, Brother. I know I did wrong but I
tried and now…"
Tormented by guilt he had turned to the only surcease he knew.
"Look into the light," said Brother Elas. "Let the light of forgiveness cleanse away your sin and bring ease to your
heart. Look into the light."
The wash of color which induced a rapid hypnotic trance. The men would suffer subjective penance and rise to
take the bread of forgiveness.
Others came, a stream of them with their petty crimes, most inventing their sins in order to receive the wafer of
concentrates which helped them stay alive. Brother Elas did not mind; it was a small price to pay for the prohibition
against killing instilled by the light. Smaller to embrace them in the body of Humanity, the great Brotherhood of Man
where each should be the other's keeper and no man need live alone.
It was a long session, but finally it ended, no one answering the summons of the bell. Stiffly the old monk rose
and left the church. It had begun to rain, a thin drizzle which made the ground slippery beneath his sandals, and
increased the ache in his bones. Brother Karl, his face smoother now, his eyes less harassed, met him as he neared his
hut.
"You have a visitor, Brother. I asked him to wait."
"Has he been here long?"
"Less than an hour. I would have called you, but he insisted that I should not. Shall I attend you?"
"No. Close the church; there will be no more penitents tonight. But if you could prepare me a little food…?"
Dumarest rose as the monk entered the hut. He had been studying a fabrication of seeds and scraps of shining
mineral, the whole worked into the likeness of a young man, robed, the cowl thrown back over his shoulders.
Introducing himself, he said, "You, Brother?"
"Yes." Elas touched it, his thin hand gentle on the ornate workmanship. "A memento from Kalgarsh. You know the
world?"
"No."
"A hard place of poor soil and scanty crops. I was there very many years ago now. The women are deft and I
tried to introduce a new art-form, souvenirs which they could sell to the tourists who came to watch the storms. The
ground is arid, the winds strong and, at certain times of the year, vast clouds of colored dust hang like images in the
sky. They gave me this when I left."
"A thoughtful tribute," said Dumarest politely.
 "A small thing, but I value it. Vain, perhaps, but it is not always wise to forget the past and, at my age, memories
hold undue tenderness. And now, brother, you have business with me?"
"I need your help."
"Mine, brother?"
"Yours and that of the Church." Dumarest told him of the boy and what had happened. "The mystery is why he
should have been stolen at all. He belonged, as far as I know, to no rich House. Certainly his mother had little wealth.
As a slave he would be of little worth and no slaver would have gone to so much trouble. He has been taken
somewhere. I want to know where. If I knew why he was taken in the first place, it could help me to find him."
"I see." The old monk sat, brooding. "And your own interest?"
"A promise to his dying mother." Dumarest guessed what the other was thinking. "I can't keep the boy with me. If
he has relatives, he must go to where he belongs. But I don't intend that those who stole him should keep him. They
have too much to answer for. Perhaps, with luck, I shall make them pay for what they have done."
"With death," said Elas bitterly. "With maiming and violence and physical hurt. You are a hard man, Dumarest.
Perhaps too hard. But how can I help you?"
"You and the Universal Church," corrected Dumarest. "You have monks on almost every world and I know the
influence you have on those in high places. Friends who would be willing to help, if only to answer a question or two.
And there could be others looking for the boy. You could ask, find out if such a boy is missing from his family, find his
relatives, perhaps. Anything."
"And how could this be done?"
"You know, Brother. We both know."
By means of the hyper-radio incorporated into every benediction light, a network of communication which
spread across the galaxy. To Hope itself where records were kept and the answer could, perhaps, be found.
"A boy," said Dumarest. "Young, lost, in peril of his life, perhaps. Someone who needs your help and the help you
can give. I know that you cannot refuse."
Brother Elas sighed. The man was right, of course; he could not refuse, but there was so little to go on. A boy,
young, blond, blue-eyed—the description would fit so many.
"Is there nothing else you can tell me? Was he born here on Ourelle?"
"I don't think so. His mother could have brought him from Veido—I don't know the planet."
"No solidiograph or list of physical peculiarities?" The monk spread his hands. "You can appreciate the difficulties.
The more information I have, the better I will be able to help."
"I understand," said Dumarest. "And I think I can get you what you need. But I did not come here simply to ask. I
have an offer as well. Make no mistake about what I am next going to say. I know that you cannot be bribed and need
no payment for what I ask you to do. In fact, I'm going to ask even more."
"Yes?"
"The boy's mother owned a farm. She is dead now, her husband too. The title goes to the boy, but he is young and
may never be found. I ask you to hold it in trust for him until it can be claimed. There is damage, but the house is
intact and the crops ready for harvesting. There is water and plentiful timber. No one will argue if you choose to take
it over and work it."
Elas said quietly, "You swear that what you have told me is the truth?"
"I am known on Hope. The High Monk Jerome will vouch for me."
"He is dead. Didn't you know?"
"The records, then."
The records which never died; the prospect was enticing. Elas sat back, thinking about it. A farm to provide food,
warmth, and comfort against the bleakness to come. Shelter against the iron grip of winter. Brother Karl could handle
it and find a vent for his energies in doing so. A place in which men could work and gain strength and recover their
self-respect. A haven for the families who had no hope.
Dumarest rose. "You will need to think about it. I hope to leave within a few hours. A hired raft will take me to the
farm. If you will send a monk, he can see the place and make his report. Also, I may be able to give more details
about the boy. The raft, of course, will carry the monk back to you."
"Brother Karl will accompany you. And now?"
"Now," said Dumarest flatly, "I have to find some men."
They were where he expected them to be, crouched under scraps of plastic sheeting and hammered fragments of
metal, discarded planks and strips of various materials. Poor protection against the rain, but all they had. The
stranded, the travelers who lacked the price of a Low passage, those who had for some reason or other found
themselves at the bottom of the heap. The desperate.
A man sat under an awning stirring a pot which stood over a smoldering fire. He looked up as Dumarest passed,
his eyes suspicious, wary. Behind him a woman coughed and drew a moldy blanket tighter around her shoulders. Two
others threw dice with blank interest, killing time with nothing to stake. A group huddled close for mutual comfort. A
man pursed his lips as he mended a ragged tear in a boot. Another honed the blade of a knife.
Lowtowns were all the same.
Dumarest walked through it, catching the stench, the scent of dirt and bad health, of poor food and corrosive
despair. And everywhere was the unmistakable stink of poverty.
He halted, lifting his voice.
"I want some men. An engineer able to repair a raft. Others with strong backs and shoulders. Who's interested?"
The man honing the knife rose and slipped the blade into a sheath at his waist,
"For what?"
"A journey. It's hard and rough and so I want men to match. You'll get food, clothing, and maybe the price of a
passage when the job is done."
"High or Low?"
"Maybe High."
The man frowned. "Maybe?"
"That's what I said." Dumarest met his eyes, turned to look at the others who had clustered around. The man with
the torn boot pressed close.
"I'm an engineer. You want a raft fixed, I can do it."
"You sure about that?"
"I'm sure." The man's eyes shifted a little. "You just give me the chance and I'll show you what I can do. You don't
have to believe me, ask the monks, they'll tell you what I can do."
"You've been under the light?"
"Why, sure, how else could—"
"Forget it," snapped Dumarest. "Anyone else?"
A squat man thrust himself forward. He wore drab clothing, patched boots, and a mended shirt, but his cheeks
were full and his shoulders square. He said, "I'm called Jasken. You want a good engineer, I'm your man. I can build a
raft from scrap and if you want mining gear fixed, I can do that too. And I'm religious."
A man called, "What difference does it make?"
"He wants men who can fight and kill if they have to." Jasken didn't take his eyes off Dumarest. "All right, I'm
willing to do anything to get a stake. What's your proposition?"
"I told you. Food, clothing, money if we find it, nothing if we don't."
"A journey. To where?" He whistled as Dumarest told him. "Hell, I've heard of that place. Mister, you don't know
what you're asking!"
"Did I say it would be easy?" Dumarest shrugged. "I'm no monk and I'm not offering charity. I'm giving you a
chance to get out of this stink and try your luck on some other world. You're an engineer, you say?"
"A good one."
"You'd better be. If you're lying, you'll regret it."
Jasken drew in his breath. "I don't lie, mister. I don't have to."
"Then why aren't you working? No rafts to be repaired on Ourelle? No mines with equipment to be kept
operating? Tell me."
"They've got guilds. You belong to one or you don't work. Outside Sargone, maybe, but how do I get there? I
landed three months ago after riding Low. I've worked maybe three weeks. Cut-rate jobs, but I was glad to get them.
Then the guilds moved in and passed the word—employ me and ask for trouble. No one wants trouble." Jasken bared
his teeth. "I've managed to stay alive, but it hasn't been easy, and I'd go to hell and back for a High passage."
"That's what I'm asking."
"Then that's what you'll get." Jasken looked at Dumarest, his eyes searching. "You're a traveler, I can tell. Haven't
you ever been stranded? Don't you know what it's like?"
"I know," said Dumarest shortly.
"Yes, I guess you do. How many men do you need? I know them," he added as Dumarest made no answer. "I
know who uses the Church and who doesn't. The strong from the weak, those with the guts to take a chance and
those who just want to sit and wait for a miracle. You'll let me pick them?"
His friends, those he could trust to back him if it came to trouble? Desperate men wouldn't be squeamish if
offered a chance to make some easy money. It was a chance he was reluctant to take and yet Dumarest knew there
was little choice. No matter whom he picked, they would have a common cause.
He said, "Pick about eight. I'll sort them out. Have them stand over by the church." As Jasken moved off, he
returned to where the man sat before his pot of stew and stared down at him. "You. What's your name?"
 "Preleret. Why?"
"Get on your feet!"
For a moment the man hesitated, than slowly rose, his eyes glinting.
"Listen, mister—I may not be much, but I don't get pushed around. Not by you. Not by anyone."
"Is that your woman?"
The man glanced to where she sat, shivering despite the warmth of the night.
"I'm looking after her."
"She's dying," said Dumarest bluntly. "In a week all you'll be able to do for her is to put her in the ground. I offered
you a job, why didn't you take it?"
Deliberately the man spat. "I've been conned before, mister. Work hard, keep loyal, and collect the pot at the end
of the rainbow. To hell with it. On Frendis I worked for six weeks gathering the harvest and found I owed more at the
end of it than I'd earned. On Carsburg three months on a construction gang with the promise of a fat bonus,
overtime, and double pay on holidays. There was no bonus, no overtime ,and no damn holidays. You know what I got
out of it? A new pair of boots. To hell with promises!"
"And her?" Dumarest jerked his head at the woman. "To hell with her too?"
"Damn you! Don't you think I know how bad she is? What are you trying to do?"
Dumarest dug coins from his pocket, let them clink in his palm. "This will save her," he said quietly. "Money to
buy her the drugs and attention she needs. A place in the infirmary, food to build her up, put flesh on her bones. Are
you too proud to take it?"
"Mister, where she's concerned I'd eat dirt. No, I've got no pride."
"I want you to come with me," said Dumarest. "All I can offer you is a chance—but what have you got now?
Nothing. She'll die and you'll follow." He handed over the money. "I'm not bribing you; the money's yours whether you
come or not. But think about it. If you want to come, I'll be back here at noon."
"I—" The man swallowed, staring at the money. "Mister, I—"
"Noon." said Dumarest. "At the church."
He walked away to where Jasken waited with the men he had selected. Preleret would be at the rendezvous,
despite what he'd said, he had pride and would be grateful. The touch of the money would work its magic, what it
could do and what more could bring. Health, escape and, perhaps, happiness. He would be there and would provide a
little insurance against the rest. The others to be picked from those Jasken had chosen.

Chapter Nine
The farm looked as he remembered, the house with closed windows looking like blind eyes, the door still closed
by the planks he had nailed across the panel. Before it lay the ash from the fires, spread now, evened out by the wind
so as to give the appearance of dingy snow. The invaders lay where they had fallen, bizarre armor dusted with gray,
blown ash heaped in little drifts to blend them with the ground.
Dumarest studied the area. A mound of dirt showed where the Hegelt had buried their dead, a smaller one beside
it where he had buried Elray. All was covered with ash. There were no footprints. The small, dark people had
mourned their dead and then departed, driven away by fear of ghosts or later vengeance. They had been leaving
when he had nursed the raft toward the city.
Brother Karl said, "An ugly scene, brother. It does not belong in such a gentle place."
"No."
"Shall we land?"
"A moment." Dumarest called to Tambolt where he rode with the others in the repaired raft. "Make a swing about
the area. A large one, out to those trees on the ridge. I want to make sure no one is lurking about."
"You expect trouble?" The driver of the hired raft pulled uneasily at the collar of his shirt. "Now look, mister. I was
hired to carry you out and then lift the monk back to the city. Nobody said anything about heading into a war."
Dumarest said, "Land close to the house. A few feet before the front door."
"Shall I start to unload?"
"Yes." Dumarest glanced at the bales in the body of the vehicle, the trade goods Tambolt had purchased. "But be
careful. Drop one and we could all go sky-high."
"Explosives? But—"
"Just be careful."
The planks yielded with a squeal. Dumarest threw them aside and walked into the familiar area. It was dim, light
streaming past him through the open door throwing vague shadows in the passage and foot of the stairs. They
vanished as he opened more doors, filling the house with an emerald luminescence.
"A fine house," said the monk. His eyes were bright, eager. Already he was mentally allocating quarters and
evaluating what needed to be done. That room for the administration, that for the benediction light, another to
dispense medicines. Trees could be cut to provide timber for shacks. Clay could be dug, molded, and fired for
drainage pipes and an extension of the water supply. Baths could hug the river, the silos repaired, the sheds, the
workshops. Stone and mud to provide extensions to the house. The materials were at hand and they would not be
short of labor. "A fine dwelling," he said again. "A haven for those in need during the winter."
"To be held in trust," Dumarest reminded. "For the boy."
"Of course, that is understood." Brother Karl looked at the ugly stains on the floor of the room in which they
stood. "The owner died here?"
"The owner's husband. She died on the way to the city. You saw her grave."
"Of course, I should have remembered. Well, where shall we begin?"
The room was a study, the desk filled with scraps of paper, old bills, records, lists of plantings and stores.
Dumarest looked at a folded document, the title to the farm, and learned from it nothing he did not already know. He
handed it to the monk and stood, frowning.
"The boy was close to her," he said. "Upstairs, perhaps, in her room?"
It held memories he did his best to ignore. Hours spent in bandaging, cooling fevered skin, of replacing covers
thrown aside. A wardrobe held an assortment of clothing, serviceable gowns, mostly, thick coats with hoods, strong
boots for use in mud. A shimmer of color revealed a low-cut, narrow-waisted dress of diaphanous material. A party
dress or one worn by a woman attending a high function. The fabric of the neck and waist was frayed as if
adornments had been torn from their foundation.
Gems, perhaps? The jewels which had provided the money to buy the farm?
Dumarest delved into a small chest and found a litter of cosmetics, paint, brushes, vials of perfume.
"The boy's room, perhaps?" suggested the monk.
It was small, snug under the eaves, warm and bright with gay color. Animals of a dozen varieties traced in
glowing pigments on the walls, soft covers on the rumpled bed, a shelf which held an assortment of toys, things
carved from wood, made of stuffed fabrics, combinations of stones and seeds.
His clothes looked very small.
Dumarest checked everything, his jaw hard, muscles prominent along the line of bone. Jondelle had been asleep,
lost, maybe, in childish dreams when the attack had come. He would have woken, frightened, perhaps calling for help.
And then the brutal shape of the armored man, grotesque, terrifying, bursting through the door. An arm to clamp him
hard against the unyielding chest, a gloved hand rammed over his mouth. And then the sting of the drug which had
made him lax, unconscious, easy to handle.
He felt a hand touch his arm. The monk was anxious.
"Is anything wrong? You look—"
"Nothing." Dumarest drew a deep breath into his lungs. "Nothing is wrong."
"Your face—" Brother Karl shook his head. "Your expression. I have seen such before, brother… on the face of a
man intent on murder." He paused, then added, "There is nothing here. The dispensary, perhaps?"
It was white, clean, a table which could serve as an emergency operating theater, a sterilizing unit to one side,
ultraviolet lamps to cleanse the air of harmful bacteria. A cabinet holding drugs, disarranged from Dumarest's earlier
searching. Records of treatments given.
He found his own and tore it into tiny fragments as the monk examined the rest.
"Nothing." The monk looked baffled. "And yet she must have treated him, examined him at least. Small children
are subject to minor injuries and, as a doctor, she would have been interested in the progress of her child. And why
no solidiographs? There isn't a likeness of the boy in the house."
"She was a woman," said Dumarest thoughtfully. "A doctor too, but first a woman."
He went back upstairs and found the chest with its litter of cosmetics. He tilted it, strewing its contents on the
floor, fingers stiff as he probed the bottom. With sudden impatience he lifted his clenched hand and slammed it down
hard against the base. Wood cracked, splintered as he tore it free. The monk edged close as he lifted what lay beneath
the false bottom.
Medical records. A solidiograph of a smiling baby, another, taken later, of a blond-haired, blue-eyed child
standing before a clump of trees.
The monk said, "The boy?"
"Yes. Jondelle. The medical records will give you his physical characteristics." Dumarest studied the remaining
item. A card of flexible plastic bearing a photograph, a name, a series of fingerprints, a list of coded symbols. A
means of identification carried by anyone who worked in a high-security area—or a record of one which should have
remained in a file.
He looked at the face, younger than he remembered, but no less determined.
The woman?" The monk was curious. The boy's mother?"
Dumarest nodded, reading the name. "Kamar Ragnack. She made an anagram of the first three letters of each of
the names. I don't know why, but it's obvious she was trying to hide." He handed the papers and card to the monk,
retaining the solidiographs, turning them so as to look at the boy from every angle. "You can copy these," he said.
"They should help."
The monk took them, tucked them into his robe. "And now?"
"You go back to the city and we'll be getting on with what has to be done."
The hired raft was empty, the driver impatient to be gone. Dumarest watched as the craft lifted, the monk raising
an arm in farewell as it carried him away. Tambolt had landed close to stacked bales. He said, "I scanned the area.
Nothing."
"No signs of fires, ashes, torn dirt?"
"Nothing, Earl. I flew low and checked everything. No one's been here and certainly no one is watching." He
looked at the ashes of the fires, the armored dead. "It looks as if you had quite a time here. Did you learn anything
about the boy?"
"No."
"You wouldn't tell me if you had—but we're partners, remember?"
Dumarest looked past him to where the others sat in the body of the raft Jasken, Preleret, four others. One, older
than the rest, said, "You promised food and clothing, Earl. I'm not complaining, but it's been a long drag. When do we
eat?"
His name was Sekness, a quiet man who had remained neat and clean despite his privations. He carried a short
club and had lost the little finger of his right hand.
"As soon as you prepare some food." Dumarest jerked his head toward the house. "Get into the kitchen. There's
food in the store and meat in the freezer." To one of the others he said, "Help him. Jasken, how's the raft?"
"Not too good." The squat man scowled and rubbed his hand along the edge of his jaw. "The engine's no
problem, but the conducting strips aren't what they should be. We're low on lift I'd guess that we're operating at about
sixty percent efficiency. We can carry the men or the load, but not both."
"That's fine," snapped Tambolt. "We're beaten before we start. A hell of an engineer you turned out to be!"
"I fitted the engine," said Jasken stolidly. "Find me new conducting strips and I'll have it as good as new, but even
then you'd be in trouble. The raft isn't big enough for what you want. Those bales are heavy and we're talking about
eight men. Add it all up and you've got too big a load."
"We'll manage," said Dumarest.
"How?" Tambolt was savage. "I told you the money wasn't enough. Damn it, man, have you any idea of what lies
ahead? Rough ground most of the way, chasms, mountains, patches of forest. And don't think it's like what we've
already covered. Past the Relad the terrain alters. I warned you it wouldn't be easy."
"If it was, I wouldn't need you," said Dumarest evenly. "Or a raft, the goods, the men. I'd have gone alone. Now
stop complaining and get the bales loaded. Preleret, come with me."
In the house he jerked open a wardrobe and gestured to the clothes inside. Elray's clothes.
"Help yourself. Take what you need and share the rest among the others. Can you use a rifle?"
"If I have to, yes."
"Carry this." Dumarest handed him one of the two weapons the house contained. "There's cartridges in the
drawer; make sure they are all loaded on the raft. Touch nothing and make sure that no one takes what isn't theirs.
You understand?"
Preleret nodded.
"How's your woman?"
"Fine. The medics said that I got her to the infirmary just in time. She's going to be all right. They even said they
might find her a job, nothing much, just doing the dirty work, but it'll provide food and shelter until I get back."
"You'll get back."
"I intend to." The man hesitated. "Earl, I'm not good at saying things. You know? But—"
"Get your clothes," said Dumarest. "And keep that gun handy. I might need you to use it sometime. You follow
me?"
"Sure, Earl." Preleret drew a deep breath. "You don't want thanks and I'm not good at giving them. But I'll pay you
back in some way. Don't worry—you can rely on me."
Dumarest nodded and left the house. Outside Tambolt was supervising the loading, Jasken adjusting the bales so
as to trim the raft. He glanced up as Dumarest passed, seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. The
sprawled shape of an armored figure rested to one side; Dumarest passed it, halted where small craters pocked the
ground, ash filling their bottoms and rounding the jagged rims. He stooped and picked up the lance he had used. A
missile had struck the shaft and he looked at the ripped metal, the savage blade with its crusted point. His eyes lifted
to where Makgar had lain, rose again to stare in the direction the raft had taken.
It meant nothing. They could have turned, circled, taken any direction once out of sight. The air held no traces
and, even if it had, the wind would have blown them away. As it had blown the ash, the scars of the battle.
From behind Tambolt said, "Dreaming, Earl?"
"Thinking."
"About the raft? It won't carry the load and us too. We could drop some of the stuff and leave some of the men
behind. Or we could take it all and leave them all."
"I don't like either solution. We need the goods and we're going to need the men."
"And food," said Dumarest.
"More weight, but you're right. Men have to eat. Damn it, Earl. What can we do?"
"Use ropes. Twenty-foot lengths tied to the raft and hanging over the edge. Tie loops at the ends and we'll settle
them under our arms. The raft will lift and we'll follow it. With the lift and the forward movement, we should be able
to cover ten or twenty feet at a bound. Simple."
"Simple," agreed Tambolt. "On flat, soft ground and with a steady hand at the controls. But what about when the
ground gets rough and there are cross winds? The men won't like it."
"They'll like it," said Dumarest grimly. "Or they can lump it. But one thing is certain; they aren't going to quit.
Once we start, we keep going until the end."
"Until we reach Melevgan."
"Until we find the boy," Dumarest corrected. He looked at the broken lance in his hand and flung it so that it stuck
in the dirt. "Until we find those who took him. Now let's go and eat."

Chapter Ten
The first day they covered a hundred miles, running behind and under the raft, loops tight under their armpits,
slack in their hands, a hopping, bounding journey which left everyone but Dumarest and Jasken exhausted. At night
they camped, eating the first big meal of the day, high-protein food, low in bulk but high in energy.
Tambolt stared at the lance Dumarest held out to him.
"What's this for?"
"We're standing guard." The lance was one of four salvaged from the farm, reloaded from the goods they carried.
"You, me, and Jasken. We'll overlap the shifts, two on and one off."
"I can't. I'm beat."
"You can," said Dumarest grimly. "And you will."
"The others—"
"Haven't the strength." Dumarest thrust the lance into Tambolt's hands. "All you have to do it to keep your eyes
open. You see anything, you yell. If it comes at you, give it the point. If we're attacked, fire the missiles. There's
nothing to it."
At dawn one of the men complained of his ankle. It was swollen, tender to the touch. Dumarest ripped up a shirt
and bound it tightly, then fashioned splints with a crossbar to take the strain. Wincing, the man rose, testing it.
"I can't do it. I'll have to ride."
"You'll travel like the rest. Nurse the ankle and use the other foot—and this time be more damn careful."
The man was stubborn. "I ride or I quit. Leave me some food and one of the lances and I'll make my own way
back."
"You don't ride and you don't quit," said Dumarest. "You're coming, if we have to drag you. Now get in that rope
and remember what I told you. Hurt the other ankle and I'll leave you behind to rot. Now move!"
They made less progress that day, more the day after. The ground became rough, great boulders and swaths of
jagged stone slowing them down almost to a crawl. A patch of forest had to be circumnavigated and hills climbed. By
the time they reached the mountains the men were fit, hard and as agile as cats. But they had reached the end of the
line.
"We're low on food," reported Sekness. "Enough for a couple of big meals or a half dozen small ones." He looked
at the mountains soaring before them. "There could be game up there, but I doubt it. There'd be nothing for it to live
on."
"There's no game." Tambolt was emphatic. "But Melevgan lies over the other side. If this damn raft was as it
should be, we could get there in a day."
Jasken said, "There's nothing wrong with the raft. I'm getting tired of you whining about it."
"You're riding all the time," snapped Tambolt. "Try swinging on one of those damn ropes for a change and see
how you like it."
The engineer shrugged. "Each to their own skill, mister. You think it easy handling this thing, then you try it. I've
got to guard against crosswinds, updrafts, dips, and crests. To go fast when I can and to slow as I drop. If I misjudge,
you'd fall, get dragged, and maybe break a few bones."
Dumarest said, "Sekness, prepare a meal, a big one. Tambolt, Preleret, get the others and unload the raft."
"Here?" Tambolt frowned. "What's the point, Earl? We've got to get the stuff over the mountains, not leave it
here."
"I'm going to scout the ground," said Dumarest patiently. "We might need all the lift we can get. Now let's not
waste any more time arguing about it I want to get it done before dark."
Unloaded, the raft lifted easily beneath Jasken's hands. He sent it upward and toward the soaring barrier with
Dumarest at his side studying the ground below. A defile wound, climbing and relatively smooth. It ended in a blind
canyon beyond which lay a mass of jagged stone slashed with deep crevasses. Higher lay sheer falls, ledges which led
nowhere, overhanging cliffs, and slopes of loose debris. The stone, harsh, blue-tinted in the emerald light,
Jasken said, "No one could climb up that. Nor down either. I'll try farther along."
It was the same. To either side the mountains presented an impassable barrier to men on foot. Jasken swore as
the raft jerked beneath them, falling to rise again with a scrape of metal against stone.
"Thermals," he said. "We're too close. There are up-drafts and pockets, side winds too. You seen enough, Earl?"
"Go back to the camp and try again. Head straight for the summit."
There was a place a third of the way up, a pocket in the side of the mountain, edged by stone and invisible from
below. The interior was fairly smooth, dotted with minor boulders but with enough room to land. Higher there was
another and the summit was bare. Jasken grunted as the raft veered to the impact of wind.
"You want me to go over?"
"No, turn back. If anyone's down there, I don't want them to see us."
"Not sure of the reception?"
"That's right. Have you marked those areas we found or do you want to take another look?"
"I know where they are. You thinking of shifting the load a piece at a time?"
Dumarest nodded; it was the only way.
"We won't be able to carry much at a time. A third of the load with a single man. Four trips each time." Jasken
sent the raft flying clear of the mountain as he headed back to the camp. "Why don't you head straight for the top and
be done with it?"
Dumarest said dryly, "Have you met the Melevganians?"
"No."
"But you've heard about them?"
"Sure, but—"
"Would you like to be sitting on top of that mountain with goods of price and the nearest help way down at the
bottom?"
"No," said Jasken thoughtfully. "I guess not. The time element's important. I hadn't thought of that. Is that why
you didn't want to be spotted? But how could they climb the other side of the mountain?"
"I don't know. Maybe they couldn't, but Tambolt said they mine it. And, maybe, they could have a raft. When we
meet, I want all the advantage I can get." Dumarest stared down and ahead. The sun was setting, thick shadows
hiding the lower regions, the campfire a speck of brightness against the night. Too bright, an attraction for unwanted
eyes. If the food was cooked, it would have to be extinguished. To Jasken he said, "No guard for you tonight. Eat and
get all the sleep you can. Tomorrow, check the raft. As soon as the sun has warmed the air, we'll begin."
"That'll be close to noon," said Jasken. "I can't work in the dark and it'll take time for the sun to warm those rocks.
Uneven temperature means uneasy air and we'll have to get in close. I'd say about two hours to noon. With luck we
can get all the men and goods up to the top by late afternoon."
Dumarest went with the first load, riding with a third of the bundles, frowning as the raft jerked and responded
sluggishly to the controls. Twice Jasken attempted to land, veering away at the last moment as rising air made the
craft unstable. The third time he set it down with a gasp of relief. He looked at his hands, trembling from overstrain,
then wiped the sweat from his face and neck.
"That was tough," he said. "It'll get easier from now on. Maybe I should lighten the load a little, make five trips
instead of four."
"Try it," said Dumarest. "Bring a man with you on the next trip, another on the third. Then the rest of the goods
and finally the rest of the men." He added, "Make sure the man is armed."
A caution born of long experience with strange places. The mountains looked barren, but the Melevganians were
close and it would be stupid to take appearances for granted. Dumarest checked the area, the rifle he carried held in
readiness, but found nothing alarming in the small pocket in which he and the bales stood: some openings like tiny
caves about the size of a fist, a straggle of thorned vegetation, and a patch of spined scrub. He climbed the outer wall
and stared down at the bleak expanse below. If the raft should crash, he would be trapped. It would be barely
possible to fashion a rope and to cut footholds, blast them, even with the missiles in the bales, but he had no food and
only a little water. One slip and he would fall to lie with broken legs or punctured lungs. A damaged ankle, even,
would mean his death.
He turned and stared up at the soaring expanse of the mountain. One of the chain, Tambolt had said, which
ringed Melevgan. There could be a pass, somewhere, but there was no time to find it. Only a raft could surmount it
and traders did not leave their rafts. If there were any inside, they would not be used for raids.
He sat on one of the bales, thinking, taking small sips of water to combat the moisture-sucking heat. The pocket
was like an oven reflecting the rays of the rising sun, accentuating the heat with every passing moment. At midday it
would be like a furnace.
Jasken returned with a second load, smaller, more easily handled. This time he landed at the first approach,
snapping at the man he carried.
"Get this stuff off, fast. Move!"
The man was the one who had injured his ankle. He carried a lance which he let fall as he grappled with a bale.
Dumarest took another, Jasken a third. Within minutes the raft was empty and rising for another journey. As it fell,
Altrane yelled, "The next time bring some food. Water too. Understand?"
Dumarest said, "Get these bales stacked in a neat pile. And pick up that lance."
"Why?" Altrane was sullen. "There's plenty of room here; what's the use of double-handling?"
"Do it. Jasken needs all the room he can get. And don't forget what we're carrying. If he should drop, slam against
one of these bales, you won't have a thing to worry about. You'll be dead."
He was exaggerating, but the threat brought action. Altrane placed the last of the bales and stood, sweating, his
tongue moistening his lower lip.
"Have you got any water? I'm parched." He took the container Dumarest offered and drank greedily, water falling
past his chin to splash on the ground. "Thanks."
"Now the lance."
"You think I'll need this thing?" He picked it up and rested it against the bales so that the point stood upward,
wicked in the light. "What's going to attack us up here? The vegetation? The rocks? You know, Earl, at times I think
you're a little too cautious for your own good. A little too careful. There's a name for it."
Dumarest said, flatly, "Tell me."
Altrane scowled, remembering the way he had been treated when he had hurt his ankle. It had healed, true, but it
could have grown worse and no thanks to Dumarest that it hadn't. Tambolt would have been more understanding. He
could get along with Tambolt. They would have been in and out by now, taking half the goods and men, a quick trade
and a big profit And he wouldn't have used his position to push a man around.
"Tell me," said Dumarest again. "What do they call a man who's too careful?"
"Nothing." It was easy to think of what he'd say and do if the chance arose, but, now that it had come, he wasn't
too eager. To change the subject Altrane said, "How much do you think we'll make?"
"I told you what you'll get, a High passage, if we find enough, less if we don't."
"Yes, but suppose we make a lot more than a High passage all around? Tambolt was saying that there are fortunes
in these mountains. Jewels to be had for the taking. We could really hit the jackpot. What then, Earl?"
"Nothing. We made a deal."
"You mean that no matter how much we find, all you're going to give us is the cost of a High passage? Hell, man,
you call that fair? Tambolt was saying—"
"Tambolt talks too much," snapped Dumarest curtly. "And so do you. What's the point of arguing about
something we haven't even found yet? Now keep quiet Sound travels in mountains like these."
"So what? So who's to hear us?" Altrane was livid. "Listen. Let's get this straight Are we going to share equally or
not? I—"
"Shut up!"
"What? Now you see—"
"Shut your damned mouth!"
Dumarest tensed, listening. From somewhere above and to one side came a scrape, the bounce of a falling stone.
More followed the first, a little rush of loosened debris, the rocks clattering as they jounced over the slope. He
climbed the wall and looked over the edge in the direction from which the sound had come. He saw nothing aside
from the blue-tinged rock, the scabrous green of the straggling vegetation. A fragment yielding beneath the impact of
temperature change, perhaps? A root, slowly growing, slowly pushing until eroded stone showered in a tiny
avalanche?"
He looked higher up the mountain, the sun-glare catching his eyes and filling them with water. He blinked, caught
the hint of movement, and heard Altrane's incredulous shout.
"Dear God! What is it?"
An armored thing, ten feet long, plated, clawed, a tail raised to show a sting. Thin legs scrabbled as it raced
forward, blue-tinted to match the rocks among which it lurked, the legs hooked with barbs, sending stones rolling
down the mountain. A mutated, scorpion-like creature which scented water and food.
Dumarest sprang back as it reared above the edge of the pocket, falling as his foot turned, rolling to rise as the
thing lunged toward him. He sprang high, a claw snapping beneath his boot, landed on a rounded back to spring
again as the tail stabbed where he had stood. It brushed his side and he felt the bruising impact through his tunic. The
plastic tore and a green venom stained the mesh beneath.
"The lance, man!" he shouted. "Use the lance!" Altrane crouched behind the bales, shaking, paralyzed with fear.
He screamed as the thing touched the obstruction and rose above it, the scream rising to a shriek as a claw snapped
and tore flesh from his arm. He ran, hitting Dumarest in his wild flight, trailing blood as he raced to the wall at the
edge of the pocket. The thing turned, the lance falling, the shaft bending beneath the grip of a claw. Dumarest
dodged, jumped to one side, and ran to where the bales lay scattered. The rifle lay beneath them. If he tried to get it
he would be dead before he could drag it free. He sprang to the top of the bales, leaped over the plated back and ran
to the opposite side of the pocket to where Altrane stood, whimpering, clutching at his wounded arm.
The thing froze. It stood, almost indistinguishable from the stone, stalked eyes questing, tail raised to strike. It
could scent prey and was temporarily undecided in which direction to go. Dumarest tensed, watching. If the thing
moved away from the bales, he could get the rifle or the lance. The lance, he decided. It was in the open and closer to
hand. The shaft was bent and the missile launcher useless, but the blade and point were still serviceable. With it, he
could slash at the legs, the eyes, crippling and blinding the creature and gaining time to recover the rifle and the death
it could give.
He said, "Move, Altrane. Run along the edge of the wall."
"No! I can't! It'll get me!"
"Not if you go fast enough. Make a feint, then dive the other way. I've got to get hold of that lance. Barehanded
we haven't a chance."
"I can't, Earl! I can't!"
Dumarest stopped, snatched out his knife, threw it in one smooth gesture. It spun, reached the armored back just
behind the eyes, and fell to ring against the stone. The plating was too hard to penetrate, as Dumarest had known it
would be, but the impact stirred the creature. It spun, claws and tail uplifted, racing forward as Dumarest flung
himself behind the bales. He heard the impact, the rip of tearing fabric, and felt a numbing impact against his boot.
The sting had caught the heel. He jerked it away before it could strike again, rolling around the end of the scattered
bales to snatch up the lance. The blade made an arc of brightness as it whined through the air, the sound of an ax
hitting wood as it struck the joint of a segmented claw.
A yellow ichor welled about the blade, gushing as Dumarest tore it free to spatter on the ground. A fetid odor rose
from where it lay.
"The rifle," snapped Dumarest. "Get it. Use it. Move!"
There was no time to see if Altrane obeyed. The thing had lunged forward again, legs rasping on the ground,
moving at incredible speed. Dumarest backed, the lance held before him stabbing at the eyes, ducking under a
sweeping claw to slash at the legs, to spring over the back as the tail slammed toward him, moving by unthinking
reflex action, only his speed enabling him to survive.
It was a contest which couldn't last. Already he was tiring, the heart pounding in his chest, sweat dewing face and
hands. A slip and the thing would have him, the massive claws crushing his body, driving splintered ribs into his lungs
or pulping his intestines. A moment of inattention and the tail would descend like a mace on skull or shoulder,
snapping the bone in arm or leg, the sting tearing at naked flesh or penetrating his clothing, And it was too well
armored to be seriously hurt by the lance. To agile to be crippled to the point where it would be helpless.
He risked a glance to where Altrane stood, numbed by his terror, useless to help.
The eyes, he thought. It had to be the eyes. Blinded, the creature might freeze long enough for him to reach the
rifle.
He lifted the lance, the shaft bent now at the point where it had been crushed. Gripping the butt, he swung it in a
circle, light catching the smeared blade, air whining as he backed. There was no time for careful aim. As the thing
darted toward him, he threw the lance, spinning, toward the stalked eyes. Almost he missed. The blade struck one of
the thick protrusions, the shaft the other, but too low for what he had intended. Hurt, the creature halted, backed a
little, claws questing.
Dumarest moved.
He felt the rasp of chiton on his back as he raced, stooped, beneath a claw. The thing had been stunned a little,
slow to respond, but he heard the scrape of hooked feet on the ground as it turned, the wind from the stabbing tail.
Then the bales were before him and he dived over the nearest, hitting the ground, rolling to throw his weight against
the one on the rifle. He rose, the muzzle spurting flame as the creature reared above him.
He saw the bullets hit, blasting the eyes, the head, the open jaw. Yellow ichor gushed from the holed carapace,
sickening with its odor, and a claw fell, slamming against his side, throwing him hard against the bales.
He fired again, aiming by instinct, seeing the joint of the great pincher shatter beneath the impact of the missiles.
Other thunder joined his own. Preleret, standing on the raft, white-faced, the rifle he carried tight against his shoulder.
"Earl!" he called. "Earl!"
The creature turned, gusting air in a thin, high parody of a scream. Dying, it threshed about the pocket of stone,
bales flying, air thrumming to the lash of its sting. Dumarest heard a shriek, the blast of Preleret's rifle and then, after
what seemed a long time, silence.
Stiffly he rose. His side felt numb and blood ran from his nose, the corner of his mouth. He looked at the
twitching shape, the raft, the figure of Altrane lying limp to one side. His chest was torn, his skin puffed and swollen
from the poison of the sting which had taken his life.
"God!" Jasken drew in a shuddering breath. "Look at the size of that thing! Are you all right, Earl?"
He was bruised, his shoulder and ribs aching, but nothing was broken and he would survive. As Altrane would
have survived, if he'd had the courage to act Dumarest looked at the dead man, then at the dead creature.
"Get ropes on it," he ordered. "Lift and drag it clear. Dump it lower down the mountain, but leave it where it can
be seen."
Preleret was shrewd. "As a warning?"
"As bait for any others that might be lurking around. I want no more surprises. If they come looking for easy
meat, they'll find it in one of their own kind. We can watch, shoot if we have to, hold our fire if we don't."
Jasken said, "And the man? What about him?"
"The same."
"Well, now," said Jasken slowly. "Altrane wasn't much good, I'll admit. I guessed wrong with him. A troublemaker
and greedy to boot. But to dump him, just like that? As food for things like the one that attacked you? Somehow it
doesn't seem right."
"You want to take him back and show him to the others?" Dumarest shrugged as the man made no answer. "He's
dead. He doesn't care what happens to him now. But if the others see him, they'll get scared. Split the load. Bring up
two more on your next trip. They can see him when they get here and not before. Now move! I want to get to the
summit before dark!"

Chapter Eleven
They spent the night on a windswept plateau, the men nervous, staying awake and ready to shout the alarm at
every sound. The bales and raft made a protective ring over which they stared into the star-shot night, seeing a
danger in every shadow. At dawn they dropped into the valley, half the men at the first load, the goods, Dumarest
staying until the last. The sun was bright as they left the foothills and began to cross cultivated ground. Fields of
crops, orchards, bushes bearing a variety of fruit. Men and women worked the fields, small and dark, looking up as
they passed, then returning to their duties.
"The Hegelt," said Tambolt. "Some of them must have been here when the Melevganians came and others have
probably been brought in. They breed fast and make docile workers."
Dumarest looked ahead. They were pulling the raft now, the engine providing barely enough energy to lift the
vehicle a few feet above the ground. It was slow progress, but safe and he wanted to give the impression that the craft
was damaged. A precaution against theft or confiscation. A workable raft to the Melevganians would be a temptation
they might choose not to ignore. A damaged one would be of little value.
"There!" Tambolt, at his side, lifted an arm, pointing. "You can see the city."
It was low, long, a rambling collection of buildings constructed in a dozen varieties of style. Grim blocks
shouldered fabrications of sweeping curves and fluted roofs, tiered pagodas and convoluted spirals of no apparent
purpose. Most had broad, external stairs, wide balconies and walks supported by stalked columns. The windows were
paneled in fretted iron-work, panes of many shapes and colors, wide sheets of reflecting crystal, rounded bull's-eyes,
curves and abstract shapes which followed no apparent symmetry. From peaked, flat, and rounded roofs fluttered
pennons and gaudy ribbons, figures of weird beasts and inflated constructions striped and mottled in a variety of
hues.
An amusement park, thought Dumarest. A collection of individual designs interspersed with fountains which
threw a rain of sparkling water into the air, of flower beds and patches of sward and mobiles which turned and
chimed with soft tintinnabulations. A child's playground—or a city built by those with childlike whims.
A raft rose as they approached and swept toward them, settling a few yards ahead. It held men dressed in
hatefully familiar armor, armed with lances which they kept leveled as the little party came to a halt. Another man,
not armored, stepped from the raft and waited.
The reception committee. Tambolt dropped his rope and caught Dumarest by the arm as he stepped forward to
where the man stood.
"Let me handle this, Earl. Don't forget they're crazy. A word and they'll be at your throat. The same word, spoken
in a different tone at a different time, and they will give you everything they own. Logic doesn't work here. Not your
sort of logic, at any rate."
Dumarest made no answer, looking instead at the unarmored Melevganian. He was tall, thin, his face painted in
tiny flecks of color. His hair was dark, clubbed at the rear with a gemmed band. He wore soft shoes and pants, a wide
belt above which showed the jeweled hilt of a knife, a short jacket, open in the front to reveal a painted chest. His lips
were full, sensuous, his teeth cruelly pointed.
He said, "This is the land of the Melevganians. You are strangers."
"Traders," said Tambolt smoothly. "Men who have come to bring you things of interest. To offer our services and
to bask in the sun of Melevgan."
"Which will never fade."
"Which will never fade," repeated Tambolt. "Have we your permission to remain?"
"And if it is refused?"
"We shall leave."
Dumarest saw the painted face convulse, the lips tighten, and one of the thin hands lift toward the knife.
He said quickly, "My lord, if we have offended, we crave your forgiveness. The sun of the elect is bright in our
eyes and dulls our mind. Of course we cannot leave without your august permission. In all things we are your
servants."
"You are gracious." The man relaxed, his hand falling from his waist, his thin, strident voice softening a little. "You
please me. You carry goods, you say?"
"A few things of little worth—yet you may find them amusing."
"That could be so."
"If it is your wish to see them, the bales will be unpacked at your command."
"Later. The Guardians of Melevgan do not concern themselves with such things. But, later, if it is my whim, I
shall inspect them."
"As you wish, my lord."
"You speak well," mused the man. "And you please me, as I have said. The elect are generous to those who do
them service. Go now, to the house bearing the image of a hanging man. Food will be provided."
"My lord." Dumarest bowed. "May I have the honor of knowing to whom I speak?"
"Tars Boras. Commander of the Guardians and a noble of Melevgan. We shall meet again."
Tambolt released his breath as the man returned to his raft and was lifted away.
"You took a chance there, Earl. Asking his name like that. He could have turned against us."
"He didn't."
"But he could have. I told you to leave everything to me. I know how to handle them."
"Maybe." Jasken had overheard. "But it looked to me as if he were about to blow his top before Earl took over."
He scowled after the vanishing shape of the raft. "The arrogant swine! I've met characters like him before. They think
they own the galaxy because they've got wealth and power and consider everyone else to be less than dirt. Well,
maybe we can teach him a lesson."
"No," said Dumarest.
"How come, Earl?"
"I don't want you thinking that way. We want something from these people. If we have to eat dirt to get it, then
that's just what we'll do. Now let's find the house of the hanging man."
It was deep in the city, a squat cone with a staircase spiraling outside to a pointed summit on which stood a
gallows and the figure of a suspended man. A wide door admitted the raft and internal stairs led upward to a
semicircular chamber bright with rainbows from a dozen windows glazed with tinted crystal. Other chambers opened
from the first containing baths and soft couches, a room with a table containing smoking meats. Hegelt women
served them, silent on naked feet, shapeless beneath robes of nondescript gray.
Tambolt said, "For these who don't know better, let me give a warning. Don't touch the women or interfere with
them in any way. They keep to themselves and the Melevganians won't have anything to do with them. Men don't
mate with animals and to them that's just what the Hegelt are. If you touch them, you'll demean yourselves and the
rest of us with you. I want to get out of here alive and rich, but at least alive. You understand?"
Preleret said, "I'm not interested in these girls. I've got a woman back in Sargone. All I'm interested in is money."
"And there's plenty of it around," said one of the others. "Did you see those jewels that character was wearing?
How much do you think the stuff we brought is worth, Tambolt? Can we screw up the price, maybe?"
Greed, thought Dumarest, but it was an emotion to be used. Had been used. He pushed aside his plate and left
the table. In the large, semicircular room he stepped to one of the windows and tried to look outside. The tinted
panes distorted his view, imperfections in the crystal blurring clear vision either by accident or design. Were all
traders arriving in Melevgan put in this house to wait the pleasure of the elect? Was it a means to keep them from
learning too much?
To one of the Hegelt women he said, "Are we permitted to leave?"
"Master?"
"Can we go outside?"
"There are Guardians below, master. It would not be wise to attempt to pass them."
Prisoners, then, or guests who had to remain where put. Dumarest tested one of the windows, remembering the
spiral staircase outside. The guards would be inside the building watching both raft and door. Or perhaps they stood
outside the wide panels. If he could reach the external stair and drop from it, he could leave unseen.
The window seemed jammed. He moved to another, the girl padding behind him.
"Master, why do you wish to leave and go outside?"
To learn. To ask about the things he wanted to know. To discover, somehow, if the boy was in the city. Perhaps
Tars Boras would tell him, but he doubted it. The man had been too ready to reach for his knife, too quick to take
offense. Questions about Jondelle would only serve to drive him into a rage. A rage all the more intense if he'd had
anything to do with the raid.
A third window resisted his pressure. The woman said, "Upstairs, master. If you want to see outside. There is a
window which opens."
It was in a small room musty with the scent of neglect. A rumpled heap of clothing stood in a corner, plastic
ripped and torn, in one place stained with something which could have been blood. Dumarest thought of the shape
of the man hanging above. A real man, perhaps? One killed in a sudden rage and left to hang? Coated, maybe, with a
preserving agent to provide a macabre decoration?
The window opened with a creak, a gust of cool air blowing away the odors of the room. A narrow ledge opened
on an empty space. Dumarest leaned over and saw the upper limit of the spiral staircase below. It was seven feet
from the window, a narrow band three feet wide winding around the outside of the building. Like a helter-skelter, he
thought. If it had been smooth, he could have ridden down it on a mat.
Overhead the gallows creaked a little beneath the impact of the wind. He stared up toward it, seeing the hanging
shape, the distorted grimace on the face beneath its transparent plastic film. The face was unpainted, the teeth
unfiled, the skin a golden copper, the hair streaked with blond. A stranger who had said the wrong thing at the wrong
time and who had paid the price.
The gallows creaked again as Dumarest eased his body through the window, to hang a second before falling to
drop on the stairs.
They were greased and had no rail.
He felt his boots slip and flung out his arms as he fell. His hands hit the slimed surface, slipped as his body rolled
over the edge, caught as they hit the patch wiped clean by his legs. The wind gusted between his body and the
building, forcing him outward from the wall. He glanced down. The next turn of the spiral was twelve feet below and
to his rear, carried outward by the expanding base of the building. He could fall and hit it, but if it were greased, his
body would be thrown to one side as his boots hit the uneven surface. A second spiral lay below the first, yet more
beyond that. If he fell, he would bounce from one to the other to the ground a hundred feet below.
He felt his hands begin to slip, the grease on his fingers making it impossible to hold his weight against the wind.
Gritting his teeth, he clamped his fingers on the stone, pulling, the muscles in arms, back, and shoulders cracking
beneath the strain. The edge drew close to his eyes, his chin. He thrust his head forward and felt stone beneath his
jaw. A surge and he had his elbow on the edge of a step. Another, a knee. He paused, gasping, spreading his weight
over the treacherous surface. Slowly he eased his body back onto the stairs, rolling tight against the wall. He slipped a
little and halted the movement with the heel of a boot Cautiously he rose and, as if stepping on eggs, moved slowly
down the stair.
He jumped while ten feet above the ground, landing in a flower bed, rising to brush dirt from his clothing before
venturing into the city.
It reminded him of Sargone, the streets all in curves and random windings. But where the city of Sargone had
been built by thieves for protection, this had been constructed by random directives and distorted imagination. The
curves were interspersed by zigzagging lanes of varying width, streets which looped in circles for no apparent reason,
roads which ended against the blank walls of buildings. And everywhere the Hegelt with brooms to sweep and
dusters to polish, crouching back as arrogant Melevganians strode past, in pairs, singly, riding on litters, or dreaming
as they glided on tiny rafts suitable only to lift and carry a man at little more than a walking pace a foot above the
ground.
The clothes they wore matched the biddings in the variety of their style and color. Some had painted faces and
hair laced with gemmed ribbons; others wore drab smocks and tangled manes, their faces pale, introspective. Some
grinned at secret amusement; others scowled with inner rage. A kaleidoscope of dress and expression, but all had the
height, the fish-pallor whiteness, the hauteur which stamped them for what they were.
Dumarest felt a touch and turned to see a man standing before him. He was smeared with red and black, a rag
about his loins, an elaborate headdress of feathers, gems, and trailing ribbons on his shaven skull. His hands groped
before him, but he was not blind.
"There is something before me," he keened. "A solidification of the air, for my theories cannot be mistaken.
Nothing can exist unless I give it permission to have being. Therefore what I touch must be an illusion, I will summon
my mental powers and dissolve it, send it back to the chaos from whence it came. The purity of my mind must not be
contaminated by unreal phenomena. Begone!"
Dumarest stepped aside and the man walked past, mouth wreathed in triumph.
"Thus I have yet more proof of the ascendancy of my mind. The universe exists because of my wish. Darkness
and chaos comes with the closing of my eyes. All things are made by the concentration of my thoughts. Truly, I am a
veritable god!"
A madman, but others were not so deluded. Dumarest felt the impact of eyes and saw a pair of Melevganians
looking toward him. They were young, painted of face, aspiring Guardians, perhaps, or those similar to the ones who
had raided the farm. Warrior-types enamored of the lure of combat. Dangerous.
To run would be to betray himself. Instead he strode forward to meet them, making his voice thin, keening.
"You will direct me toward the House of Control. Immediately!"
He had white skin, dark hair, the arrogant manner of a man born to command. He had the height and had
adopted the hauteur. His clothing was what any of them might have chosen to wear. And he had attacked in the
meaning of their culture.
"Quickly!" His hand dropped toward his knife, lifted, weighted with glistening steel. "Direct me!"
One of the men drew in his breath. "There is no such place as that you seek."
"There is. There must be. I say that it exists and so it must. Quickly, now. Direct me or pay for your disrespect!"
He lifted the knife and slashed suddenly at the nearer of the two men. The point caught fabric, ripped, showed naked
flesh beneath. "You!" The point lanced at the other man. "You smile! I saw you smile!"
"No! You are mistaken! I—"
The man sprang back as Dumarest sent the blade of his knife whistling through the air. The cut was deliberately
short, but he couldn't know that. Couldn't know either that the grating voice was a facade.
"You dare to defy me? You offer a challenge? So be it. To the death, then. To the death!"
They ran, madmen giving respect to madness, or perhaps they were saner than he had given them credit for
being. They had seen his eyes, the determination they held. Men who killed and burned and treated violence to
others as a game could deserve no mercy. Had they stood, he would have marked them. Had they fought, they would
have died.
A voice said, "That was pretty cool, mister. Do you hope to get away with it?"
Dumarest spun, the knife falling as he saw who had spoken. She reclined in a litter supported by four male Hegelt,
kilted in scarlet with a broad sash of the same color running from left shoulder to hip. Their feet were sandaled and
they stood, staring ahead as if utterly indifferent to what was going on around them.
The woman said, "Put away that knife, Earl. You won't be needing it."
"You know me?"
"I know about you," she corrected. "I know that you shouldn't have left the house and I know that those two
freaks you scared won't remain that way for long. They'll be back spoiling for trouble. You could probably take care of
them, but they'll have friends. If you don't want to wind up gutted and hanging from a pole, you'd better get in here."
 The litter was roofed with tapestry supported on thin columns at each corner, curtains drawn back and held by
scarlet cords. It dipped a little as Dumarest spread his length on the cushions, rising with a soft hum as the anti-grav
generator compensated for the extra weight. The Hegelt didn't have to carry the burden, only pull it and steady its
progress.
"Home," ordered the woman and, as they began to trot forward, released the scarlet cords and allowed the
curtains to fall. Leaning back she said, "Earl Dumarest. A nice name. I like it. Welcome to Melevgan, Earl—but what
the hell took you so long?"

Chapter Twelve
She was long and slim with a ripe maturity which had fleshed her bones so that the sweep of thigh and calf
matched the swell of hips and breasts. She wore a wide belt of crimson leather studded with gems, pantaloons of
some diaphanous material, softly yellow, caught at the ankles and slit so as to reveal the flesh beneath. Her torso was
bare aside from a short jacket, open at the front and cut high above the waist Beneath it her breasts, high, proud,
showed their soft rotundity. Her skin was a golden copper traced with curvilinear lines of vivid blue. Her eyes were
painted, crusted with sparkling fragments on the upper lids, the brows thin and arched like a drawn bow. The hair,
loose around her shoulders, was copper touched with blonde, dusted with sparkle to match her eyes.
Dumarest watched as she smiled, the full lips parting to show broad, white teeth. He thought of the hanging man
he had seen. Was she a member of the same race? She was certainly not a Melevganian.
He said, cautiously, "You were expecting me?"
"You or someone like you. Didn't—" She broke off, her eyes cautious. "My name is Neema. Doesn't it mean
anything to you?"
"No."
"Then—" She broke off again, shrugging, her breasts lifting beneath the jacket. "A coincidence; well, they happen.
Let's just say that I was expecting someone. I thought you were him. Apparently you're not. So what brought you to
Melevgan?"
"You know that," he said. "If you know my name, you must know why I'm here."
"To trade—or so your partner told me. I've been to the house. When you couldn't be found, I came looking for
you. It's lucky that I did. How long did you think you could last wandering around the city on your own?"
They were lying very close, side by side in the soft crimson light within the litter, his head a little above her own
so that as she looked up at him he could see the sharp triangulation of her jaw. Her smile reminded him of a cat. Her
perfume of a field of flowers on a sultry summer's day.
"You're a strong man, Earl, and in any other city you'd have no trouble getting by. But this isn't a normal city. The
Melevganians are insane; didn't you know that? They don't like strangers. You may have got away with it with the pair
you faced down, but there would be others, and one of them could have recognized you for what you are. A hunt
would have started with you as the quarry. Have you ever been chased by a mob? It isn't pleasant I've seen it happen
and I never want to see it again. The noise—like slavering dogs. The end—they like to hear a man scream."
And then they'd take him, thought Dumarest grimly, and hang him on a building for use as an ornament. Yet the
woman was a stranger. He said so and she shrugged.
"I'm tolerated. Accepted even. I came here five years ago and was lucky enough to be able to treat one of the
nobles. He'd gone into psychic shock and was running amok. It was either kill him or calm him down. I had some
drugs and managed to get close enough to blast them into his hide. When he recovered he gave me a house, servants,
the freedom of the city. I've been tolerated ever since." She drew in her breath. "The man I was with wasn't so lucky."
"Are you a doctor?"
"I've trained in psychiatry. I knew what things were like here and made preparations. Two years in a mental ward
learning how to handle the insane, studying at night, saving every penny in order to get the equipment—" She broke
off and then said, flatly, "We should have stayed in Urmile."
"Your home?"
"Yes. A small, restricted town with established families and a stagnant culture. I'd moved around… Frome,
Icinold, Sargone… and I guess I got restless. With money you can travel the galaxy; without it you spend your life in a
trap. So I went back home and worked to hit the jackpot. Melevgan is rich. If you can survive here, you've got it
made."
Greed, the most potent force in the universe, the drive which made men risk their very lives. Dumarest looked at
the woman, seeing the thin lines which traced a path beneath the paint on her face, the shadows which ran from nose
to mouth. She had seemed young but mature; now he knew that she was older than he had first guessed.
 He said, "And do you like it here?"
"Living among a load of nuts? What do you think?" Her laughter was brittle, devoid of humor. "Can you even
begin to imagine what it's like? I'm tolerated, sure, but at any moment one of these painted freaks might decide to
find out what I look like inside. Every moment of every day I live balanced on the edge of a volcano. I have to pander
to them, guide them, eat dirt, and talk smooth. If it wasn't for some of the more stable members of the nobility, I
wouldn't be able to do it. They're crazy by our standards, but sane when compared to the rest. And I have my
defenses."
She lifted her left hand and Dumarest saw the heavy bracelet, the thin tube extending from a web of filigree
which extended over the back of her hand.
"A dart gun. I wear a pair of them. If any of the Melevganians gets too way out I put him to sleep. One day I'll
miss or the guns won't work or there'll be just too many of them. It's only a matter of time."
She rose as the litter slowed, drawing aside the curtains as it came to a halt. Ahead the street was blocked by a
mass of people. From the crowd rose a thin keening and Dumarest felt his nerves twitch as to the scratching of a nail
on slate.
"Langed! What is wrong?"
The Hegelt on the front right-hand side of the litter spoke without turning his head.
"The way is blocked, my lady."
"Then turn around. Go back and find another route. Quickly!"
She dropped the curtains as the litter began to turn. Her face was strained, anxious.
"The fools!" she stormed. "The dumb, ignorant, stupid fools!"
"The Hegelt?"
"Yes." She caught his hand as Dumarest made to draw back the curtain. "Don't look. Don't let them see you. A
crowd like that means trouble. Mass hysteria building to break out in a wave of violence—and those damn fools
headed straight toward it."
He looked at her hand where it gripped his own. It was trembling. Gently Dumarest disengaged her fingers.
"Why?" he said. "Why should they do that?"
"The Hegelt? Who knows? They could be the ones to get it, but they never seem to care. Or perhaps they wanted
to put me in danger." She scowled, suddenly ugly. "They don't like me. No one in the entire city likes me. They're
jealous of what I've got and what I am. Everytime I go out I can feel them watching me. Earl! I—"
Abruptly she broke into a storm of weeping, her hands clinging to his shoulders, the nails digging into the plastic
of his tunic. He held her close, soothing, his face bleak as he looked past the shimmering glory of her hair. A woman
with more greed than sense or perhaps one whose greed had led her into a trap. Contaminated by the insanity among
which she lived, the twisted logic of those around her warping her own mental processes, eroding the emotional
restraints common to a normal mind, giving her a paranoid complex.
Or perhaps she was a woman in an extremity of fear who had reason to be terrified and who had succumbed to
emotion when it could no longer be contained.
Raising his voice Dumarest said, "Langed! Take the shortest route to your mistress' home. If you see a crowd,
avoid it."
"Yes, master."
"And hurry."
Neema had regained her self-control by the time they arrived at a domed structure striped with swirls of red and
yellow and vivid blue. Dumarest followed her inside to a small chamber softly feminine with subdued light nacreous
through windows of shimmering pearl. A Melevganian stood waiting, tall, his face a psychedelic nightmare. His robe
was of a dull orange and fell from shoulders to floor in an unbroken line.
He said, curtly, "I am told that the goods the traders brought have been purchased by you."
Neema bowed, her voice soft. "That is so, my lord."
"I want them."
"Then they are yours, my lord."
"And if I do not choose to pay?"
"They are yours, my lord," she repeated. "Mine will be the honor of serving the elect."
The nightmare face opened to show filed teeth.
"You speak well, Neema. It pleases me to take them. The Guardians need the missiles the bales contain for the
protection of the city and thus the protection of yourself. And there are other things of value. Our equipment at the
mines lacks efficiency, but that can now be remedied. You have done well."
"Your words are a kindness, my lord," said Neema. "May I be so bold as to ask after your son?"
"He does well."
 "And his sleep?"
"No longer does he wake the house with screaming. Your potions have worked their magic. You will send more to
my house before it is dark." The tall figure threw a bag to the floor. It fell on the carpet with a rattle of stones. "For the
potions."
"You are most generous, my lord."
"It pleases me to be so. Farewell!"
Dumarest stooped and picked up the bag as the man left. Not once had the eyes in the painted face looked at
him; to the Melevganian he had simply not existed. Opening the pouch, he looked at the mass of gems. His expenses,
back; a High passage for each of the men who had accompanied him; more.
But the bag was empty of the one thing he wanted.
To Neema he said, quietly, "You jumped the gun. Those goods weren't yours to sell."
"No?" She met his eyes. "Think again, Earl. Your partner sold them to me for half of what you hold."
Tambolt eager for a quick profit and a safe skin. It was like the man to act without thinking and yet surely he
could not have been so naive as to have taken the first offer. Dumarest held back the gems as she reached for them.
"You have that in writing?"
"Don't be a fool. Of course not," She sighed at his expression. "I was working on commission. Fifty percent of
what I could get. I know the market, you don't. I know how to get the money, you don't. You heard Tars Qualelle. He
just took the goods and would have taken your life too had you protested. I had to con him. That money is for the
drugs I supply to keep his idiot son quiet at night. It's the only way to do business here in Melevgan. "I've had five
years practice. Don't you think I deserve a commission?"
"Fifty percent?"
"Twenty-five then. Damn it, Earl, what's the matter? Isn't the money enough for you?"
"I wanted more than money. I wanted information."
She listened as he told her about the boy and why he had come to Melevgan. Crossing to a cabinet, she produced
wine and filled two glasses. As she sipped, her eyes met his, very direct, calculating even.
"This boy—Jondelle—is he worth anything to you?"
"In money? No!"
"Then why are you concerned about him? No," she added before he could answer. "Don't bother to tell me. If you
don't want to cash in on him, then there's only one reason. You like him. You made a promise and you're going to
keep it. Fair enough. But he isn't in Melevgan."
"Are you sure about that?"
"I'm sure." She sipped again at her wine. "What's it worth to me if I help you?"
Dumarest hefted the bag of gems, the stones emitting a harsh rattle.
"Not that. Not money. I need help. If I help you, will you help me in return?"
"If I can, yes."
"You're cautious," she said. "I like that. You don't promise what you can't give, but once you give your word that's
it. I'll tell you what I want. I want to get the hell away from here. From Melevgan and all the nuts around me. I want to
be able to see a man without wondering if he's going to shove a knife in my side as I pass. To be able to entertain
friends for dinner, to walk unarmed, to look a man in the eye and tell him what I think instead of having to crawl and
eat dirt. I want to escape."
She paused, breathing deeply, her breasts prominent beneath the jacket. She looked at the goblet in her hand and
abruptly swallowed what it contained, glass rattling as she refilled it from the bottle.
"I want to escape," she said again. "Dear God, Earl! You can't guess how much I want to escape."
"Take a raft and go," said Dumarest flatly. "It's as simple as that."
"You think so?" Her shrug was eloquent. "The only rafts with enough lift to pass the mountains are held by the
Guardians. The rest are toys, powerful only enough to drift. They can't be adapted. The only free raft in the place is
the one you came with. The only way I can get out as if you take me. You, your raft, your men to give protection."
"The raft is damaged," lied Dumarest. "It burned out on the way down."
"Then you're in trouble." Again she emptied her glass. "The mountains can't be climbed and the Guardians won't
help to lift you over. Get it repaired or you'll stay here for life. It won't be a long life," she added. "And it won't be an
easy one. Traders are tolerated to a certain extent because the Melevganians need the things they bring. But they've
got no patience. Start moving soon or you won't be able to move at all. You'll be too damn busy to do more than
sweat and breathe. Can the raft be repaired?"
Dumarest was noncommittal. "Perhaps."
"I'm rich," said Neema. "I've been here five years and I haven't wasted my time. Get me to Sargone, Earl, and I'll
double what you hold in your hand. Is it a deal?"
 "If I can get you out, I will."
"Your word?" She smiled as he nodded, relaxing as she helped herself to yet more wine. "Now, maybe, I can sleep
tonight," She glanced at him, her eyes suggestive. "Earl?"
"The boy," he said. "Tell me what you know about him."
"About the boy, nothing. About the men who took him, not much more. Four of them arrived here a short while
ago, about two days before you said the boy was taken. They had a raft and some goods and traded at a profit. One
was a very big man, Euluch. Heeg Euluch. I heard one of the others call him that. He collected a few wild aspirants to
Guardianship and left. That's all I know."
Dumarest looked at the bag in his hands. He dropped it and crossed the space between himself and the woman in
three long strides. Gripping her shoulders he said, harshly, "That isn't enough, woman! Tell me more!"
She winced, pulling at his wrists.
"Earl! You're hurting me!"
"Talk, damn you!"
For a moment their eyes met and then his hands moved, knocking aside the tubes aimed at his face. Tightly he
said, "Use those things on me and I'll break both your arms. You want to leave here, Neema? All right I'll take you. But
first you've got to tell me what I want to know. Where is Jondelle?"
"The boy? I don't know."
"But the men who took him. You know more than what you've told me. Where did they come from? What did
they look like?"
"Like men," she said, sullenly. "Euluch was a giant, the others normal. They had yellow skins."
"Charnians?"
"They could have been. They grow them like that in the Valley, but people get around, Earl. They could have
come from anywhere on Ourelle."
Or off of it, he thought grimly. But to start thinking that was to compound the difficulties of the situation. He had
to work on the assumption that the boy was still on this world and those who took him a part of it.
"Those who went with Euluch," he said. "The Melevganians. One was named Tars Krandle. Could he have been a
relative of Tars Boras or that other one, Tars Qualelle? Is Tars a family name?"
"Yes," she said. "But it's also a title. Something like 'champion,' or 'defender.' Every Guardian is called Tars
something or other, but the relationship is so weak as to be almost meaningless. Inbreeding," she explained. "The son
takes the title of his mother, the husband his wife. About a quarter of the population is of the Tars family and all of
them are Guardians. Then we have the Yelm; they concentrate on agriculture and the food supply. Then there is the
Aruk; they—"
"Never mind," snapped Dumarest He was in no mood to learn about the Melevganian culture. "Would anyone be
worrying about him or the others who died?"
"No," said Neema. "Not now. Short memories," she explained. "And no Melevganian gives a damn about another
once he's grown."
"So a stranger arrived here on a raft and traded some goods," said Dumarest slowly. "Then he asked for a few
volunteers to help him to steal a boy. Offered money and a night of fun if they would agree. But how could they have
trusted him? He could have been a slaver or someone after a few specimens for a zoo. How did they know he would
bring them back when the job was done? A man willing to kill in order to steal a boy wouldn't have stopped at cutting
them down to rid himself of an inconvenience. The Melevganians may be crazy, but they aren't complete fools. They
would have safeguarded themselves in some way. How, Neema? How did they do it?"
Slowly she poured herself more wine, drank, and looked thoughtfully at the goblet.
"Neema?"
"You're hard, Earl," she said. "Hard and shrewd. I wasn't going to tell you this because—well, never mind. You
won't stop until you get the answer. Four men arrived on that raft. I made Euluch the same proposition I made you,
but he didn't want to know. He was busy, he said, and had no time to rescue a stupid woman. Now I know what he
had in mind."
Dumarest said, quietly, "And?"
"Four men arrived on the raft, but only two left with the Melevganians. The others were kept behind as hostages."
Neema lifted her glass and drank it empty. When she lowered it her, full lips glistened with moisture. "They're still
here. Chained and working in the mines. Sweating themselves to death as you will be—unless you can mend your
raft."

Chapter Thirteen
 Jasken said, "I don't like it, Earl. I don't like it one little bit."
He turned and looked back the way they had come, at the raft which had brought them, floating now a hundred
feet from the opening where they stood, armored men casual as they lounged in the body of the vehicle. He stepped
to the edge and looked down at the side of the mountain. Stone fell sheer from where he stood, rose above in an
unbroken wall. He turned again, scowling, shaking his head as he rejoined Dumarest.
"A hell of a place for a mine," he grumbled. "What happens if there's a fall? How do we get out if they decide to
leave us here?"
"They won't," said Dumarest. "You're an expert on mining equipment. You've agreed to check some of the
machines and to see what can be done about repairs. Before you can fix them, you'll have to return to the city and I
must go with you. They value the machines more than a couple of potential slaves."
Jasken grunted, unconvinced. A plume of dust fell from overhead followed almost immediately after by a dull
concussion.
"The crazy fools are blasting!" Jasken glared at the Melevganian who stood with another to one side. All wore
thick coveralls of dusty scarlet Their faces bore whorls of granular paint. The Geth, those who were in hereditary
charge of the mines.
One of them came forward and said, "We are ready for you to begin."
A command loaded with the arrogance which was natural to Melevgan, but tempered by hard experience and
brutal fact. Rocks did not leap to obey and stone cared nothing for titles and self-delusion. Of all the Melevganians
the Geth were the most sane.
Dumarest said, "My companion will study your machinery to see what needs to be done. I will examine the mine
to evaluate matters of priority." He added, "With your permission, naturally, my lord."
Geth Iema frowned. "I do not understand."
"It is not enough to increase the efficiency of, say, a drill," explained Dumarest. "Of what use to fill the air with
dust when there is no means of ventilation to carry it away? The workers will choke and die and production slowed
to a point lower than it was before. No, before we can make the best of the machinery available a survey will have to
be made."
The overseer blinked, struggling with unfamiliar logic. Slaves were slaves. If they died, they could be replaced.
"It will not take long, my lord," said Dumarest quickly. "And there is no need to concern yourself. I can manage
alone."
From somewhere down the tunnel a high-pitched scream rose to break with a screech of metal. A unit,
overloaded, burned out and perhaps damaged beyond repair. Geth Iema made up his mind.
"You will do what needs to be done," he ordered. "I shall wait for you here. You will touch nothing but the
machinery, talk to no one but the overseers. Go!"
The tunnel was long, winding, thick with dust which hung like a pale mist in the air. Galleries opened from it and
lights showed yellow in the gloom. Jasken halted, wet a finger, and held it high above his head.
"No ventilation to speak of," he said. "These tunnels must branch for miles to either side. How the hell do they
manage to breathe without pumps and fans?" He reached out and touched a support. Dust showered as he shook it.
"Rotten. The timber's just a shell over leached wood. It needs replacing. Every damned support in the place needs
replacing. If we had any sense, Earl, we'd get out of here."
"Later," said Dumarest. "After I've found out what I came for."
"You think you can find those men?" Jasken shrugged. "Two men among all the rest? Well, I agreed to play along
and that's just what I'll do. I'm only hoping that Tambolt doesn't take it into his head to leave us behind."
"He can't."
"What's to stop him? The woman won't care who she pays as long as she gets away and Tambolt won't care who
he leaves behind as long as he makes his profit. Maybe you're trusting him too much, Earl."
"He can't leave," said Dumarest patiently. "I've got a part of the engine. He can't use the raft until he gets it."
Insurance, he though. A precaution as leaving Preleret in charge had been a precaution. A man could be
overpowered, killed even, and a part found if given time enough, but both should give all the protection needed. And
if anyone was curious about the raft, its failure to operate would back his lie.
He said, "Let's get deeper into the mine. I want to find where the men are working. You can check any machinery
in sight and provide a distraction if one is needed. Now let's get on with it."
Grumbling, Jasken obeyed. The mine twitched at his nerves, filling him with foreboding. The tunnels were too
narrow, the dust too thick, and the supports worried him. Falls, in such a place, would be common. There was little
danger of damp in a mine so high, and the rock would not burn and thus offer the danger of explosion, but every
mine had its dangers and he could scent them like a dog.
 Ahead, the tunnel widened, branched, lights showing the way to a gallery and a narrow face. The crack of whips
echoed thinly through the air, followed by a rumble and a thin scream. Dust billowed, catching at throat and lungs.
From somewhere a machine hummed with a strident irregularity.
It crouched like a monster against a wall, steel claws ripping at the stone, sending it showering back to where
men crouched sorting through the debris. Other men humped the discarded rubble to where a fissure gaped in the
floor. From it rose a stream of air, dry, acrid. A vent to a lower cavern, Dumarest guessed. An underground chamber
which must open somewhere to the outer air.
He looked at the workers… slaves, collared and chained with flexible links to a stake driven into the wall. Over
them stood Melevganians similar to the ones he had seen when entering the mine. They stood, arrogant, whips in
their hands, sending the lash at random intervals at the naked bodies of the crouching men. From time to time one of
the workers would rise, bowing, handing a stone to one of the overseers.
For reward he was given a cup of water and a thin slice of concentrates.
A nice system, thought Dumarest savagely. The men worked or they were whipped. They found gems or they
starved. He caught Jasken's arm as the man stepped forward, his face ugly.
"Hold it!"
"But, Earl! Those men! Look at the swine lash at their backs."
"We can't alter it, so we must accept it," snapped Dumarest. "And we didn't come here to get ourselves killed. Try
anything and you'll wind up with a chain around your neck." He pointed over to the other side of the gallery where a
machine stood unattended and silent. "See what's wrong with that. Make some noise. I'm going to look around."
He stepped forward, bowing to the overseers who stared at him with incurious eyes. He was unchained and so
could not be a slave. He was here so must have been accepted and passed by the outer guards. Therefore he could be
ignored.
In a patch of shadow he dropped and said to a sweating man, "I'm looking for someone. He hasn't been here long
and would have a friend. A man with a yellow skin. Have you seen him?"
Pale eyes glared at him from a haggard face. "Don't stop me working, mister. I can't take much more of the whip
and I haven't eaten all day. Don't stop me working!"
Dumarest passed on. Men were busy slamming heavy bars against the stone, others dragging at lumps of rock
loosened by hammered wedges. Noise and dust were everywhere. Men gasped, dived for a stone, fought over it as
dogs over a bone, the winner going to collect his reward.
Food, water, a chance to live.
A whistle shrilled and work ceased, slaves passing down the gallery with buckets of water, handing a cup to each
man. Dumarest watched as Jasken busied himself with the machine, metallic bangings coming from where he
worked. There were no Hegelt; the small, dark men probably died as soon as impressed. There were tall men with
slanted eyes, others with ebon skins powdered with sandy dust, some with white and olive. None he could see with
yellow. The Charnians must be elsewhere.
He found one at the end of a low gallery, bent double as he drove a short pick into the stone. The smooth skin
was blemished with scars and welts, ugly bruises and scrapes which oozed blood under the dust. He jumped as
Dumarest touched him, cringing, one arm lifted as if to ward off a blow.
"What's your name?" Dumarest asked.
The Charnian looked up suspiciously, but the hard eyes meeting his forced an answer. "Sheem. Why do you want
to know?"
"I've been looking for you, Sheem… Heeg Euluch," said Dumarest. "Tell me about him."
"Are you his friend?" Hope shone in the bloodshot eyes. "Has he returned? I knew that he wouldn't let me down.
When did he arrive? How soon can I get out of here?"
"He's no friend," said Dumarest harshly. "He hasn't come back. He's living it high somewhere while you rot in this
stinking mine. Think of it," he urged. "A nice place with a woman, maybe. Some wine, cool, in goblets wet with
condensation. Soft food of a dozen different flavors. Decent air to breathe and maybe a gentle wind to carry the scent
of flowers. Why should he worry about you?"
The man looked at the pick in his hand, the knuckles taut beneath the skin.
"The pig," he said thickly. "The stinking pig."
"He used you," said Dumarest. "He got you to help him do a job and then he dumped you. A nice man. Your
friend? With a friend like that, who needs enemies?"
The man shook his head, unbelieving. "He wouldn't. He couldn't."
"He did. Do you think all this is a dream?" Dumarest gestured around the shaft, the heaps of debris. "He left you
as a hostage and he knew damn well what would happen to you if he didn't come back. Where did you meet him?"
"In the Valley. Me and Famur grew up together and wanted to spread our wings. We met up with Euluch and did a
few things together. Then this job came along."
Dumarest said, "What was the name of the other man, the one who went with Euluch?"
"Urlat, Chen Urlat."
"From?"
"I don't know. He was with Euluch when we joined up with him." The man blinked and swallowed. "Listen, mister.
Can you buy me out of here? I'll do anything if you'll get me free. Please, mister. Please!"
"There were two of you. Where's the other one?"
"Famur? He's dead. A rock fall caught him the second day they threw us in here. You'll get me out, mister?
Please!"
A whip cracked sharply and the man screamed as the lash curled about his shoulders. An overseer stood, stooped
in the gallery, the whip lifted for a second blow. Dumarest rose, turning so the lash missed him, bowing to hide the
hate in his eyes.
"My lord?"
"You must not talk to the slaves. When they talk, they do not work. If you stop them working, then you will join
them."
"I hear and obey, my lord." Dumarest fought the inclination to grab the whip, to send the lash across the arrogant
face, to smash the painted visage with the heavy butt. "But I was examining the rock. The tool the man is using is not
the best for the work at hand. If the haft was longer and the head less wide, a greater efficiency would be obtained.
With your gracious permission, my lord, I will continue my studies."
"You will not talk?"
"How could I disobey the instructions of the elect, my lord? As you command, so it will be."
The Melevganian nodded, arrogance blinding him to the ambiguity of the reply, but making no effort to move
away from where he stood. From where Jasken stood by the machine came a sudden whine of energy, the shrill of an
unloaded drive. His yell of triumph rose above the sound.
"Got it! Now if someone could get me a drill?"
The overseer turned, his attention caught by the distraction, and Dumarest stooped, his voice low.
"Quickly, now. Where did Euluch intend taking the boy?"
"I don't know. He didn't say."
"But you knew what he was after?"
The man shrugged. "Sure. A kidnap job for a fat payoff. A pity it was a bust."
"It was no bust," said Dumarest harshly. "And Euluch knew exactly what he was doing. Some Melevganians to do
the dirty work and a couple of fools to use as hostages. You and Famur. Your friend is dead and you could follow. If
you got out of here, where would you look for Euluch?"
"You going to get me out?"
"Maybe… now talk."
From somewhere along the gallery came the crack of a whip followed by a scream of pain. The sound killed the
Charaian's hesitation. "In the Valley. There's a tavern, the Sumba. I'd look for him there." His hand reached out and
caught Dumarest by the arm. "And now, mister, for God's sake! Get me out of here!"
Dumarest shook off the hand and rose, his eyes bleak. No man should be chained like an animal and forced to
work as a slave. But he had no pity for anyone who had agreed to steal a child.
"You're a man," he snapped. "Get yourself out. You've got tools which could be used as weapons. There's a fissure
in the mine which must lead to the outside. Talk to a few others, kill the overseers, and make a break for it."
"I can't! They'd kill me!"
"Yes," said Dumarest flatly. "If you don't make it, they'll kill you. But they're going to do that anyway, so what can
you lose?"

Chapter Fourteen
It was late when they left the mine, the emerald sun low over the mountains, casting broad swaths of shadow
from the jagged summits over the foothills and cultivated ground. Jasken sat next to Dumarest in the body of the raft,
uneasy because of the armored figures which sat like statues at front and rear. His voice was low, anxious.
"I didn't think they'd let us out, Earl. That overseer, Geth Iema, was pretty definite."
"He liked the way you fixed that machine," said Dumarest. "You impressed him. Maybe you should think about
taking his offer. A house, servants, jewels, and soft living. All you have to do is to keep the mine equipment
functioning."
 "And if one day I can't?" Jasken shuddered. "Did you see those poor devils? Chained and beaten and breathing
that stinking dust? One slip and they'll have me among them. One wrong word to an overseer even would do it." He
glowered at the armored figures ahead. "They like their own way, these people. Geth Iema didn't want to let us go."
It had taken smooth talk, lies, and extravagant promises, but Dumarest knew they were not yet in the clear. Out
of the mine, perhaps, but Melevgan was a prison in itself. And the longer they waited, the more dangerous it became.
Jasken was of value to the Melevganians, himself and the others easily available labor for the mines.
Loudly he said, "I think you should take the offer. With the things we brought with us you could do quite a few of
the needed repairs. And I can bring in anything you need. Tambolt and a couple of the others can stay as hostages
and maybe we could build up a real service between here and Sargone." He added, for the benefit of listening ears,
"And it would be an honor to serve the elect. Even to be close to them gives a man a sense of pride."
Jasken turned, his eyes incredulous. "Earl! What the hell's got in—" He broke off as an elbow jabbed his ribs.
"You agree it's a good idea, Jasken?" Dumarest kept his voice loud. "Think of it, man. A fine house and all you
could ever hope to gain. You know the work, for you it would be easy, and we can arrange to have tools and parts
lifted in at regular intervals if the Melevganians agree. How fast do you think you could increase production?"
"I reckon to double it within two months," said Jasken, catching on. "Those hand tools are hopelessly inefficient.
Once I get the drills working, the men can concentrate on searching the debris instead of wasting time hammering at
rock. Of course, that's assuming you can bring me in those parts I need. How long do you think it will take?"
"Not long. Do another check tomorrow and let me know what you want. With the Melevganians' permission I
could leave the day after and return in about a week. Would you need Tambolt to help?"
"Him and a couple of the others," said Jasken, and continued as the raft drew near to the city. "I like the idea. We
should celebrate it tonight. Some wine, maybe, and anything else that's going. How about the raft?"
"Forget it." Dumarest touched the engine part in his pocket. "It's useless. I'll have to ask the elect to let us use one
of theirs. I can bring in a replacement when I return."
Childish banter, but to warped minds eager to hear the things they wanted it might help to ease suspicion. And it
did no harm to remind the Guardians that their raft was little better than a heap of scrap metal. A lie, but one which
could help to spring the trap they were in. Dumarest was uncomfortably aware of the snare which had closed around
them.
Neema was aware of it too. As they entered the House of the Hanging Man she nodded to Jasken and caught
Dumarest by the arm.
"Where the hell have you been? I've been waiting for you; we've all been waiting. Damn it, Earl, what kept you so
long?"
"We had trouble getting away. Are you ready to leave?"
"I've been ready for over a year now, but I know what you mean." She touched the thick belt around her waist.
"Yes, I'm ready."
Tambolt came toward them, his face savage. "The raft, Earl. It won't lift. The engine won't even start. I tried it and
—" He broke off, looking at Dumarest's face. "Something wrong?"
"I don't know," said Dumarest coldly. "You tell me. Why did you try to start the raft?"
"I—" Tambolt swallowed. "I was testing it, that's all. Me and Haakon." He gestured toward one of the men
standing in a little group beside the vehicle. "He checked and said that a part was missing. Earl! How the hell are we
going to get away from here?"
Dumarest ignored him, walking over to the raft and looking inside. The interior held boxes of food, containers of
water, bales and bundles together with items of clothing, vases, statues, things of price.
At his side Preleret said, softly, "I tried to stop them, Earl, but they wouldn't listen. They wouldn't have left
without you, though; I'd have seen to that."
"The goods," said Dumarest. "The woman's?"
"Some. Those bales. The rest is from the house."
"Who took it? Arion? Haakon? Sekness? Tambolt?"
"Not Sekness."
Dumarest turned to face the other three. "Take these things and put them back where you found them. Tambolt,
you should have known better." He thinned his lips as they made no move to obey. "You damned fools! The Hegelt
know everything you do and they will talk about it. Report it, even. They have no reason to love us and can get a
reward from the Melevganians for keeping watch. Try stealing and you'll wind up in the mines. If you want to know
what that means, ask Jasken. He's been there."
"It's rough," said Jasken. "Do as Earl says."
"Now wait a minute!" Arion edged forward. "Tambolt said it would be all right and why shouldn't we take all that's
going while we've the chance? I—"
 Sekness rapped his club on the edge of the raft. It made a hard, metallic sound. "I'm with Earl," he said. "I don't
like stealing, but I'm not the boss and you wouldn't have listened to me. Now the boss says it goes back. Do it!"
His club fell again, the sound menacing.
As the men began unloading the raft Dumarest said, "I suppose you authorized this, Tambolt, before you knew
you couldn't leave?"
"I just wanted to get everything ready, Earl." Tambolt tried to smile, then shrugged instead. "All right, I was
wrong, but it seemed a good idea at the time. Maybe I just can't leave nice things alone, but they were sitting there
just waiting to be taken. And it wasn't exactly stealing. I mean, if other traders use this house, they could have taken
them. We couldn't really have been blamed. And the Melevganians have so much they wouldn't have troubled
themselves about a little."
The eternal self-justification of a thief. Dumarest turned away, not bothering to argue, and found Neema again at
his side.
"The raft, Earl."
"It's working." He handed Jasken the part he had removed. "We'll be leaving in the early hours."
"Not before?"
"No. I've tried to persuade our hosts that we have no intention of leaving until the day after tomorrow. They may
not believe what they heard, but we've got to keep up the pretense."
She said, shrewdly, "Is that why you made the men take back the things?"
"The fools!" His face darkened with anger. "It may be too late. If the Hegelt noticed what had happened the
Melevganians could be warned by now. But if they're put back, we stand a chance. Someone might drop in for a look
around. If they do, they could punish the Hegelt for lying. Or they could think it was a mistake. If the stuff isn't to be
seen and is found in the raft, then we wouldn't have a hope of getting away."
"We haven't much even now," she said bleakly. "I was treating one and he talked. A manic-depressive on the slope
of his cycle who wanted a boost. I gave him a little more than he bargained for. A hypnotic which I daren't use too
often but carry for emergencies. They don't intend to let us go. At the moment they're playing with us, with you, that
is. A cat and mouse game. Maybe you can talk them out of it, but I doubt it. The young Guardians think you killed
their companions. The ones who went off with the big man."
Dumarest said, "Why would they think that?"
"The lances. You've got three of them. I saw them and so the Hegelt must have too. You're right about them
reporting to their masters. Only the Guardians carry lances and it doesn't take genius to guess where you got them
from. Earl! I'm scared!"
She came into his arms and he held her, oblivious of the others, feeling the trembling of her soft body against his
own. An emotional breakdown, he thought. Overstrained nerves giving way before imagined dangers. Perils all the
more terrifying because, as yet, they were not real.
He said, "Can you get us some weapons, Neema? More lances, perhaps?"
"No." She stepped back, breathing deeply, her face calming as she met his eyes. "The Guardians hold them close. I
had a laser when I arrived here, but it vanished. The Hegelt, I think. I could get some, I suppose, but it would be
dangerous."
Too dangerous. Suspicion once aroused needed only a touch to turn into action. And, if what she had learned
from her patient was true, the Guardians were watching and ready to spring. His playacting with Jasken may have
lulled them. It would be greater sport to wait, to let their victims think they had an open road before snapping shut
the trap. An amusement the Melevganians would appreciate. He hoped so. In their sadism lay Dumarest's only chance
of escape.
From where he stood beside the raft Jasken called, "It's fixed, Earl. What happens now?"
"We wait." Dumarest studied the open area in which the raft lay. The wide doors gave to the street, stairs led
upward to the living quarters. There could be traps in the floor or secret panels in the walls, but he doubted it. Such
things were the product of timidity and the people of Melevgan were far from that. Insane, perhaps, but certain of
their superiority. "Try to block the doors, Jasken, then stay here with Preleret on guard. Check the load and make sure
we can carry everything we need to take. Dump out what's in the raft if you have to." He caught Neema's expression.
"You can take what you carry, but the rest of the stuff might have to go. Do you mind?
"No," she said. "And?"
"We're going to have a party."
It was a masquerade of shouting men and gushing wine, of food nibbled and thrown aside, of hands reaching for
the soft-footed Hegelt women. Of big talk and songs and apparent drunkenness. A macabre performance for the
benefit of the Hegelt and the Guardians to whom they might report. A thing promised, expected, and so provided to
allay suspicion.
 But not all the food was barely nibbled and cast aside. Experienced travelers knew the value of a full stomach and
they had heard Dumarest's orders and knew better than the woman that nothing but a little water would remain in the
raft. Life was more important than goods, and weight too precious to be wasted on baubles.
At a window Dumarest watched the sky. Night had fallen, the stars blazing in a fiery arc, and he cursed the sheets
and curtains of brilliance which haloed the firmament. He wanted cloud, thick, shielding, a pall to dim the vision of
any who might be watching. Later, perhaps, it might come. Later. For now they could only wait until the city quieted,
until any watchers might grow drowsy at their posts.
Neema came to him. She had been a little careless with the wine as had Haakon and Arion despite the repeated
warnings. Too much had been swallowed instead of being slopped and now their boisterous laughter had a genuine
ring of abandon. Dumarest caught Sekness' eye and the man nodded. They would keep silent when the time came or
he would take action with his club. Without weapons they were passengers; for now they could accentuate the
pretense that all were getting helplessly drunk.
Neema wasn't wholly pretending. She blew out her breath and leaned against his arm as Dumarest turned from
the window.
"Five years," she said. "Five lousy years. I can't believe that it's almost over. You know what I'm going to do when
we reach Sargone, Earl? I'm going to have the best that money can buy. Baths, clothes, foods, wines, you name it and
that's what it will be."
"You've got that already," he said.
"No. The things, maybe, but not the background. I'm sick of being served by slaves. I want people I can talk to
and laugh with and know that they're doing things for me because they want to, not because they'll be whipped and
maybe killed if they don't. And there are other things." She leaned a little closer. "One thing in particular. Five years in
Melevgan, Earl. Can you guess what that means?"
"You told me."
"Not all of it. Not the worst part. I'm a woman, Earl. I need to be loved. What's the good of money and clothes
and all the rest of this junk if it doesn't fill a real need? Five years wasted, Earl. You understand?"
A woman, older than she appeared, a little drunk and more than a little sentimental. A refuge, perhaps, from
imagined fears. A release from tension. Her own, private safety valve from the emotional pressures within. Dumarest
remembered the environment in which she had lived, the contamination of those around her. An insidious thing
which could warp without suspicion, altering viewpoints, and changing logic go that the unthinkable became the
commonplace, the unusual the norm.
Quietly he said, "In Sargone, Neema, you'll find all that you need."
"I've got it here, Earl. Almost. Have you ever thought about it? Everything you could ever hope for aside from one
thing. And then that thing arrives and your world could be complete. And it could be, Earl, for the both of us. I can
manage the Melevganians. They're insane, sure, but I can manage them. And then we could really begin to live. You
and me, Earl, here, in a fine house with all the servants we could use and all the things money can buy. A dream come
true, Earl. Here, in the hollow of your hand. Close it and it's yours."
From terror to overconfidence, from despair to highflying euphoria, and all in a few hours, accentuated, perhaps,
by the wine. An emotional change common to manic-depressives and coupled with her betrayed paranoia. A
combination which was more explosive than a bomb.
Dumarest felt his skin crawl as he looked into her eyes. They were wide, flecked with motes of shifting color,
windows on a mind which drifted in unknown regions. A word and she would be at his eyes or in his arms. A rejection
might cause her to turn to suicide or to run screaming in the street to condemn them all.
"A dream, Neema?" He forced himself to smile, to be casual. "But didn't you have it once?"
"I thought I had, Earl, but it didn't last. We came here knowing exactly what we had to do. For a while things were
fine and then—" She shrugged. "He was weak, Earl. Stupid. He wouldn't listen to what I said. A trained fool who knew
too much to take advice."
And who hung now, swinging from a gallows as an ornament to the house in which she offered herself to another
man.
"You wouldn't be weak, Earl. You're strong and know what has to be done and when to do it. A woman would be
safe with you. You would take care of her, look after her, protect her. And you would do more than that, my darling.
So very much more." She caught his arm. "Come with me, Earl. Come with me. Now!"
Tambolt grinned as they walked past the table, his mouth wet with wine, his eyes envious. Dumarest, conscious
of the watching Hegelt, lifted a bottle and tilted it to his lips, his throat working, but swallowing nothing. He dropped
the bottle with a gusting sigh, reached for another and repeated the performance, letting it fall to smash and lie in a
puddle of wine.
"A song," he ordered. "Give us a song." Sound to add to the illusion of gaiety. "And how about these girls, here?
Can't they dance? Music, girls, and dancing. This is a party!"
The sound rose behind him as he followed Neema from the room, dulled as he closed the door, became muted as
he trod at her heels into an upstairs chamber. A couple of hours, he thought. Three at the most He could manage her
that long.
"Wine. Earl?"
The Hegelt had rearranged the room according to her instructions, given while he was at the mine. A bottle and
glasses stood on a low table, the wide bed was bright with an embroidered cover, a censer stood beneath a thin spiral
of rising smoke, the scent of incense hanging heavy in the air.
He took the wine, lifting it to his lips, but making no effort to swallow. Over the rim of the goblet he could see her
eyes, still wide, still filled with vaguely shifting emotion.
"You love me, Earl," she said. "Say it!"
He stood, watching, silent.
"Say it!" Her voice rose a little. "I want you to love me, Earl. I love you and it isn't fair that you don't love me. You
must love me. You do love me. Say it. Say, 'I love you, Neema.' Say it!"
He threw the wine into her face.
It hit, bathing her with ruby, wine running from her eyebrows, the tip of her nose and the point of her chin,
dripping to the upthrust breasts beneath the low-cut gown,
"I told you before," he said harshly. "Use those darts on me and I'll break both of your arms."
"Earl? You—"
For a moment her sanity hung in the balance. Rage climbing, mounting, tearing at her mind with destructive fury.
Rage too great to be contained. He had seen it before, in a man who had driven spikes into his blinded face and had
thrown himself into a fire because of the frustration it had caused.
And then she collapsed, shuddering into his arms.
He carried her to the bed and laid her on the cover, holding her until the storm subsided, until she rose, her face
wet with tears, streaked and stained by the wine.
With water he washed it clean, the golden skin now devoid of cosmetics looking haggard and a little pathetic.
"Earl!" Her hand lifted, touched her forehead. "I've got to get away from here. At times I go crazy. It's something
inside, like a bursting in the mind. I can't think straight and logic has gone all to hell. I could have killed you then. I
would have done it, given the chance. Nothing seemed to matter, but that. To kill you. To see you dead."
"I know," he said. "I know."
"You can't." She looked at him, her eyes clear now, a little red from her weeping. "Or perhaps you can. But you'd
have reason for wanting to kill. I didn't. The Melevganians haven't, not really; they just yield to a whim. Or is it a
whim?" she whispered. "Everything seems so logical and reasonable at the time. It's only afterward that it can be seen
for what it is. Crazy talk and crazy behavior. And it's getting worse, Earl. I used to be able to fight against it, take
drugs to control it; recently I just haven't cared."
"You'll be all right, Neema. Once we get away from here, you'll be among normal people. You could have
treatment to even you out. It's nothing to worry about."
She smiled and reached out to touch his face. "You're kind, Earl. Hard, but kind. Gentle, too."
"Gentle?" His own hand touched the place where he had slapped her. The skin showed red, but there would be no
bruise. "You'd better get a little rest. A few hours at least. I'll call you when it's time to go."
"No! I—" She wanted to trust him and could not call him a liar to his face. Could not put into words the doubt he
knew must exist That he would go and leave her behind. Instead she said, "My face! I must look a mess!"
Smiling, he said, "No. You look what you are. A very attractive woman."
"You think so? Earl, you really think that?" And then her arms were around him, the scent of her hair in his
nostrils, the warmth of her breath against his cheek. "Don't leave me, Earl. For God's sake, don't leave me. I'm afraid. I
want something to hang onto. Earl! Stay with me until it's time to go!"

Chapter Fifteen
In the darkness the stairs were a death-trap, but if there were watchers, it was the last route they would expect
him to follow. Shoulder hard against the sloping wall, Dumarest crept down the external spiral, eyes straining as he
looked at the sky, the streets below. He could see no guards and the air was clear of rafts. He reached the bottom and
rapped on the door. Twice, a pause, then twice more. It opened with a faint creak of timbers and in the dimness he
could see the bulk of the raft, the others waiting in the vehicle, starlight catching their eyes.
Jasken had opened the door. He said, "All clear, Earl?"
 "As much as it will ever be. You know what to do?"
"Lift high once we're clear and then head due west But, Earl, Sargone lies to the south."
"We go west."
"To avoid pursuit." Jasken nodded. "A good idea. I should have thought of it."
To avoid pursuit and to head toward the Valley of Charne, but Dumarest didn't mention that. He glanced at the
raft, checking that each was in his place. Jasken at the controls, Preleret with the other rifle to the left side, himself to
the right. Tambolt and Sekness each with a lance at front and rear. Haakon and Arion lay in the body of the craft,
breathing deeply, useless. Neema squatted beside them.
Dumarest handed her the remaining lance. "Can you use it?"
"I think so."
"Aim it like a stick. There's a button in the butt. Press it and release a missile. They've got explosive heads, so
make sure they don't hit too close." He added, for the benefit of them all, "Don't start firing until I give the word. If
we're stopped, I want to try bluffing our way out. Say nothing, do nothing, but keep alert. Right, Jasken, let's go!"
The engine hummed, rose to a noisy pulsing, settled to a whining drone as the raft lifted from the floor. Carefully
Jasken guided it from the building, then fed more power to the anti-gravity units. The ground fell away, shadows
passing over them from adjacent structures, dropping to expose them to the burning light from the stars.
The heavens were too bright. Dumarest had hoped for cloud, but none had come and he dared wait no longer.
Dawn must find them safely over the mountains.
Tambolt sucked in his breath.
"We're going to make it, Earl. By God, we're going to make it!"
His words were thick, slurred a little, despite the cold showers and drenchings he had suffered. Dumarest looked
down at the house with its grisly adornment. The Hegelt had left an hour earlier to report, he hoped, that the party
had ended in a drunken stupor. The Guardians could have been deluded. If so, their only real danger lay in running
into a random patrol.
They rose still higher, the city falling beneath until it looked a garish toy, lights showing the shape of buildings, the
tiny figures of Hegelt at their never-ending task of keeping the place clean. Dumarest leaned over the side, his eyes
narrowed.
"Neema!"
She joined him immediately, her hair brushing his cheek. "What is it, Earl?"
"That crowd down there. Normal?"
"Nothing's normal in Melevgan. It could be the start of a hunt—sometimes one of them is crazy enough to
volunteer for quarry, or sometimes, for no apparent reason, they gang up on one of their own kind. Usually someone
they reckon may have lived too long. Or it could be a group-session. They gather, start keening, and whip themselves
into a frenzy." She drew in her breath, an inward sigh of annoyance. "I can't be sure. It's too far away. It worries you,
Earl?"
At a time like this everything was a cause for worry. They had lifted high when leaving the city to escape
observation; a raft heading upward was invisible to anyone not looking at the sky. But other rafts, lower, might spot
them occluding the stars as they headed west. To drop lower might be safer, but they would lose maneuverability
close to the ground. And, if seen, could arouse suspicion.
All they could do was to remain alert and trust to luck.
It ran out halfway to the mountains.
Preleret saw it first. He said, "Something coming, Earl. From the left and below."
A dark shape touched with starlight A large raft filled with armored men.
Tambolt said, "We could blast it, Earl. Spray it with missiles from the lances. Hit them before they know it."
"No."
"But—"
"Shut up! Don't talk and keep those weapons out of sight."
Two rifles with fifteen-shot capacity. Three lances with ten missiles each. Thirty shots aimed by inexperienced
hands. Two-thirds of them would never reach the target The rest might kill, maim, and, perhaps, smash the engine.
Then would come the return fire from those who had managed to survive. The alarm would have been given and they
would be defenseless before another attack.
And, as yet, the raft hadn't seen them. It was riding level and several hundred feet below. With luck it would pass.
In the body of the raft Haakon turned, rose on all fours and shouted, "Wine! Bring more wine! I want more wine!"
Sekness moved, his club lifting to fall with a dull crack, but the damage had been done. An armored head tilted,
starlight showing the slits, the dark patches beneath which were eyes. A gloved hand raised, pointing; a lance aimed
itself; another, a dozen.
 Dumarest said quickly, "Sing. Tambolt, Jasken, pretend you're drunk. The rest of you drop—and hide those
weapons."
He lowered his own rifle as the raft below swung up to ride level, leaning over the edge, grinning, waving his hand
in cheerful greeting.
"Hi, there! A nice night for a ride. You should have been at the party. We had quite a time. Wine, women, song."
He jerked his hand to where the others stood, bawling. "Want to join in?"
"You will halt immediately!"
"Sure." Dumarest waved at Jasken. "You heard the man. He wants to join us. He can't do it while we keep
moving."
"And be silent."
"The singing? Anything you say, my lord. We're going to work for you, did you know that! Me, these two, the
others we left behind in the house." He shook his head, appearing to regain control of himself. "My lords! If we have
offended, we apologize. Have I the honor of talking to Tars Boras?"
"You know him?"
"I have had the honor of his company. It was he who gave us permission to test our raft tonight. He was most
gracious."
For a moment the armored figure standing upright in the raft stared blankly at Dumarest, the closed visor giving
him the appearance of a bizarre robot. Then he said, "You will turn and follow me back to the city. If you deviate
from our flight path, you will immediately be destroyed."
"As you command, my lord," said Dumarest. "As you wish, so shall it be."
Jasken said, "Earl?"
"Do as he says, but as you turn win us a little height."
Dumarest crouched as the raft swung in a tight circle, moving across the interior to touch Preleret on the
shoulder. He kept his voice low.
"They've got us covered. If we start anything and don't get them first, they'll blast us all to hell. Sekness, how are
you with a rifle?"
"I can use one."
"Take mine. It's ready to shoot. Semiautomatic—just aim and pull the trigger. Move over to the right. Preleret,
you take the left. Rise when I gave the word and take care of anyone aiming anything at us. I'll see to their raft."
Dumarest picked up the lance Sekness had discarded.
Neema said, "Can I help?"
"No. You stay out of this. Tambolt, you cover Jasken. If anyone tries to get him, you get them first. But don't use
the lance unless you have to. Ready?" He peered over the edge of the raft. "Now!"
He rose, the lance in his hands, the point steadying as he aimed the shaft. Ahead armored figures held leveled
lances, but he gambled that they would be slow to open fire. Slow enough for the two marksmen to take care of them
with the rifles. He heard the sharp explosions, saw the Melevganians fall backward as bullets tore through their
decorative armor, others turning to fall under the merciless fire.
As they fell, he was touching the button beneath his thumb, missiles spouting from the tip of the lance. Four
shots, all concentrated on the driver and the controls of the vehicle. As they exploded, he yelled to Jasken.
"Turn! Lift! Take evasive action!"
Missiles streaked toward them as the man obeyed, lines of fire cutting the air beneath and to one side. One struck
the rear edge of the raft, flame gushing over the side as it exploded against the bottom. Tambolt shouted, lifted his
lance, swore as Dumarest tore it from his hands.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Saving our fire-power." Dumarest looked back at the other raft. It was tilted, slowly falling, men clinging to the
sides. His missiles had wrecked the controls. "We've had our share of luck. The next time they come, well need every
bullet and missile we have."
"If they come."
"They'll come," said Dumarest grimly. "Keep watch while I check the damage."
The stray missile had hit a few feet from the extreme rear of the raft, the explosives tearing a jagged patch.
Arion's head had been lying where it had hit. The raft rose a little as Dumarest threw his body over the side.
"Can't you get us higher, Jasken?"
"I'm trying. That missile didn't do us any good. We've lost some lift."
"Do the best you can." Dumarest stooped over Haakon. His legs were singed, but otherwise he seemed unhurt
aside from the lump on his head where Sekness had clubbed him. He groaned as Dumarest slapped his cheeks.
"What—"
 "Up! Hang over the side. Be sick if you want to, but get active. Up, damn you! Up!"
"My head!" The man struggled upright, his eyes bloodshot, creased with pain. "Where's Arion?"
"Dead and over the side. You were lucky. Try to stay that way." Dumarest looked at the woman. "Give him some
water, drugs too if you have any. I want every eye we've got open and on the lookout. When the Melevganians come,
I want to see them before they see us."
They arrived as the raft neared the summit of the mountains, a black oblong against the stars, flying high and fast
and intent on the kill. Plumed helmets showed over the sides and the starlight glinted from the points of bristling
lances.
Tambolt said, "We could drop, Earl. Get below the mountains and use them as a shield."
"No."
"It would give us a chance." His voice was firm, his semi drunkenness evaporated by tension. "We might even be
able to land."
A possibility Dumarest had considered and rejected. They could land and hide and wait out the day and hope
that they wouldn't be spotted. But to land in starlight on the side of a jagged mountain without lights to guide them
and no assurance they would find a suitable place was to tempt luck too far.
"No," he said again. "And we can't drop. If we do and they spot us, we'll be pinned against the wall of the
mountain."
"Then all we can do is to hope they don't see us," said Tambolt. "Hope—and pray." He stared upward, his hands
clenched as the other raft drew near and passed overhead. "They've missed us. Earl, they—" He broke off, cursing as
light blazed around them. "What the hell's that?"
A flare, dropped from the other raft, drifting down on its parachute and bathing them in the eye-bright glow of
burning magnesium.
They had seconds before the heavens would rain fire.
"Move!" Dumarest yelled at Jasken as he snatched the rifle from Sekness' hands. "Preleret, get that light!"
He dropped to one knee, aiming at the raft and the helmeted heads behind the bristling lances, squinting against
the glare which dazed his vision. The rifle kicked against his shoulder as he sent a stream of bullets to smash into
slotted visors. Missiles flared up beside him as Tambolt joined in, trying to destroy the armored men before they
could open fire.
Preleret grunted, aimed, fired, and fired again. The flare exploded into a shower of burning fragments which fell,
dying, to the ground below.
"Quick, Jasken! Get under them!" Dumarest threw aside the empty rifle and snatched up a lance. Haakon rose,
wavering.
"A gun," he said. "Give me a gun."
His head dissolved. His chest puffed out in a mess of blood, ribs and internal organs, spattering fragments and
scraps of lung as the missile exploded. Others followed, a rain of streaking fire which passed to one side as Jasken
turned the raft. Sekness cried out looked at the ripped hole in his side, and then, without a sound, toppled over the
edge. A missile, lucky or more carefully aimed, had exploded against the rear where he had stood.
Two more flares illuminated the night Dumarest ignored them, concentrating on his aim. Fire blossomed against
the base of the raft above, ripping metal just behind where he estimated the controls to be. More gushed a little to
one side, then he held down the stud and emptied the weapon, sending the missiles through the widened hole.
Two passed right through; the others met opposition. He heard screams, the roar of explosions, and the sound of
grating metal. A Melevganian toppled over the edge, wailing as he fell. Another leaned over, grotesquely misshapen,
showering a sticky rain. The raft lurched to one side, fell a little, veered sluggishly as it turned.
"Under them!" snapped Dumarest. "Stay under them!"
Their altitude was to his advantage—as long as it was not too great They could not fire without leaning over the
edge and exposing themselves and, if their target was too close, couldn't bring their lances to bear. But there was a
danger and he recognized it.
"Preleret! Watch that hole I made. If anyone tries to use it, get them."
"I'm low on shots, Earl."
"Then make them all count. Use a lance if you have to." He threw aside the one he had used. There were two
others: the one Tambolt had used probably almost empty, the other full. Ten missiles. It should be more than enough.
Jasken said, "Earl!"
The other raft had twisted again, jerking sidewise and rising a little so that it was a little to one side. Abruptly it
fell.
Dumarest fired as he saw the raised lances, aiming not at the helmets, but at the side of the raft below them. The
missiles would explode on impact, and the armor they wore would protect the Guardians from flying fragments, but
the concussion would daze and, perhaps, stun.
The lance was inaccurate and he had no missiles to waste on elusive targets.
The thing was to stun, confuse, to kill if he could, but, above all, to prevent an accurate return fire. A rain of
missiles which would reach the raft and blast its occupants into smoking shreds.
Speed alone was the only real defense. Six lances were leveled toward him, their tips circling a little as the
Melevganians aimed the shafts. Dumarest fired at once, sending as many missiles to roar in a continuous explosion
against the side of the raft, hearing the crack of Preleret's rifle, Tambolt's hysterical shout.
"Dodge, man! For God's sake, get out of the way!"
Dumarest felt the raft drop beneath him as Jasken cut the lift. It fell as an armored figure rose, his lance streaming
flame. A streak of fire cut past Dumarest's head; another ended in a gout of flame at his rear. Two more reached for
Jasken, a third slamming into the metal at his side.
Then the armored shape dissolved into bursting metal and flesh as Dumarest fired. He had three missiles left. He
sent them all into the raft at where he guessed the engine to be. The explosions grew, turned into flame, licking,
roaring high as the raft spun away hopelessly out of control… to tilt and shower bizarre figures from the interior,
screaming as they fell to spatter on the rocks below.
"Earl!" Jasken was dying, his voice a raw thread of agony. He crouched against the side of the raft, a pool of
blood around his feet from the gaping wounds left by the fragments which had ripped open his stomach. "The
controls, Earl. I can't handle the controls!"
"Take them," said Dumarest to Tambolt. "Neema?"
She had been hurt, blood on her shoulder, the front of her dress, her left arm hanging limply at her side. She knelt,
examining the engineer, rising with a helpless shake of her head.
"I can't help him, Earl. A missile got my bag. Me too. We have no drugs, nothing to ease his pain. He's suffering.
My God, he's suffering, but there's nothing we can give him."
Nothing but the pressure of a hand, the fingers hard against the carotids to bring swift unconsciousness and
merciful oblivion. Dumarest eased the man to the floor of the raft, laying him down where Haakon lay in an untidy
heap.
"We'll bury them in soft ground somewhere," he said. "Somewhere under a tree with a stone as a marker."
Tambolt said, "On the way to Sargone?"
"On the way to the Valley of Charne," said Dumarest flatly. "I've still got to find Jondelle."

Chapter Sixteen
Konba Tach rose as usual a little before dawn, ate the food his wife had prepared, and then went out to his farm
which clung to the side of the mountain. It was, he felt, going to be a good day. Already the mist which filled the
valley with the setting of each sun was thinning, lowering to show other farms to the sides and below… a collection
of small patches of ground, painstakingly leveled, walled, and planted with neatly arranged crops. Unga beans,
mostly, with some klwem, artash, and a few shrubs of prenchet which provided a useful narcotic. There were herbs
also and bushes which bore leaves for the making of tisanes, tall grasses which could be beaten and dyed and woven
into delicate fabrics. And flowers. Everywhere, in the valley, there were flowers.
He stooped over a swollen bloom and inhaled the sweet perfume. Rising, he looked at the raft which had arrived
with the sun.
It was not a local vehicle. The sides were scarred, torn, the metal showing the marks of violence. Those within
looked in little better shape… a woman, pale, her left arm bandaged and in a sling… the man beside her, tall in his
gray clothing, his eyes watchful… two others who drooped as if from exhaustion. Travelers from a far place, Konba
Tach guessed. Strangers to the valley. Perhaps they had been caught in the storms common to the Wendelt Plain; but
no matter who they were or why they looked as they did, custom demanded they be offered food and refreshment,
the hospitality of his home.
Bowing, he said, "Strangers, you are welcome."
"Is this the Valley of Charne?"
"It is. My name is Konba Tach. My wife and children are not yet at work, but greet you in my name. If you will
alight, it will give me honor to attend to your needs."
"You are more than kind," said Dumarest. The neatly arranged plants betrayed the poverty which must exist here,
forcing the use of every inch of ground. "We gladly accept your offer of refreshment. Have you hot water?
Bandages?" He gestured to where Neema stood. "The woman has been hurt."
"All shall be provided." Konba Tach lifted his voice as he gave orders to the woman peering from the open door
of the house set into the flank of the mountain. "Now, if you will follow me?"
They washed in a tub half-filled with water which stung like ice, the bath both refreshing and stimulating
appetites. The food was hot, consisting of beans flavored with herbs and mixed with succulent fragments of pulpy
vegetable. It filled but did not satisfy, a low-protein diet which gave little energy and was mental poison to a growing
intelligence. The reason, perhaps, why Konba Tach remained on the farm, why his son would follow him, his
daughters continuing the same life. A family trapped in the ways of their forebears, struggling constantly to exist on a
patch of ground leveled from the side of a mountain instead of striking out to the more fertile plains beyond.
And yet they seemed happy enough, the house clean, the children neat, the woman deft as she cleared the table
and provided cups of fragrant tisane.
"That was good," said Tambolt. "The first hot meal we've had in how long, Earl? Ten days?"
"Twelve," said Preleret. His hands shook a little as he lifted his cup. "Ten days since we buried the others."
A long time to travel without supplies. They had drunk when they had found water, eaten a few roots and
juiceless berries, remaining constantly on the alert for questing Melevganian rafts.
Tambolt refilled his cup from the pot of tisane. "Well, we made it. We're safe now. We can get the raft fixed or buy
another one and head to Sargone. Right, Preleret?"
"When Earl says."
"The boy." Tambolt frowned. "The Valley of Charne is three hundred miles long. There is one major and two
minor cities and God knows how many farms and settlements. How the hell are you going to find one small boy in a
place like this?"
"If he's here, I'll find him," said Dumarest. To Neema he said, "Let's take a look at that arm."
It was bad. Beneath the crusted bandages the flesh was torn, embedded with minute fragments from the bursting
missile, the tissue tender and inflamed. Dumarest lowered his head, sniffing, catching the sickly odor of putrefaction.
He reached for water and bandages, his face impassive.
"It's bad," said Tambolt. "If she isn't careful, she could lose the arm, her life as well. At the hospital in Sargone she
could have the best of attention."
"She'll get it," said Preleret. "They must have doctors in the Valley."
"Sure, but—" Tambolt broke off, his eyes thoughtful. As Dumarest finished the bandaging he said, "Earl? Could I
have a word with you? In private?"
Outside he walked to where the raft stood in a patch of crushed grass. The mist was lower now, showing the floor
of the valley, vapor pluming to hide the shapes of buildings which stood like toys dwarfed by the immensity of the
mountains.
He looked at them for a moment, then said, "Earl, just where does Preleret stand? As regards our deal, I mean."
"Deal?"
"The money you hope to get for the boy. I know why you're after him and I'm with you all the way. We've done
well, but we could double it easily. Maybe more. That kid must be worth a fortune to whoever wants him. Once we
find the goods we—"
"Jondelle isn't 'goods,' " said Dumarest harshly. "He's a boy. He isn't something to be found and offered to the
highest bidder. He was stolen, his mother shot, his stepfather killed. He isn't a bag of jewels or a bundle of loot. He is
a human being. Remember that."
"Sure," said Tambolt hastily. "It was just a manner of speaking. I feel for the kid as much as you do. But where
does Preleret fit in?"
"He's willing to help."
"For free?" Tambolt shrugged. "Well, I'll leave it up to you, Earl. Maybe we could give him something for his
trouble. A share, a tenth, say; I'll go to that. But if he gets greedy, well have to cut him down. You agree?"
Dumarest looked down at his hand. He was gripping the side of the raft and the knuckles were white. He
removed it, walking to the wall, looking at the slabs of stone, the tiny lichens growing in the windblown dirt
accumulated between the cracks.
He said, "First we have to find the boy. What we do with what I get for him can wait, but I promise you this. Half
of what I get for him is yours. I'll take care of Preleret."
"Fair enough, Earl. And the rest? What we got for the goods?"
"After expenses we cut it three ways."
"Three?" Tambolt frowned. "That seems high, Earl. Too high for a man straight out of Lowtown. Why not give
him the High passage you promised?"
"He gets a third," snapped Dumarest. "After expenses. If it hadn't been for him, Tambolt, we'd be dead now. His
rifle gave us the edge when we needed it most. A third and I'm not going to argue about it."
Tambolt shrugged. "All right, Earl. You're the boss."
 "Yes," said Dumarest. "Remember that."
Preleret was asleep when they returned to the house. He lay spread across the table, his head cradled in his arms,
his breathing stentorian. He woke, blinking as Dumarest touched his shoulder.
"Earl?"
"Go and dip your head in the tub outside. We're leaving. You can sleep later in a soft bed with clean sheets."
Dumarest turned to Neema. "How do you feel?"
"Dopey." She held a saffron pod in her hand and chewed on another. "Our hostess gave me something to ease the
pain. It does, too, but I'm feeling all detached as if I'm floating."
"Prenchet," explained Konba Tach. "It can be a great comfort in times of distress." His eyes widened as he looked
at the gem Dumarest dropped into his palm. "My lord?"
"A gift. For you, your wife, your children." Dumarest knew better than to pay for the hospitality they had received.
Poor as he was their host had his pride. "Clothes, tools, and seeds. Money to take you to a new farm," he hinted.
"Fertile ground and animals to supply meat for your table. If you accept it, I shall gain honor."
Konba Tach bowed, hiding the glow in his eyes.
"Sell it to an honest man," said Dumarest. "Better still, deposit it as collateral in a bank… Where is a tavern
known as the Sumba?"
"I do not know, my lord." Konba Tach was apologetic. "Rarely do I leave the farm and we have no money for the
things to be found in taverns."
"A doctor, then?"
"Gar Cheng is a good man. Descend to the floor of the valley, head to the west; he lives at the house with a triple
pagoda. On foot the journey takes a day. With a raft less than an hour." He bowed again. "My lord, may good fortune
attend each step you take."
"And may happiness fill your days."
Gar Cheng was a small, wizened, snapping turtle of a man with a straggle of thinning hair and a mouth which
looked as if it had tasted a rotten fruit. He hissed as he examined Neema's arm, his dark eyes accusing as he stared at
Dumarest.
"This woman should have received immediate medical attention. To have neglected the injury was inexcusable.
Why have you waited so long?"
"We had no choice, Doc." The narcotic she had chewed had slurred the woman's voice. "And we had no drugs or
prophylactics. Don't blame Earl, blame circumstance." She began to giggle.
"Prenchet," said Dumarest. "She'd chewed a pod before I could stop her." He held out the other. "Bad?"
"Undesirable. In its raw state prenchet is a strongly addictive narcotic. At times I wonder how the hell farmers
manage to resist its lure." The doctor shrugged. "Well, no matter. 'The damage has been done and, at least, she will
have interesting dreams." He probed at the mangled flesh. "Have you money?"
"Yes."
"That is well. If you hadn't, I would still treat the woman, but in that case all I could do would be to amputate.
Later you could buy a prosthetic or a regraft, but that, of course, would be up to you. As it is, I can perform extensive
surgery which, coupled with the use of hormones and slow-time, will repair the damage. Such treatment is expensive.
Aside from the use of my skill there are others to pay and the things I need do not come cheap."
"Get them," said Dumarest. "Do whatever is needed. She can pay."
"In advance?" Gar Cheng frowned at the gems Dumarest placed in his hand. "I'm not a jeweler. These stones
mean nothing to me. Have you no cash?"
Neema giggled again. "What's he want, Earl? Money?" She tugged at the belt around her waist. It revealed the
flash of jewels, the glint of metal. "Here's money. How much do you want? Five hundred stergals? A thousand? Help
yourself !"
Dumarest helped himself to a handful of coins. "Two hundred," he said, counting. "I need it. All right, Neema?"
"Sure." She swayed, eyes closing. "Anything you want, Earl. Anything you want. Me, the loot, anything. Just ask
and it's yours."
Gar Cheng took the belt from her hands. She was lax, breathing deeply, already lost in narcotic dreams. "I will
take care of this. Later, when she has recovered, she can settle my bill. And now, if you will excuse me, there is much
to do and no more time should be wasted."
Outside the others waited in the raft Preleret was asleep; Tambolt nodded as he sat at the controls. Reaction had
caught them, the effect of the food, the relief of having arrived safe at the Valley of Charne. Dumarest felt the grit in
his eyes, the sapping ache of strength used and almost exhausted. He wanted to find the tavern, the big man, the boy,
but caution dictated delay.
The big man had killed and could kill again. He would be fresh and alert and perhaps suspicious of strangers.
Against him an exhausted man would stand little chance and a dead man was useless to Jondelle.
Tambolt said, "What now, Earl?"
"Sleep," said Dumarest, deciding. "A few hours at least."
"And then?"
"We find the Sumba."

Chapter Seventeen
It was not what he had expected. The Charnian in the mine had called it a tavern, but it was far more than that. A
vastly sprawling place of bars, and baths, and discrete rooms… of open spaces and amusements, fountains and
tinkling lanterns. In the mist it looked ghostly, unreal, patches of light swelling to vanish in blurs of fading color,
others blooming to take their place. By day it was an intricate complex of rooms and halls and covered ways, by night
a fairylike palace of music, perfume, and mysterious enigma.
"One man," said Tambolt. "In a place like this."
"Well find him," said Dumarest. "If he's here. You're good at that kind of thing, Tambolt And you've got eyes and
ears, Preleret. Move around, watch, ask a few questions. You're looking for a big man, almost a giant Heeg Euluch. If
you spot him, don't talk to him and try not to arouse suspicion."
Preleret said, "And if we find him?"
"There's a bar, the Paradisa Room. If I'm not there, wait for me. I'll drop in as often as I can. Move now. We've
wasted enough time."
Too much, thought Dumarest as they moved away, vanishing almost at once in the swirling mist. A whole day…
and yet it couldn't be helped. They had needed the rest and a place like the Sumba wouldn't come really alive until
the night. If Euluch followed the usual pattern of his kind, now was the best time to find him.
He stepped ahead, cautiously, hearing water gurgle to his right, a gusting sigh from his left. Fountains and wind-
operated bubble-throwers, both devoid of their visual magic in the clinging mist which filled the valley. The path
grated underfoot, the sound changing from the rasp of gravel to the crunch of shell, to the ting of metal, to the splash
of rain. An attendant, his eyes masked by fog-penetrating goggles, loomed from one side. He carried a club.
"You are bemused, sir?"
"A little."
"Then you are new to the Sumba. The paths tell a discerning ear which direction they take. Music toward the
palace of joy, light, enchanting, a little more somber on the return. To the gaming rooms? Then we have the
unmistakable clink of coin, the familiar rattle of dice. To the baths? What else but the tinkle of water. To the bars?
The gush of wine and the susurration of murmuring voices. A most cunning introduction, as I think you will agree.
But then, the Sumba is no ordinary place."
"No," said Dumarest.
"Of course for those who do not care to wander the night the inner complex yields on to each and every room
and chamber of intriguing delight. If I may guide you, sir, I will show you the way."
"I'd like to look around," said Dumarest. "Is that possible?"
"At any time during the day, most certainly. At night?" The figure shrugged. "The mist holds a magic which must
not be dissipated. A pleasant companion gains an added mystery when wreathed with the vapors of Charne. To stroll
along the paths is an adventure for foot and ear with each step filled with potential romance. There are ladies here,
sir, of high quality who would not care to be exposed to eyes which stare too hard and look too long. Discretion, sir, is
all, and in the Sumba we are most discreet. Wander as you will, but wander as you are. The rule, sir, and rules must
not be broken. Those locked in the passion of love must rest assured that none can see better than they. And love, sir,
on soft couches all around which only a questing foot can find, is easy to find for one who stands and waits."
Harpies haunting the mist eager to sell fleshy delights, and perhaps more than harpies. Or, no, the guards would
take care of that with their goggles and clubs. Here the rich and depraved would be safe from those eager to rob
without finesse.
"A large place," said Dumarest. He had been taken for a stranger seeking casual amusement. A ready-made
excuse and a natural protection.
"Very large," agreed the guard. "If you wish, I could find you pleasant company. A girl from Ikinold, perhaps?"
"Or a boy from Relad?"
For a moment the man hesitated, then said, regretfully, "A boy, sir, yes, but not from Relad. Shall I—"
"Later," said Dumarest quickly. "First I shall look inside. If you will guide me?"
Triple doors kept out the mist, polarized so as to keep in the light. Inside it was warm and dry with only a hint of
vapor marring the clarity of the air. The Paradisa Room was a transposed portion of jungle with false vegetation
covering walls and ceiling, a dozen varieties of fruit hanging low, mechanical simulacra moving, peering from behind
leaves and boles to vanish as soon as seen. The air was heavy with tropical odors, stirring with the sub-audible beat
of drums, of rain, of distant thunder.
The bar was in the shape of split trees, the drinks served in plastic fashioned into the likeness of fruit shells.
Dumarest ordered and sat nursing his drink. He did not have to wait long. A girl, wearing only a string of beads and a
dress of synthetic skin which left one shoulder and breast bare, sat beside him. The dress was cut to the hip and
showed the silken sheen of her thigh. Her feet were painted blue, the nails red, the soles a dusty green. The motif was
continued over her body and gave her face a mask-like appearance.
"You are alone," she said. "In the Sumba no one should be alone. For a stergal I will talk to you for thirty minutes.
For ten I am yours for an hour to do with as you please."
"I am looking for a friend of mine," said Dumarest. "Perhaps you know him. A big man. Heeg Euluch."
"You may call me Odenda. For a stergal I will talk to you for thirty minutes."
"Go to hell," said Dumarest. He caught the bartender's eye and waved him over. The man stared blankly as he
repeated his question.
"Euluch? Never heard of him. You want another drink?"
Dumarest dropped a coin on the bar. "No drink. Just answers. If you know the big man, tell him a friend wants to
see him. I'll be moving around."
He had told the others to be cautious, but he made no attempt at caution himself. He passed through the rooms,
buying unwanted drinks, asking always the same question, always receiving the same answer. No one knew the big
man. No one knew anyone named Heeg Euluch. But someone would carry the word and, maybe, the man would be
curious enough to show himself.
If he was here. If the man in the mine had told the truth. If he just wasn't wasting his time.
Back in the Paradisa Room Preleret was waiting. He caught Dumarest's eye, saw the faint signal, and shook his
head. Tambolt came in a moment later. He grinned at Odenda, then looked at Dumarest with amazement.
"Earl! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were busy with—well, you know. How did you make out?"
"Fine. I was lucky, Famur wasn't. The big one and Urlat got away. You want a drink?"
Tambolt had a drink. Odenda came to Dumarest and slipped her arm through his. Softly she said, "One stergal
and we talk. Ten and you play, if that is your desire. Twenty and I will tell you what you want to know."
"I told you once—"
"—to go to hell. Yes, I heard you. Are we in business, mister, or not?" In the painted face the eyes were hard, the
lips parted to show teeth too white and too sharp. In the dim light of the bar she reminded Dumarest of a
Melevganian.
He said, "Twenty stergals for an introduction to a man I want to do business with? You must be crazy."
"Ten then."
"Five—payable after we've met."
"Mister, when that happens I won't be around. Give me the money." She tucked it somewhere within her dress.
"Heeg Euluch is a big man in more ways than one. He owns part of the Sumba. Are you really his friend?"
"Money is. I can help him to get it."
"If you can't, then start running." She shrugged as Dumarest made no effort to move. "Well, it's your neck. Go to
the gaming room. Play a little spectrum. Wait."
The game was a seven-card deal, two draws, the object being to make a complete spectrum, red low, violet high.
A game with too many variables for Dumarest's liking, but he played as ordered. After thirty minutes in which he won
a hundred stergals a voice whispered in his ear.
"All right, mister. You want to meet Heeg Euluch. Come with us."
Two of them, young, lithe with the arrogance of those accustomed to power. They led him from the gaming room
down long passages, through doors, and into an empty chamber. Another door and he faced a man behind a desk. A
big man with hair tight against his skull. Eyes almost lost in folds of fat, the material of his shirt tight across his
shoulders.
As the men who had escorted Dumarest left the room he said, "You wanted to see me? I'm Heeg Euluch."
Dumarest frowned. The voice was too high, even allowing for the distortion of a helmet. And there was a softness
about the shoulders, a weakness about the chin.
He said, "Stand up."
"What? Now—"
"Up," snapped Dumarest. "Get on your feet!"
The man grunted, rising to stand behind the desk. He was big, his paunch round, sagging, thighs like the boles of
trees.
"All right," said Dumarest. "It's polite to stand when greeting a visitor. Now let's end this charade. You're not
Heeg. Where is he?"
The man shrugged. "Don't take it hard. We had to be sure you knew him. Heeg! Come out now!"
A door at the rear opened and a giant stepped into the room.
He was huge with muscle where the other was bloated with fat. His head towered, the features hard, his mouth a
slash of savagery against the thrust of his jaw. A man who would think nothing of killing, cheating, abandoning those
who worked with him, of stealing a child—if by doing so, he could gain personal advantage.
"I'm Heeg." His voice was deep, resonant. "You seem to know me, but I don't know you. Who told you where to
find me?"
"Sheem. He wasn't happy at the way you left him."
"That's his grief. And?"
"I was wondering what happened to Chen Urlat. We had a deal going."
"Forget it. Urlat's dead."
Urlat and the two others who had been in the raft. The Melevganians who had probably been lasered down
together with Urlat and dumped over the side so as to leave the big man in undisputed possession of Jondelle.
Dumarest said, "I've come to buy something—you know what. Are you able to sell?"
"Maybe." The hard eyes grew thoughtful. To the fat man Heeg said, "You've got something to do. Do it."
"But, Heeg—"
"Go and get us some wine. Move!"
"Good," said Dumarest as the man left. "We don't need witnesses. You have the boy?"
"And if I have?"
"To buy him. Ten thousand stergals. The cash in your hand by noon tomorrow. A deal?"
"There's a door behind you," said Heeg. "Get on the other side of it."
"All right," said Dumarest. "I was keeping it low. You can't blame me for that. Deliver the boy and I'll put twenty
thousand in your hand."
He had hit the right level. The man frowned, greed bright in his eyes, then he shook his head.
"I want thirty."
A bargaining price and inwardly Dumarest relaxed. The man could be lying, the boy could have been passed on if
that had been the original intention, but he doubted it A man like Heeg would hold to out the last, upping the price as
high as the traffic would bear. Or he could be trying a bluff; the boy could be dead. He felt the tension return at the
thought of it. With an effort he remained calm.
"You ask too much. The market won't stand it and I've got to get my profit. Of course, if you want to pass him on
and get robbed on the deal, that's your business. How much were you offered? Ten? Twelve?" He caught the
betraying tension, the tiny, revealing signs learned from endless hours facing others across countless gambling tables.
"I'm offering a fat profit and no risk. Just hand over the boy and I'll take care of the other end." He paused and added,
casually, "Do I know who arranged this?"
"You're smart," grated Heeg. "Maybe too damned smart. Make it twenty-five."
"Twenty." It would be a mistake to agree too quickly.
"I can get that with no grief. It's just a matter of waiting. And why should I deal with you anyway? I don't know
you. Why should I take your word?"
"About what?" Dumarest shrugged. "The money? You don't hand over the boy until you get it. You don't know
me? What the hell does that matter? I know you and what you did. You jumped the gun, is all. You beat me to it. Well,
it happens. You spend time arranging a deal and then someone gets in first. But you're being sold short. So why not
cut out the middle man? I'm willing to buy what you hold. Twenty thousand. A deal?"
Heeg scowled. A big man who relied on brute strength rather than mental agility, a greedy man and therefore
weak.
"Add five and the boy's yours. It's my last word. Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it, but I've got to see him." Dumarest met the other man's eyes. "I want to know he's still alive," he said
coldly. "Dead he's useless to you and me both. I don't intend buying something I can't sell. Where is he?"
"Here," said the big man. "In the Sumba. In the Mirage."

Chapter Eighteen
He looked very small and very pathetic as he sat in a small room containing only a bed, a rug, a single chair. He
wore a jumper suit of dull green, pointed shoes on his feet, the beads around his neck the only touch of cheerful
color. Instinctively Dumarest took a step toward him, grunting as he collided with a smooth, unyielding surface. Heeg
laughed. "Neat, isn’t it? You see the kid, but he can't see you. You can watch him, but you can't touch him or talk to
him. Well, there he is. Twenty-five thousand and he's yours. Satisfied?"
"No." Dumarest reached out and touched the surface depicting the boy. A mirror, he guessed, portraying a scene
relayed by other mirrors and lenses. He looked upward and saw a disk of light. "This could be a projection. The boy
could be dead and this a taped recording."
"It isn't."
"I've got to be sure. I want to touch the boy, talk to him."
"You want too damn much," snapped Heeg. "You've seen the merchandise. You can talk to him when I see the
money. Have it here at noon tomorrow and we'll make the swap. Now get the hell out of here. That door will take you
outside."
The mist was thick, clammy now that the night was old and the air chill. Dumarest heard the path beneath his
boots, the thin shattering of crystal, too reminiscent of a child's tears. Had Jondelle cried? Sitting like an animal in his
cage of a room, had he known the bleakness of despair? Or was he numbed by events beyond his experience,
withdrawing into his own world of private fantasy, finding comfort in the familiar touch of a bedcover, the beads
placed by his mother around his neck. A guard loomed from the darkness. "Sir?"
"The Paradisa Room. Direct me." It was busier now, men and women filling the air with strained gaiety. Preleret
nursed a drink in a corner. He caught Dumarest's eye, finished his drink, and went outside. Five minutes later
Dumarest followed.
In the mist he said, "Get Tambolt. The boy's here. I've seen him. I'm going to get him out."
From a locked building, probably guarded, in an area shielded by mist. But Heeg would not have trusted too
many with his secret. And he could be overconfident, planning, no doubt, to take the money and keep the boy.
Waiting for the others to return Dumarest prowled the area. From somewhere a woman laughed, the sound
sensual in the mist There was a creak and the echo of hard breathing. Running feet filled the air with a medley of
sounds and a mechanism nearby filled the mist with a gush of cloying perfume.
He halted, looking helpless, swearing as he turned, apparently hopelessly lost.
"Is anyone here? I need help."
A shadow thickened, revealed itself as a guard. "Sir, I am at your ser—"
The smooth voice broke as Dumarest slammed his fist into the stomach. As the man doubled he struck again, the
edge of his stiffened hand impacting the nerves in the side of the neck. The man was not dead, but would remain
unconscious for an hour. Dumarest tore off the goggles, donned them, rose gripping the club. Around him the
grounds of the Sumba sprang to life.
It was a pale, eerily green scene, people showing as warm figures against the trees, the buildings. Other guards
stood or strolled at the side of the echoing paths. Dumarest followed one, lifting an arm in casual greeting as the man
turned. Goggled, dressed in neutral gray, the club at his side, he looked enough like a companion to lull the man's
suspicions. By the time the guard realized his mistake it was too late. Then another, and Dumarest walked with spare
goggles and clubs to where Preleret and Tambolt stood blinking in the mist.
"Take these." He handed over the equipment. "Stay off the paths and follow me. If anyone tries to stop us, get
them before they can give the alarm."
The building where he had seen the boy lay a short distance from the main complex, joined to it by a covered
passage. It was a low place with a roof almost flat, a hexagonal structure with blank walls and two doors.
Dumarest passed the one by which he had left and halted at the other. It was on the far side, away from the main
buildings, faced by a pool of water set in a sloping lawn. Beyond it rose the high wall of the enclosure.
From the other side of the building came the sound of tinkling glass.
"Quick!" whispered Dumarest. "On the roof !"
Two guards came around the building as they settled on the edge of the eaves. Their voices were low, slurred by
the mist.
"Seems pointless to me. No one ever comes this way at night. Nothing to see or do."
His companion shrugged. "Heeg said to keep watch, so that's what we do. Maybe he's afraid someone will fall
into the pool."
"We'd hear them if they did. I've got some prenchet here, want a chew?"
"Well—" The guard hesitated. "Just a little, then. A third of a pod."
They passed and Dumarest relaxed a little. To Tambolt he whispered, "Stay here and keep watch. I'm taking
Preleret over the roof."
It was tiled with wide slabs of thin pottery and had no trap or other means of entry. Dumarest sprawled over it,
his ear hard to the chill surface. He moved, listened, moved again. A thin hum came from below, machinery of some
kind, a device to eliminate the mist from the air inside. Lifting the knife from his boot, he thrust the point between two
of the tiles, levered upward, thrust his fingers beneath the edge.
Preleret joined him and together they lifted the slab and set it soundlessly to one side. Warm air gusted from the
opening. Beneath lay a blank surface, the softly humming bulk of a machine. Beside it lay the rim of an access trap. It
opened to a room bright with reflections. Dumarest dropped through, Preleret following, images flashing all around as
they lifted the goggles from their eyes.
"A maze," whispered Preleret. "Mirrors everywhere. What the hell is this, Earl?"
An amusement for those so inclined. Artificial mirages supplied by electronic means so that those entering would
be surrounded by a constantly changing variety of scenes. They would wander, turning, baffled by reflective surfaces,
bemused and deceived by visual images.
There were no scenes now, the electronic devices inoperative, but the mirrors remained showing their figures in a
dozen different positions. There would be small rooms leading one into the other, twists, turns, angled passages and
still more compartments. In one of them must be the boy.
Dumarest lowered the goggles. The reflections vanished to be replaced by the eerie greenness of transmuted
infrared light. A point glowed brighter than the rest, a concentrated blob of unrecognizable shape surrounded by a
nimbus of light A living thing radiated heat. The blob could be the boy, the nimbus the room in which he sat.
"There," he said to Preleret. "Lower your goggles and you can see it. Maybe twenty yards ahead."
"Twenty?" Preleret sounded dubious. "Three more like."
Dumarest turned, lifting his goggles. Preleret was looking in the wrong direction. He dived, hitting the man low,
knocking him to one side as something burned a hole in the mirror before which he had stood.
"Earl! What—"
The mirror shattered, falling in a rain of glinting crystal. Framed hugely in the opening Heeg Euluch said, "I
expected something like this. Well, it seems it was a good idea to check my investment." He lifted his right hand, the
laser it contained. "Too bad you couldn't play it straight."
"Thirty thousand," said Dumarest quickly. "Pull that trigger and that's what you lose."
"Begging?"
"Talking sense." Dumarest rose, turning so as to hide the club at his side. "Talking money. You like money, Heeg.
That's why you killed to get the boy, why you don't want your partners to know what you have. They'd want a cut and
you don't want to give it to them. Thirty thousand and it could be all yours. Yes?"
"No." The laser wavered a little, moving from Dumarest to Preleret and back again. The arc widened as Dumarest
edged from the other man. "This is the end of the road for you both. You get it first." The laser jerked at Preleret.
"And you get it after you tell me a few things." The gun moved toward Dumarest. "And you'll tell me. That I promise."
Dumarest threw the club.
It flashed, spinning as he jumped aside, slamming against the laser and knocking it from the big man's hand.
Before it had fallen Dumarest was on him, the knife in his hand a glittering arc as it flashed upward at the stomach. It
hit, slashed the yellow fabric of the tunic, halted as it struck the mesh beneath. Body armor—he should have
expected it.
He sprang backward as the giant hands reached for his eyes, felt the impact of something solid, then fell in a rain
of shattered glass. He rose as Heeg reached for the laser, drawing back his arm, sending the knife like an extension of
his hand to bury itself deep in the corded throat.
Bleakly he watched the big man die.
"Fast," said Preleret. He had scooped up the laser and held it as he stared wonderingly at Dumarest. "I knew you
were quick, but not that quick." He looked at Heeg. "You tried to gut him. You could have got him in the throat to
begin with, but you tried to gut him. Why, Earl?"
A farm ruined, a woman killed, a boy stolen, workers slain by imported devils. Jasken gone, others, blood spilled
for the sake of gain.
"He asked for it," said Dumarest coldly. "Now let's find the boy."
A solid cube lay in a nest of supporting stanchions approached through a maze of carefully aligned planes of
mirrored glass. A bolt fastened the door. Dumarest tore it free and heaved at the portal. It opened to reveal a tiny
room, a bed, a single chair, the small figure of a boy who looked up, his eyes wide in the rounded pallor of his face.
"Earl! Is that you?"
"Jondelle!" He came running as Dumarest dropped to one knee, throwing himself into the extended arms, his
small weight hard against his chest. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, Earl." The voice was muffled. "I've been very lonely and scared, but I knew you would come to save me. I
just knew it." The supreme faith of children which gave to their heroes the attributes of a god. "Are we going home
now?"
Up to the roof where Tambolt waited. Down to the ground and over the wall with the laser to cut down all
opposition and the raft to waft them to safety.
"Yes," said Dumarest. "We're going home."

Chapter Nineteen
The wine was as he remembered, red, sweet, cloying to the tongue, but now it seemed to have an added flavor
which made it impossible to drink. Dumarest set down the goblet as Akon Batik spoke.
"A successful termination to a dangerous enterprise, Earl. You have reason to be gratified. More, perhaps, than
you realize. Now, if you will let me handle the transaction, much profit may be gained by all."
"No," said Dumarest. "The boy is not for sale."
"But—" The jeweler broke off, then shrugged. "A matter of terminology. You, naturally, can claim to be rewarded
for what you have done. There have been high expenses and much risk. Those who care for the lad will not be
ungrateful. I think five thousand stergals would not be too much to expect I will give it to you—on taking charge of
the boy, of course, and will reclaim it later."
"No." Dumarest looked at his wine. "You mentioned a proposition the first time we met. A job of work to be done.
Is it still available?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"The need no longer exists?" Dumarest shrugged. "Of course not. Neema is safe now. She no longer wants
someone to go to Melevgan and rescue her. That was the proposition, wasn't it? That I should go and collect her so
that you could collect fat profits at no risk. The fee, her jewels—you are a shrewd man, Akon Batik."
"One who takes advantage of an opportunity, Earl. If that is to be shrewd, then I must confess to the fault. But
you must admit that, as far as you were concerned, I proved of service."
"Tambolt," agreed Dumarest. "A man sent to me because he was a man I could use. But I think he was a little
more than that. Your agent to keep an eye on things, to work on your behalf. Unfortunately you didn't know him all
that well. Tambolt would sell his own mother for gain," He added, "I think he believes I tricked him. I promised him
half of what I would get for the boy—which was a half of exactly nothing. He had to be content with his third of the
agreed profit."
"The reward—"
"I didn't go after Jondelle for reward! I went because—well, never mind."
"A promise," said the jeweler softly. "Your word. Sometimes I am amazed at the stupidity of men. What was the
boy to you? Why did you have to risk your life to get him? To kill and have men killed. And never was the boy in any
real danger. Time would have cured all. An exchange, as you have said, the passing of money and he would have
been returned. It was simply a matter of negotiation."
"As you say—a matter of negotiation."
"Exactly. So why should you deny yourself the chance of gain? Five thousand, ten High passages, a small fortune.
Shall we drink to it?"
Dumarest said, "No. I do not care for your wine. It has a taste I can't stomach."
"A taste?" The jeweler frowned. "You suspect poison?"
Dumarest rose and moved from the chair where lasers, if any, would be aimed. He said, coldly, "Not poison—
vileness. A man cannot be blamed for his nature, but some men go too far. Money becomes their god, their only
reason for being, and, when it does, they stop being human. They become like the things found under an overturned
stone. Spiders sitting in a web of intrigue, manipulating men and women, arranging, hinting, offering, doing nothing
but creating desolation. I should kill you. I should bury a knife in your throat as I did Heeg Euluch. You arranged with
him to steal the boy. You contacted Neema by radio and there are radios in Charne. Maybe Elray was first
approached, or he could even have contacted you—it doesn't matter now. When you failed to get him in the city, you
obtained other help. Fast rafts, willing men, agents to do your bidding. Or perhaps you had everything arranged in
case of initial failure."
"You are shrewd and clever—and you deserve to die. But I won't kill you. I don't have to. Time will do that soon
enough. You're old, Akon Batik. Too old to be given the mercy of a quick end. So sit and wait for your bones to stiffen
and your faculties to weaken. Until, maybe, someone treats you exactly as you treat others."
Outside the air was clean, invigorating after the nest in which the jeweler sat. Dumarest hailed a cab and was
driven to the hotel. It was a big place, the best in Sargone. Neema met him as he entered the suite. She was radiant,
her arm healed, neatly and quietly dressed in a gown which covered her from neck to ankles.
 "Preleret's gone, Earl. He's taken his cash and his woman and gone riding High. To Rodyne, I think. He said that
you didn't need thanks, but he left them just the same."
"A good man," said Dumarest. "He'll be happy."
"As I will be."
"In Urmile?"
"On some other world. I've had enough of Ourelle, Earl. Now that you don't need me to look after the boy—" She
paused and said, softly, "Earl?"
Gently he shook his head. "No, Neema."
"Well, I asked." She managed to smile. "You're not a man to be held by any woman, Earl. I know that, but I had to
try. Did you see the jeweler?"
"Yes, but I learned nothing new. I guess I lost my temper. It was a mistake, perhaps, but I couldn't help it."
"Did you kill him?"
"No."
"Then you didn't lose your temper. You simply told him a few things he should have known. And, perhaps,
verified things you had suspected." She came very close, resting her hand on his arm. "I'll be off now. The boy is in
the other room with the monk and his people. I don't suppose I'll ever see you again, but I'm going to think of you
often. So good-bye, my dear, and may good fortune attend each step you take."
"And may your life be full of gladness."
She kissed him once and then was gone, leaving the room strangely empty, a hint of her perfume hanging in the
air as if she had become a disembodied ghost haunting him with vague regrets of what might have been.
A woman, a home, a son, perhaps, like Jondelle. Drawing a deep breath Dumarest went into the room where the
boy waited with Brother Elas and two others.
He sat on the edge of the bed, very busy with his beads, running them through his fingers, lifting them to his ear
as if to listen to forgotten voices. Toys lay beside him, a fluffy, round-eared, bright-eyed creature with a snub nose and
cheerful smile almost as large as himself. A spaceship which could be dismantled and reassembled. A colorscope
which showed endless patterns at the touch of a button, the shapes rearranging themselves beneath directed
compulsion. Some books, blocks of transparent plastic containing variable images, a knife.
Jondelle lifted it and threw it clumsily at the pillow. The plastic blade bent and left the material unharmed.
"One day, Earl, I'm going to learn to throw it just like you."
"One day," he said.
"And then no one will be able to take me away again. They won't be able to hurt anyone like they did Elray and
Makgar." The full bottom lip trembled a little. "I shall kill them if they try. Oh, Earl! Why did they do it? Why?"
Dumarest held him, feeling the small body shake, the wetness of sudden tears. The adult words had gone, the
calm behavior, now there was only a very small and bewildered child.
He said, "It's all right, Jondelle. Everything's going to be all right from now. A bad thing has happened, but it will
pass. You have had bad dreams, haven't you? Well, sometimes life is like a bad dream. But you forget dreams and you
can forget unhappiness. So you must try to do that You promise?"
"I promise."
"Good. Go with Brother Elas now and wash your face."
"You'll be here when I come back?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I'll be here."
He rose as the monk ushered the boy from the room, looking at the others for the first time. A man and woman,
neither young, both blond, blue-eyed, looking as if they were brother and sister.
"Tharg Hamsen," said the man, extending his hand. "And my wife, Wilma."
Dumarest took the extended hand and pressed it.
"You know the old customs; good." The man smiled, then became grave. "To talk of thanks at a time like this is to
use empty words. You have found our grandson—what can I say?"
"Nothing." Dumarest looked from one to the other, seeing the similarities, the telltale marks of blood-relationship.
Selective inbreeding, he guessed, common on many worlds among races which aimed at a desired goal. But neither
would have chosen Makgar for their son's wife. She had been totally different from what they would have accepted as
a desirable mate. Carefully he said, "Your son must have presented you with quite a problem."
"Jak?" The man frowned. "No, he was a good boy. I cannot understand what you mean."
"You are obtuse, Tharg." His wife with her woman's intuition had grasped Dumarest's meaning. "Earl is being
delicate. But you are mistaken, my friend. The woman you knew as Makgar was not Jondelle's mother. She bore him,
true, but while Jak provided the seed she did not provide the egg. You understand?"
"A plant?"
 "Yes. The fertilized egg taken from the womb of one woman and planted in the womb of another. Tharg?"
"Jak and May were on Veido, a working honeymoon. She was newly pregnant and they were as happy as a
couple can be. There was an accident, a ground car—the details don't matter. Jak was killed instantly, May was
injured, dying, and with her would die the child. The child and the precious genes it carried!" He paused, breathing
deeply, continuing in a calmer tone. "Perhaps you don't understand. We are inbred as you can see and that tends to
lead to a degree of sterility. Jak was our only child, the last of his line. If his genes were lost, it would set back a
program for unknown years. The work of a hundred generations lost because of a trick of fate. I—"
"They were connected with a scientific establishment on Veido," said Wilma as he broke off. "Kamar Ragnack—
Makgar—was a technician attached to the medical side. She and May were friends and she volunteered to have the
fertilized egg transplanted into her womb. It was done. May died. Time passed and the baby, Jondelle, was born. It is
essential to the well-being of a newly born child to stay with its mother and so we arranged for them to occupy a
small house close to the city. And then, one day, the woman vanished taking the child with her."
Dumarest said, "Was there duress?"
"None." The woman looked down at her hands. They were clenched. Slowly she unfolded them. "I can
understand," she said. "As a mother I can understand. And Jondelle was not a normal child. He was bred to develop a
high sympathy-reaction, a survival trait which we consider to be important. It was just that Kamar couldn't bear to
part with him. She wanted him beside her, to keep for always. The normal reaction of any woman toward the child of
her body. I can understand—but I don't find it easy to forgive."
"Six years," said Tharg heavily. "Asking, searching, offering rewards. A long time."
Long enough for men like Akon Batik to have scented the bait. For Elray to have realized the value of what he
had. For a home to be disrupted and the boy used as a pawn.
Dumarest said, "Was there another reason why Makgar could have taken the child? To protect him, perhaps?"
"From whom? Us?"
A suspicion, but one which was always with him. "Are there cybers on Veido?"
"Yes," said Tharg. "There are."
"And on your own world?"
"Kreem? No."
"Perhaps you had better make sure there never are," said Dumarest. "The Cyclan are always interested in
potential advantage. A boy, bred to hold the qualities you say, would be most useful. Well, you have him… take care
of him."
"Need you say that?" The man sighed. "I understand. The galaxy is full of enemies and who is Jondelle not to
have his share? But he will be protected; have no fear of that. We know how to take care of our own. And we know
how to reward those who wish us well."
"Money," said the woman. "But more than that. Something you value more than the cost of a few High passages.
Brother Elas told us of your search. He learned of it from the records on Hope. Perhaps we can help you to find your
home."
"Earth?"
"The legendary world," said Tharg quietly. "Some believe in it, most do not. There are those who are convinced it
was the home of the human race. A place from which they fled in terror." His voice deepened, contained echoes
which rolled like drums. "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed
will the race of Man be again united."
The creed of the Original People. Dumarest turned from where he stood beside the window, staring, mind
burning with a sudden suspicion. The Original People. These? Were they members of the cult? It so, they would never
admit it and be would lose anything he hoped to gain by pressing too hard. Already they had said too much if they
followed the ancient ways.
"I have investigated old legends," said Tharg blandly. "From what I can discover, Earth must lie somewhere in the
seventh decan. It is a planet circling a yellow, G-type star. It should not be too difficult to hire a computer to
determine the exact position of each such star in that area."
Another clue to add to the rest. The final one, perhaps, to solve the problem of where the planet of his birth was
to be found.
The door to the bathroom opened and Brother Elas ushered Jondelle into the room. It was time to say goodbye.
"I wondered if you'd be here, Earl. But you promised and I knew that you would. Earl, can't you come with us?"
"No." Dumarest dropped to one knee as he had done once before, feeling again the small body in his arms, the
weight against his chest. "I've other things to do, Jondelle, and so have you."
"Shall I see you again?"
"Perhaps. Who can tell what the future will bring? But I shall always remember you."
 "And I you, Earl." He stepped back, very small but very upright, his square shoulders framed against the bed and
the toys his grandparents had brought. The people who would give him all the love and security he would need. The
things every child should have by right. He held out his hand, an odd gesture recently learned.
"Good-bye, Earl."
Dumarest took the little hand, squeezed it. "Good-bye, son."
Beyond the window lay the city, the spacefield, the ships which would carry him on his way. They seemed blurred
and he guessed it must be raining.

ZENYA

Chapter One
She was tall, with a mass of golden hair raised and crested in an aureole above her head. Thick strands ran from
her temples, cut and shaped into up-curving points which accentuated the high bones and slight concavity of her
cheeks. Her jaw was round, with a determined hardness, and her lips were full, the lower pouting in betraying
sensuality. Her eyes were deep-set, glowing amber, wide-spaced beneath arching brows, their upward slant giving her
the appearance of a watchful cat.
She had, Dumarest realized, been studying him with unusual interest.
Slowly he turned the page of the ancient volume lying before him on the reading desk, not looking at the crabbed
text beneath its transparent coating, but concentrating on the girl.
She wore a dress of luminous gold, rich fabric falling from throat to knee, cinctured at the waist, and tight against
the contours of her body. Her arms were bare, coiled bracelets in the design of serpents rising from wrists to elbows,
gems bright against the precious metal. Her fingers were long, tapering, devoid of rings, the nails painted to match
her dress. Her skin was a lustrous bronze.
She was young, obviously wealthy, and completely out of place. Such a woman would not haunt the musty
confines of the Archives of Paiyar. Her type would be found at the stadium, at fashion shows, at parties, at the
auctions where debtors were sold into bondage, at the market where merchants offered jewels and rare fabrics,
perfumes from a dozen worlds, unguents, and titivating lotions. Not even the lowest of courtesans would waste her
time in such a place.
Dumarest turned another page. The volume was the log of some old vessel, boring in its listing of minutiae,
devoid of the information he sought. He closed it, added it to a pile of others, and took the entire heap to a desk
where a woman checked them against a card.
Smiling, she said, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"No."
"I'm sorry." Her voice held genuine regret. I'm afraid they are the oldest logs we possess. There is another, that of
the Merle—a trading vessel which touched on several worlds. It is of interest because the ship encountered an
electronic storm which threw it far from its designated path. Perhaps…?"
"Thank you, but no." Dumarest returned the smile. "What I am looking for is something much earlier. A log made
at the time when navigational tables were not as they are now. Or a set of tables as used before the present system
became established. Apparently you have nothing like that."
"No," she admitted reluctantly, "we haven't. But would such tables exist? I know little about spacial navigation, but
surely the tables used now are the same as they have always been?"
"Perhaps, but I was hoping…" Dumarest broke off, shrugging. "Well, it doesn't matter. It was a thin hope at best."
But one which had to be investigated. Old logs read and records searched, as he had done before on too many
worlds. Books, microfilms, all examined and crosschecked, to be finally discarded as valueless to his search. And yet,
somewhere, had to be the answer.
The woman said, "I have no wish to be curious, but if you could tell me just what it is you are looking for, I might
be able to help."
"A place. A world," said Dumarest. He added bleakly, "You would call it a legend."
"Legendary worlds?" She frowned, thinking. "I'm sure that we have something in that field. A volume compiled by
an old scholar. His name is…?" The frown deepened. "Sazy… Dazym Negaso! That's the one! He spent a lifetime
correlating old myths. I'm sure the book would contain the information you are looking for. I could find it if you would
care to wait."
"No, thank you."
"Tomorrow, then?"
"No," he said again. "I've read the book. It was interesting, but of no real value. A collection of rumor and wild
speculation."
And another hope gone, but he was used to that.
"That will be all, then?"
Dumarest nodded, and as the woman busied herself assessing the charge, turned to examine the gallery. At one
of the tables a thin-faced man scowled as he made copious notes. At another a matron snuffled as she searched
through a pile of recent publications. A young couple whispered from behind the shelter of reproductions of rare and
valuable Sha' Tung art. An old man dozed in a remote corner. The girl in the golden dress was nowhere to be seen.
Her absence was disturbing. Dumarest did not like to be an object of interest, especially on a world that could
contain hated enemies. It was, he decided, time to be moving on.
"Will you be back tomorrow?" The attendant was hopeful. Old though she was, she could still dream, and the tall
man had touched something within her. It wasn't just his clothes—the tunic high about the throat and falling to mid-
thigh, the pants, and high boots, all in somber gray. Rather it was the hard lines of his face, which spoke of privation,
the haunting something in his eyes, the mouth which, she guessed, could so easily become cruel. This man, she knew,
had traveled, had seen other worlds, other suns, and something of what he had experienced rode with him. So she
added, almost pleadingly, "I could take another look at the file. Maybe there is something which has been overlooked.
A scrap of information which could be of value."
Caution dictated a lie. "I'll be back," he said. "But don't bother looking for anything just yet. I'll think about it and
let you know." He counted out money, the cost of the charge. Casually he added, "There was a girl here a short while
ago. Tall, blond, wearing a golden dress. Did you see her?"
For a moment she hesitated, and then said curtly, "Yes, I saw her."
"Do you know who she is?"
"Her name, no. I've never seen her before. But she belongs to the Aihult. She wore serpents," she explained. "It is
their device."
"A powerful house?"
"One of the most powerful on Paiyar." She glanced down at the symbol she wore on her blouse, the interlocked
rings of the civil authority, and Dumarest could sense her resentment. Like himself, she lacked the protection of
house, guild, or clan, but at least she did belong to an organization. She was not wholly alone.
He said, "Did she ask about me? The books I asked for?"
"No. She merely came in and watched you." The attendant thinned her lips. "I didn't see her leave."

***

She was waiting outside in a long, musty corridor thick with shadows, the odor of wood merging with that of dust
and hanging like a miasma in the air. Without preamble she took his arm, the scent of her perfume strong in his
nostrils, replacing the odor of ancient things with that of summer blooms. The aureole of her hair came a little below
his eyes.
She said, "I am Aihult Zenya Yamaipan. You are Earl Dumarest. My grandfather wants to talk to you."
"Do I want to talk to him?"
"Does that really matter?" Her eyes were cool, faintly mocking. Her voice was a rich contralto, each word clearly
enunciated. "When the master calls, the servant obeys; and in this world, my friend, I assure you, Aihult Chan Parect
is very much a master. Shall we go?"
Dumarest resisted the tug at his arm. Flatly he said, "Let us get one thing clear. Your grandfather is not my
master, and I am not his servant. Also, I have more important things to do."
"Nothing is as important as talking to my grandfather."
"That is a matter of opinion."
"Yours or his?" Abruptly she laughed, mellow echoes ringing from the paneled walls, the low ceiling. "You know,
there isn't a person on Paiyar who wouldn't fall over themselves to answer such a directive. To be summoned to talk
to the head of the house of Aihult! They would run barefoot over broken glass to be there on time. And yet you
refuse! Refuse!"
Dryly he said, "You find that amusing?"
"Incredible, rather, but refreshing. I like a man who knows his own mind and who doesn't jump because he is told
to do just that. Tell me, have you ever fought in the stadium?"
 He said formally, "Why do you ask that, my lady?"
"Friends call me Zenya. Are you a friend?"
"That rather depends on you, my lady."
"Zenya. Have you?" She didn't wait for his answer. "Of course you have, it's obvious. Do you know how I can tell?
You have the look of someone who has faced the necessity of having to win or die. The way you walk, the way you
look—I've seen it before."
"In your other friends?"
"Some." She met his eyes, her stare direct. As she faced him, head tilted, he could see the smooth column of her
throat the tiny pulse beneath the skin. "Would you fight for me if I asked you to? One bout, naked blades, to the
death?"
"No."
"Just like that, Earl? No qualification, just a flat refusal?"
"That's right."
"Why not, Earl? Afraid?"
He said flatly, "Of dying, yes. Who isn't?"
The full lips pouted like those of a spoiled child. And that's what she was, he thought. Rich and spoiled, and,
perhaps, jaded. On the surface, at least, but there could be more, far less apparent. Why had she sought him out? Why
was she apparently alone? The rich and pampered daughter of a powerful house did not seek out strangers, and it
was incredible that she should be unattended. There would be guards somewhere, men within call, force ready to be
used in case of need.
And force directed by whom? Dumarest had the uneasy feeling that he was within the jaws of a closing trap.
"You disappoint me, Earl," she whispered. "You shouldn't have said that. A fighter never admits to being afraid of
anything, even death. And I don't think you meant it. Tell me the real reason why you wouldn't fight for me."
"You talk like a child," he said harshly. "Fighting isn't a game. That's real blood you see in the ring. Real wounds
and real pain. For you it might be the thrill of a moment, but for those taking part, it's a matter of life or death. It's
ugly, vile and…"
He broke off, remembering. The crowd, the ring of avid faces, the roar as they anticipated blood. The stink of
sweat and fear, the savagery, primitive emotion unleashed, yelling men and shrieking women, and, always, the chance
that this time he would not be able to walk away. So many little things could do it. A slip, a momentary indecision, an
accident, a snapped blade, the running out of luck, anything.
She said softly, "Yes, Earl? And…?"
"Nothing." He recognized the expression in her eyes, the look of an emotional vampire eager to feed on tales of
blood and violence. He had seen it before, too often, on the faces staring down from the expensive seats, those who
thronged the dressing rooms, finding in sweat and wounds an aphrodisiac for jaded appetites. Some fighters were
tempted to cater to such women. Those who did failed to live long.
"Please, Earl!"
Flatly he said, "Somehow, my lady, we seem to have left the subject. If you will excuse me?"
She caught up to him as he strode down the corridor, slim fingers digging into his arm.
"My grandfather?"
"I'm sure that he will survive without the pleasure of my company."
"Perhaps, but will I?"
He paused and turned to look into the slanted amber of her eyes. "You must have many friends, my lady. And I
am sure that you must know many who would be willing to fight for you. Fight… and cater to your requirements in
other ways. You will understand why I have no intention of joining their number."
"Did I ask you to do that?" She laughed and shook her head. "A test, Earl. For an hour I watched you in the gallery
and wondered what kind of man you were. You were so intent on those moldering old books, and yet the last thing
you seem to be is a scholar. And you misunderstood me. I can live without you, yes. My grandfather will survive
without your company, agreed. But should I return without you, he will not be amused. In fact, he will be very
annoyed. The Aihult are not gentle with those who fail. Need I say more?"
"No, my lady, but—"
"Zenya," she interrupted. "Don't be so formal. My name, to you, is Zenya."
"But, Zenya, that is your problem, not mine."
"You're hard," she said. "The hardest and most stubborn man I've ever met. Why won't you come and talk to
Chan Parect?"
"Why should I?"
"To extend a little courtesy to an old man."
 Dumarest shrugged. "I don't know him. I owe him nothing. And I see no need to cater to a rich man's whim. Also,
as I told you, I have other things to do."
"Such as?"
He moved on, not answering, passing through an anteroom and into the street. Outside, it was late afternoon, the
sun a crimson haze in the sky, eye-bright after the gloom of the archives. The city was alive with pedestrians, wheeled
traffic gliding silently in the roads, rafts drifting overhead like wingless birds.
And everywhere—on buildings, cars, tunics, the windows of shops, the jewelry of women—blazed the symbols
of the great houses of Paiyar. The serpent, orb, square, cone, lion, bird, star—a score of devices that advertised the
ownership and allegiance of all.
At his side the girl said quietly, "Paiyar is an unusual world, Earl. A stranger doesn't really stand much of a
chance. He doesn't belong. Did you know that my grandfather is one of the richest and most powerful men on the
planet?"
Dumarest nodded, waiting.
"I want you to talk to him, Earl. If you won't do it because you have been summoned, then do it for money. Five
hundred cran—the cost of a Low passage. You see? I translate it into terms you can understand. Five hundred. Yours
for a little conversation."
"You can get a cab here," said Dumarest. "Or perhaps you have your own transport waiting. Good-bye, my lady."
"Wait!" Her voice was sharp, a little desperate. "Don't go. Not yet. There is something else you should
understand."
"And that is?"
"I was sent to get you, Earl. Just that, and no more, but I'm not stupid, and I've a pretty good idea why my
grandfather wants to talk to you. You'd be a fool not to listen to what he has to say. Maybe he's got the answer to
what you have been looking for. What you have been searching the Archives to find out."
He said slowly, "And that is?"
"I think you know, Earl." She smiled, confident in her victory. "Shall we go now?"

***

A raft carried them over the city, riding high above massive fortresses of stone, a grim reminder of the time when
life on Paiyar had been hard and death lurked on every side. The jungles had been tamed now, the natural predators
destroyed, but always there were potential enemies. Men who wore a different symbol, houses touchy of their honor
and pride.
The citadel of Aihult rested on a low hill, twisting serpents carved in the solid granite, a pair gracing the portals.
Above the lintel the stone was fused, blotched in an irregular pattern, fragments of silica catching the crimson
sunlight and shimmering like rubies.
"A laser," said the girl casually. "It happened before I was born. A difference of opinion with the Zham—they wear
a skull. Fifty men died on both sides before it was resolved. Their tower still bears the scar of our weapons."
Inside it was cool, the air scented with brine, a sea smell both clean and refreshing. Guards were not apparent, but
slots could have held weapons and watchful eyes. Attendants, neat in tunics blazoned with serpents, guided them to
an upper chamber.
"Zenya!" A man stepped forward as they entered. His eyes glanced at Dumarest, then returned to the girl. "My
congratulations! Your success has won me a thousand cran."
"Lisa?"
"Who else? She was certain that your charms would fail and you would return alone. I was as certain that you
would not. What man could resist you? Chan Parect chose well." To Dumarest he said, "You will take wine while you
wait?"
"Wait? For how long?"
"For as long as is necessary." The man had a smooth face and the girl's slanting eyes. A brother, perhaps, or a
relative, certainly a member of the Aihult. He wore fine silks, and his hands were heavy with rings. Casually he added,
"An hour, a day, what does it matter?"
Quickly the girl said, "Zavor, pour the wine, and don't talk such rubbish."
"Rubbish?" He shrugged and handed Dumarest a goblet of crystal, finely cut and with tiny gems embedded in the
glass. The wine was a deep blue and held the scent of burning wood. "My dear, you know as well as I that our
honored grandparent has a dual appreciation of time. His summons must be answered immediately; his attention is
another matter." Lifting his own goblet, he added, "To the serpent."
The girl responded, "May it swallow all."
 A ritual toast, thought Dumarest, waiting unto the others drank before sipping the wine. It chilled lips and tongue,
ran like fire down his throat, to expand in sudden warmth in his stomach.
As he lowered his glass, Zavor said, "I was at the stadium today. Haitcel really put on a splendid performance.
Fifteen couples and five teams of seven aside. The teams weren't much, scum sold for fodder, cheap material off the
block, and promised a clean slate if they won. I suppose about eight of them managed to survive, but the couples!
Zenya, you should have seen them! Haitcel had a novel idea. He staked one foot to the ground so they couldn't run,
and armed them with twenty-inch blades. It was good, clean, fast action all the time. I won a couple of thousand on a
fighter from the Banarah province. He was clever. He didn't mess about, but put everything into the telling blow." He
laughed. "After all, if a man hasn't got a hand to hold a knife, he can't be any real challenge, can he? And that's what
he did. Lopped off the hand and then aimed at the throat. Two cuts and finish!" He made a chopping motion with the
stiffened edge of his palm. "A joy to watch an expert. You agree, Earl?"
Dumarest sipped his wine, not answering.
"Earl doesn't like fighting," said the girl.
"No?" Zavor narrowed his eyes. "A pity. We could have had a bout while waiting. Practice blades, of course, and
no real chance of getting hurt. But I suppose, to a coward, even that is a terrifying prospect."
The girl said, "Be careful, Zavor!"
"Of what?" He drank more of his wine. "Since when have the Aihult had to watch their words? A man is what he
is. Some can stand the sight of blood, and others cannot. But this world was not tamed by weaklings, and our society
has no place for strangers who come to sneer. A man can fight and lose and still command respect. How can we
respect a man who refuses to fight at all?"
Dumarest set down his goblet and stared around the chamber, conscious of watching eyes. He could see nothing,
but scanners could be relaying the scene elsewhere, and there would be guards; of that he was certain. As certain as
the fact that he was being baited for some reason. Zavor wasn't drunk, the wine wasn't responsible for his taunts, nor
for his previous lies. No manager of a stadium would stage such spectacles as he had described, if only because it
was too wasteful, too expensive, and offered too little sport.
And the girl, too—why had she been so insistent that he was a fighter?
How was it they knew so much about him?
He said, "My lord, my lady, with your permission, I wish to leave."
"Permission denied." Zavor was curt, his tone that he would have used toward a serf. The girl was more gentle.
"You can't go yet, Earl. Not until you have spoken to Chan Parect."
Again he tested the jaws of the trap which now he was convinced held him close. "I have changed my mind. I am
not interested in anything he may have to say. In any case, I have no intention of waiting here to be baited by a fool."
"A fool?" Zavor stepped forward, his voice a feral purr. "You would hardly call my sister that, so the insult must be
directed at myself. A strange word from a guest. A stranger one still when spoken by a coward. Perhaps I should have
you taught a lesson."
"As you say," said Dumarest flatly. "I am a guest. As such, I have an obligation. I recognize it if you do not."
"You compound the insult!"
"I did not expect to be faced with a tavern brawl in the citadel of the house of Aihult."
The girl said sharply, "Zavor! Don't!"
He was beyond any warning, suffused with a rage that Dumarest realized verged on the maniacal. He stepped
back as the young man advanced, noting the stance, the hands extended, the palms stiffened, the fingers clamped
together to form spears. A man trained in unarmed combat ready to use feet and hands against his opponent. A
devotee of the ring, with, perhaps, a private box at the stadium.
Dumarest tensed as he retreated. The man was dangerous, not because of his skill, but because of the house to
which he belonged. To kill him would be to commit suicide. To injure him in body or in pride would be to invite the
attention of assassins—men who would strike him down and leave him maimed, crippled, blinded perhaps, if not
dead.
And yet, somehow, he had to be stopped.
Dumarest dodged as he lunged, dodged again as a foot swept toward his side, the tips of fingers stabbing at his
eyes. He blocked a chop with his left arm, another with his right, twisted to avoid a knee thrust at his groin, backed as
Zavor moved to the attack. For a moment the room was filled with the flurry of motion, the sound of harsh breathing,
as the young man did his best to break the defense.
"Fight!" he panted. "Fight, you coward! Fight!"
A masochist desiring pain? Dumarest didn't think so. The man was more a sadist confident of his prowess, the
skill he imagined he possessed that had been tested on serfs terrified to hurt their master. Serfs and others like
himself, scions of great houses, fighting for pleasure, not profit, and always careful to avoid the danger of serious
injury.
He attacked again, stooping, rising to kick, to chop, the top of his head aimed at Dumarest's face. He met only
wind, and stood, baffled.
"Enough!" said the girl. "Zavor! That's enough!"
From the open door a thin, acid voice said, "No, my dear. I don't think it is." Aihult Chan Parect stepped into the
chamber.

Chapter Two
He did not seem old. A grandfather, perhaps, but he carried himself upright, and his shoulders bulked solid
beneath his tunic. His hair was grizzled, cut short over a rounded skull, deep lines scoring his face from nose to
mouth. Thick brows sheltered slanted eyes, the whites flecked with motes of brown. His hands were broad, the
fingers thick and strong.
To the girl he said, "Introduce me to our guest."
As Zenya obeyed, Dumarest looked at the rest of the party. Chan Parect was not alone. At his side a woman
stood, tall, regal, in a gown of ebony velvet cinctured with a golden serpent. The paleness of her skin accentuated the
rich darkness of her hair. Her face was elfin, the chin sharply pointed, the eyes oval, enigmatic.
"Lisa Conenda," said Zenya. She did not bother to mention the rest, the three guards who waited like shadows
behind the pair. "My aunt."
"My lady." Dumarest inclined his head. "My lord."
"At least he is polite." Her voice was deep, almost mannish. "Who would have thought that a common fighter
would have such delicacy? Zavor, you seemed heated. You should remember to stay cool."
"As did our guest." Parect's thin voice held amusement. "You could learn something from him, boy. In battle, a
cool head wins."
"What battle?" Zavor scowled. "He refused to fight. The coward ran from each attack."
"Coward, boy?"
"What else would you call him? What other name can you give to a man who refuses to fight?"
"A cautious one, perhaps." The thin voice was musing. "A clever one, even. Are you willing to bet on your skill?
Five thousand that he bests you within five minutes. First blood, naked blades, in the gymnasium. Now!"
Zavor sucked in his breath, his eyes cruel. "If he will accept."
"He will." Parect's voice was bland. "Am I right, Earl? You will accommodate an old man, I am sure. If you win,
the money will be yours."
"And if I lose?"
A smile was the only answer, but Dumarest knew what it was. Death, despite the conditions of the bout. Zavor
would not stop at a scratch; he would aim to kill, and he would enjoy what he did. And Dumarest knew that he had no
choice in the matter. The baiting, the bout, the entire thing had been arranged, and he could guess why. In this society
a man was reckoned by his fighting skill—a relic of the old days, perhaps, when the warrior class was dominant and
only the strong could hope to survive. A tradition which had continued despite the lack of necessity.
But why should he be tested? What reason could there be?
Lisa said dispassionately, "The man is afraid. Why continue this farce? Let him go."
"He isn't afraid!" Zenya was quick to come to his defense. "I watched him. He… well, he isn't afraid."
"Your concern is touching, my dear," purred the other woman. "But then, we can all guess why. Your eccentricities
are common knowledge, and I will admit, the man has appeal. It would be a pity to see that face disfigured, noseless,
eyeless, slashed to the bone. Perhaps Zavor will see to it."
"We waste time," snapped Chan Parect. "Zenya, lead the way."
The gymnasium was what Dumarest had expected, a roped ring, the floor roughened to provide a good grip for
naked feet, chairs set on a surrounding platform, bright lights above. He stripped to shorts, revealing the hard
whiteness of his skin, the thin trace of scar tissue on chest and back and shoulders, cicatrices of old wounds. As an
attendant came forward bearing a tray on which rested a pair of knives, he shook his head.
"I'd prefer to use my own."
Parect held out his hand. "Let me see it."
Dumarest lifted it from his clothing, a nine-inch blade of razor-sharp steel, the back curved, edged, merging into a
needle point. The hilt was worn, the guard scarred.
Lisa said, "That isn't a practice blade."
"This is not a practice, my dear Zavor! You object?"
 The blade was an inch shorter than the ones the attendant had offered. An advantage he couldn't ignore.
"Let him use it if he wants." Zavor hefted his own blade. "How long must I be kept waiting?"
He was keen, too eager to commence, used to the compliance of his usual partners. He should have waited,
studying his opponent, looking for the little telltale signs which could mean the difference between victory and defeat.
The stance, the position of the feet, the hands, the way in which the knife was held. An amateur, thought Dumarest. A
dilettante. A man who had never learned the hard way with the sting of wounds to teach him caution. But, even so,
he was skilled.
The blades met, parted, met again as they circled, wary, feet poised to jump forward or back, left to right. Zavor
held his left hand extended, a foolish thing to do in any first-blood combat, where a scratch should, technically, end
the bout. Dumarest held his own far back, his body turned, the knife held like a sword. In any other situation the bout
would now be over, his blade reaching its mark, but he had his own reasons for delay. To win too quickly would not
be wise.
And yet to wait would be to invite the one thing no fighter could avoid—the unknown, which would spell defeat.
The blade lunged toward him in a vicious upward slash toward the stomach, withdrew a trifle, and darted toward
his face. A clever feint, but he had expected it. As the blade rose, he stepped forward, apparently stumbled, and cut a
thin line over the other's chest.
"Finish!" Zenya's voice rose loud and clear. "The bout is over. Earl has won!"
Zavor snarled, blinded with rage. As Dumarest turned, lowering his knife, he lunged forward, point aimed at the
kidneys.
Zenya cried out as Dumarest spun, instinct overriding his calculated caution. His left hand dropped to grip the
other's wrist with a meaty slap, fingers clamping like iron as they halted the blade. His own knife rose, light splintering
from the edge and point, bright on the surface as it poised over the staring eyes, the contorted features.
"No!" Sweat dewed Zavor's face as he anticipated what was to come. "Please, no! Dear God, no!"
For a moment Dumarest paused, his face cruel; then, turning the knife, he slammed the pommel hard against the
bridge of the other's nose.

***

"You should have killed him." Aihult Chan Parect selected a comfit from a box and chewed thoughtfully as he
lounged in his chair behind a wide desk. "Instead you turned the knife. Why?"
"He is your grandson, my lord."
"And that is reason enough?"
"While I am a… guest in your house, yes."
"A wise man. I can appreciate that. But you are more than wise, Earl. Never have I seen anyone move so fast. You
could have ended the bout at the first exchange. You could have beaten him in the chamber, yet you did not.
Wisdom… or caution?" Parect selected another comfit, a nut coated with sugar and dotted with seeds. "Well, Zavor
has a broken nose, two black eyes, and, we hope, a lesson easily learned. But he will not quickly forget what you did.
Your plans?"
"To leave on the next available ship," said Dumarest He added pointedly, "The money you promised will buy a
High passage."
"Yes, the money. I had not forgotten." Parect leaned back, his eyes shadowed. Facing him, Dumarest could only
wait.
It seemed he had been waiting a long time. He had bathed and dressed and then been escorted to this chamber,
where, after a while, the old man had joined him. Waiting, He had looked around at the shelf of old books, the maps
barely legible, star charts depicting far regions of the galaxy.
"You are wondering why I sent for you." Parect broke the silence. "It was well done, as I think you will agree. A
young girl, alone, what danger could she represent? And a promise, deliberately vague, but one designed to catch a
very certain type of man. One who is looking for something. A man who, even though he sensed danger, would take
the risk in order to learn something of value." He paused, then added deliberately, "A man named Earl Dumarest. A
traveler."
"So?"
"I had to be certain, Earl. Your reputation had preceded you. A fighter, a man with incredibly fast reflexes—how
else to prove it than by forcing you into combat? Zavor was eager to undertake the task; now, perhaps, he regrets his
impetuosity. And I will admit, until the last, I had doubts. Your speed resolved them."
"The archives," said Dumarest. "The woman said that Zenya had made no inquiries."
"They were made long ago. A standing order that I should be notified when anyone showed an interest in the
ancient records. Some wine?" As he poured, Parect added casually, "How close are you to finding what you are
looking for?"
"Does it matter?"
"To you I think it does. In fact, I am sure of it. A planet?"
"Yes." Dumarest looked at his wine, red and thick as blood. "Earth."
"Earth?" Parect frowned, then shrugged. "An odd name for a world. You might as well call it dirt or soil or
ground."
"It has another name," said Dumarest. "Terra. Have you heard of it?"
"I think… one moment," Parect rose and moved to a shelf, returning with a thick volume. "I believe that Dazym
Negaso mentions it in his book. If I—"
"I have read the book," interrupted Dumarest. "It contains nothing of value."
"You have read a book supposedly written by Dazym Negaso," corrected the old man. "I have seen it, and as you
say, it is valueless. But this is an earlier edition, and surprisingly rare. Let me see, now…" He riffled the pages. "Terra,"
he read. "A legendary world which is held by some, particularly the cult known as the Original People, to be the
birthplace of mankind. An obvious impossibility when the divergences of race together with the number of inhabited
worlds is considered. The most likely reason for the name is to be found in a portion of the creed maintained by the
Original People. Quote 'From Terra they fled in pain and despair.' Unquote. It is clear that Terra' should read terror,' in
which case, no mystery remains."
Dumarest said, "What does he say about Earth?"
Reading, Parect said, "Earth. A generic name for planets which held mythical paradises. A region unknown and
supposedly representing an ideal. Heaven, as an abstract concept, falls into the same category. The legend of a
Utopian world is present throughout the galaxy, and, while the name changes, the concept is the same. See Jackpot,
Bonanza, El Dorado, Gusher, and Garden."
"He is wrong," said Dumarest. "Earth exists. I know. I was born there."
"Born there?" Parect frowned. "But surely, in that case, it would be simple to find your way back. The coordinates
—"
"Are lost." Dumarest looked at his hand. It was clamped tight around the goblet, the knuckles white with strain.
To talk might be to say too much, but, always, was the chance that this man, once convinced, might remember some
clue, a scrap of information to add to the rest, so painfully acquired.
"Earth is no paradise," he continued bleakly. "It is an old world torn and scarred by ancient wars. Life is hard
there. I was a boy when I left, half-starved, frightened, stowing away on a ship. The captain was more than kind. He
should have evicted me; instead, he let me work my passage. He was old and had no son, and for a time we traveled
together. Then he died."
Leaving him alone to drift from world to world, always heading deeper into the galaxy where the suns were close
and planets thick. A region in which the very name of Earth had become a legend and its whereabouts totally lost.
"And so you travel," said Parect quietly. "Looking, always searching, examining old records, asking questions,
following clues that lead to what? Failure, as they must. Tell me, in all your travels, have you ever met anyone from
your home world?"
"No."
"Nor anyone who has ever heard of it?" He took Dumarest's silence for assent. "Once I knew a man who held a
dream. He was convinced that, somewhere, was to be found a secret so vast that its possession would make him the
master of the universe. He was a rich man, but beggared himself looking for it. He followed a dozen leads, undertook
a score of expeditions. He died on a barren world on the very edge of the galaxy, and now even his grave is lost. He
was my cousin."
"So?"
"If an intelligent man can cling to fantasy, then why not a boy? A lonely, scared, frightened boy who, somewhere,
picked up a name and by some means associated it with his home world. All of us tend to enhance our station. A
pauper will dream he is a baron and invent lies to bolster his illusion. After a while they cease to be lies, to him at
least. Do you understand what I am saying?"
Too well, and Dumarest wondered at his motive. To convince him that what he knew to be real was, in fact, a
fantasy? Or did he have some subtle reason not obviously apparent? Chan Parect was a devious man, working in
unobtrusive ways to gain his own ends. A skilled manipulator of men, applying pressure here to cause a desired result
there, or seeming to move to the left when in reality edging toward the right. But Dumarest was in no mood for
games.
He said, "My lord, you owe me five thousand cran. As a man of honor, you will wish to pay it. Give me the money
and allow me to leave."
 "Leave, Earl? And where will you go? To another world to follow a fruitless search?"
To a dozen if it was necessary, riding High when he could, Low when he couldn't. Money would buy comfort and
the magic of quicktime, the drug which slowed the metabolism and turned hours into minutes, months into days. Five
thousand cran would buy a High passage. A tenth of that sum would buy a Low, riding in a casket meant for the
transportation of animals, doped, frozen, ninety-percent dead, risking the fifteen-percent death rate for the sake of
cheap travel. He had done it before, and he could do it again.
Slowly Chan Parect poured more wine. Lifting his goblet, talking to it rather than to his guest, he said, "There is
no need for you to leave. Work with the house of Aihult, and you can live in comfort for the rest of your life."
"Are you offering me employment?"
"Let us say, rather, an opportunity. What did you think of Zenya?"
The change of subject was disturbing. Dumarest said cautiously, "She seems a pleasant girl."
"She is warped, as is Lisa Conenda, Zavor, all the younger members of my house. Inbreeding—need I say more?
The original stock weakened and spoiled by luxury and subtle mutations. When I die there will be a scramble to fill
my seat. It is what the Zham are waiting for. The Zham, the Deai, the Leruk, a dozen clans. There will be war, and it is
one we shall not win. You appreciate the problem?"
"Change is the way of life, my lord."
"Spoken from the viewpoint of a man who does not care. Who might even think it is a good thing that the tree
which has sheltered this world for so long be cut down to make room for lesser growths." Parect gulped at his wine.
"You will understand that I have different feelings on the matter. To me it is a personal thing. I intend to make it
yours."
Dumarest said flatly, "Intend?"
The sound of a gong echoed the question, soft tones rising to fade against walls and expensive hangings. Aihult
Chan Parect set down his goblet. "Dinner," he said. "Good food should not wait on the meaning of a word. I hope you
have a good appetite."

***

There was fish, meat, game of a dozen kinds, served on fragile plates and accompanied by a score of vegetables,
a choice of sweets and compotes, attended by relevant wines. Servants glided like shadows, clearing, changing plates,
deft as they replenished glasses.
Parect dominated the assembly. He sat at the head of the board, Lisa to his left, Zenya to his right, his thin, acid
voice cutting through the blur of conversation. A dozen others filled the table, all young, all bearing the facial
characteristics of the Aihult. At the foot of the board sat a man at whom Dumarest stared with interest.
He had not expected to see a monk of the Church of Universal Brotherhood in this place.
Brother Eland was old, his face gaunt with privation, looking, in his brown homespun robe, a little like a sparrow
among birds of paradise. He sat quietly, eating in small mouthfuls, chewing long before he swallowed. Physically he
was insignificant, a mouse of a man lacking bulk and muscle, but Dumarest knew that the small body contained more
courage than the average man could guess. And the eyes betrayed him. Wide, bright, glowing with intelligence and
determination. And something else. A thing called faith.
Dumarest said quietly, "The monk. Is he resident here?"
"Brother Eland?" At his side Zenya emptied her glass and watched as it was immediately refilled. "No. He arrived
a couple of hours ago. While you waited for grandfather. Our people found him on the field."
"And intend… what?"
"Nothing." She laughed, teeth white between the parted fullness of her lips. "Just to feed him and listen to him
talk. Grandfather is probably amusing himself."
Dumarest doubted it, but made no comment, concentrating instead on the food, choosing items rich in protein
and low in bulk.
"You eat well, Earl," said Zenya, "I wish I could eat like that. Really enjoy my food, I mean."
"You could," he said. "If you wanted to."
"How?"
"Starve for a week," he said bluntly. "Get out into the fields and work. Take a Low passage—you'd be hungry
enough then."
Again she laughed, reaching for her wine. Like the others, she had merely picked at her food; the assortment of
dishes was for titivation, not sustenance. "You amuse me, Earl. I like that. Did grandfather talk to you?"
"A little."
"Did he…" She broke off. "Never mind. It can wait."
 From the head of the table Parect said, "And now, brother, tell us why you came to Paiyar."
The monk set down his fork. "To work, brother, what else? With your permission we would like to set up a
church. A small place where those who are in distress could gain ease. We would require very little—a patch of
ground outside the gate would serve."
"We?"
"Brother Wen is with me. He waits at the field with our possessions."
The portable church and the benediction light beneath which suppliants were hypnotized, given subjective
penance, and then the bread of forgiveness. The wafer of concentrates which alone drew many to the church. But the
monks did not object; they regarded it as a fair exchange.
Parect said, "Let me get this straight. You intend to do… what? Feed the poor? Nurse the sick?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then you have no place here. We have no poor and no sick. There is no poverty on Paiyar."
"If that is so, my lord, this is a most fortunate world."
"A logical one. Have you seen a beggar in the city? No, and you never will. Here people are not permitted to beg.
They are taken, fed, washed, clothed, healed if they are sick, and then put to work. The Leruk arrange it. Each month
they hold an auction. Those who need labor know where to go."
"And if a man is too ill to work, my lord?"
"How can he be that? If he can move, sit upright, move a hand or foot, then he can work. If not, then he dies. A
bad investment, perhaps, but it happens." Parect dismissed the subject with a curt gesture. "What else do you offer?"
Hope, understanding, tolerance, a simple creed, which, if accepted, would bring the millennium. There, but for
the grace of God, go I. The concept that no man was alone, that all belong to the Corpus Humanite, that all shared
the divine spark, and that, if they could only treat others as they would wish to be treated themselves, all problems
would be solved.
Zenya giggled as she listened. "Earl, the man must be insane! Do you realize what he is saying? All men must be
treated as equal; but that is absurd. It's obvious they aren't. Why, if I was to follow his teaching, I would dress the hair
of my maid instead of taking a whip to her when she fumbled."
"Do you like to be whipped?"
"Of course not, Earl."
Flatly he said, "Neither does she. Think of it the next time you beat her. Imagine the lash tearing your own flesh.
Better still, each time you strike her, have her strike you."
It was a waste of time, and he knew it, as surely must Brother Eland. Some things could not be taught, because
they could never be learned. The proud and arrogant would never admit they were anything less than superior. Their
position blinded them to reality, but not to potential danger.
Parect said harshly, "Enough! Your teaching would ruin the structure of this world. Every serf would think himself
equal to his master. Your creed holds the seed of rebellion."
"Not so, brother, it—"
"Do you dare to argue with me?" Anger suffused the lined face, sent the thin voice soaring high, shrill. "Do you?"
Dumarest felt Zenya's fingers dig into his arm, heard her whisper, breathless, afraid. "Dear God, don't let it happen
again. Don't let him get into one of his rages!"
He realized the table had fallen silent, that each face bore the stamp of trepidation, realized too what should have
been apparent before. Aihult Chan Parect was insane.

Chapter Three
The room was a cell. Despite the comfort, the softness of the couch, the tapestries, the items of price set on low
tables, the sea-scented air, it was as much a cell as the citadel was a prison. A trap into which he had walked willingly,
lured by a promise. And yet, Dumarest knew, he'd had no choice. The Aihult owned the field; guards would have been
waiting to take him by force if necessary; following the girl had given him only the pretense of freedom.
Restlessly he paced the room. The window was an unbroken pane of thick crystal, unbarred but proof against the
impact of missiles. Beyond it, as far as he could determine, the wall fell sheer to an inner courtyard. The roof,
perhaps, might house a raft, but if so, it would be guarded. As everything in the citadel was guarded. As even this
room to which he had been led after the meal must be watched by the order of Aihult Chan Parect.
He heard the click of a latch and stood, not turning, watching the reflection as Lisa Conenda entered the room
and approached him, feet silent on the carpeted floor.
"You are dreaming, Earl," she said in her deep, almost mannish voice. "Of what, I wonder? The stars? The empty
spaces between them? A woman you once had?"
She still wore the ebony gown, the elfin lines of her face accentuated with skillfully applied cosmetics. Her
perfume was of musk and incense, heady, pungent. The fingers which she rested on his arm were long, the nails
shaped into needle points.
"I understand that you are interested in old legends," she continued softly. "And there is one which you must
surely know. A creature which spins a web and offers enticing invitations. It would be amusing, would it not, if the
guest so invited should turn the tables and, instead of providing the meal, feasted instead?"
He said quietly, "Meaning what, my lady?"
"A thought, Earl, little more. Shall we pursue it?" The long fingers closed on his arm, her voice a bare whisper in
his ear. "The house of Aihult is decadent. You have seen Zenya, Zavor, the others. Soon there will be a vacuum of
power in which a strong, ruthless, and imaginative man could do well. All he would need would be a little help—some
guidance and the support of one who has a legitimate claim to the chair that will soon be empty." The fingers
tightened even more. "Are you ambitious, Earl?"
He said nothing, looking through the window. Others faced him from across the courtyard, some bright with
illumination, shadows moving, blurred, oddly shaped by perspective and translucent hangings. Above, the stars shone
bright against the sky, colorful motes winking against skeins and curtains of shimmering luminescence. Hot suns
ringed with circling worlds.
"Earth," she said, her voice ironic. "Is that the sum total of your ambition, Earl? To find a dream world, a myth?
Do you look at the stars and wonder if it could circle that one… or that one? So many stars, Earl. So many worlds.
And even if you found it, what then?"
A question he would face when it came; for now, the search was enough. Turning, he faced her, catching her
expression, a little surprised at what he saw. Not the mockery he had anticipated, but something else. Yearning,
perhaps, bitterness.
"Do you think that others have never dreamed, Earl? As a child I longed to be adult so that I, too, could give
orders and have them obeyed. I had a weakness for a fruit compote, chilled, iced, laced with cream. It was a special
treat, and I swore that, when I grew big, I would eat it every day. Well, I am big now, and can get as much of the stuff
as I want. And now, of course, I don't want it."
The compote and other things, he thought. Men, perhaps, power, fine gowns, with rich fabrics. Childish longings
which turned to dust when attained. And now more ambitions, not childish this time, and far less innocuous. A game
in which the loser would pay with life itself.
A game?
He looked into her eyes, seeing them change, veiled to hide innermost thoughts. A spoiled, decadent woman
seeking amusement at the expense of a stranger? It was possible, the tempting bait dangled, rewards offered, plans
made, and then, without warning, the abrupt end. And Chan Parect would not be kind to rebels.
But it was a game which two could play.
He said, "Tell me more, my lady. What would I hope to gain if…"
Her arms lifted, to close around his neck. The softness of her body pressed tight against his chest, warm flesh,
succulent, yielding. The touch of her cheek against his own was scented velvet, as, straining upward, she whispered in
his ear.
"Be careful, my darling. In this place, walls have ears. You want to know what you could gain? Myself and what I
could bring. A position second only to my own. A seat at my side in Council, estates to rule, men to command. Under
our guidance, the serpent would swallow all. The Zham, Elbe, Leruk—all would be ours, their men our serfs, their
women our slaves. And our son, Earl. The child of our bodies. To him we would give an entire world as his heritage."
He sensed her tension, too intense to be contrived, and remembered her hands, the nails now resting lightly
against the back of his neck. Remembered too the family to which she belonged, the contamination that was
apparent and that the old man had betrayed.
Carefully he said, "My lady, you offer too much."
"There is no limit to the aspirations of an ambitious man."
"Aspirations, perhaps, but execution? How will all this be achieved?"
He felt her relax, confident that he had been won. Casually he lifted his hands, gripped her own, and lowered
them to her side. With his cheek still pressed to her own he whispered, "We must talk again. In a safe place without
attendants. If you could obtain the use of a raft…?"
"Yes," she breathed. "Oh, yes. In the woods, where there will be none to spy. Earl, my darling, how long have I
waited for a man like you. A real man who will give me the strength I need."
"The raft," he said again. "When?"
"Soon. I promise. Soon."
 He stepped back a little, releasing her hands, knowing he had done all that was possible for the moment. If she
would provide the raft, it could go to the field as easily as anywhere else, and with luck, a ship might be waiting,
escape possible before guards could prevent it A thin chance, but, he thought grimly, better than none.
Wine stood on a table. As she poured and returned with filled glasses, he said casually, "My lady, do you know
why I am being kept here?"
"As a guest, Earl, what else?" Smiling, she handed him a goblet. "And now let us drink to us, to the future, and to a
happy life."
Raising the glass, he touched his lips to the wine, making a pretense of drinking. Beyond the woman stood the
window, and he looked at it, seeing a pane on the opposite side of the courtyard suddenly become bright with a ruby
glow. Against it a shadow moved, a tall, cowled figure turning, vanishing as draperies were pulled.
Frowning, he said, "Is the monk also a guest?"
"Perhaps."
"Don't you know?"
"Does it matter?" She was uninterested. "Who can tell what motivates the mind of Chan Parect? Maybe he
intends to amuse himself further with the man. And he was amusing, was he not? How can anyone spend their lives
dedicated to the service of others? To live unwillingly in such poverty? And those he claims to help, what do they
really think of him? Do they laugh behind his back? I think they must. The insane are always objects of mirth."
"Of pity, my lady."
"Pity?" She frowned. "That is a form of weakness, Earl. I do not think you are weak."
"There is strength in compassion."
"So I have been told." She shrugged, setting down her goblet. "As an intellectual exercise, the concept is
intriguing, but in the real world, it can be fatal. A fact of which you must be aware. Only a fool spares the life of an
enemy."
"True," he admitted, "but first define what you mean by an enemy."
"If they are not with us, they are against us."
"Which must include a lot of people," he said dryly. "Does Aihult Chan Parect operate on that principle?"
"Naturally, Earl. What else?"
There were other ways, and far less dangerous than the one that led to inevitable paranoia. Delusions of grandeur
coupled with a persecution complex that led to a total inability to trust a living soul. The reason for Parect's subtle
behavior, his deviousness. The cause of his sudden, maniacal rage at the very hint of a threat to his ordered world.
And other things, each small, but all adding to the inescapable conclusion.
Had he sent the woman to him?
It was possible, and Dumarest had considered it from the first. The blatant suggestion that he should take power,
a willing tool to be used in a game of violence, to be tested and trapped, perhaps, revealed for a potential assassin.
And yet the woman had held her own motivations, using the order for her own ends, as devious in her own way as her
master. A prison, thought Dumarest, not just of walls of stone and watchful guards, but a mental conditioning which
held everyone in a mesh of conflicting emotions.
A deliberate state induced by Chan Parect to ensure his own safety. When none could trust another, rebellion was
impossible.
"Earl!" Lisa Conenda moved toward him, purposeful, her breasts rising prominently beneath the thin fabric of her
gown. "Earl!"
Another test? A man in passion was careless of his tongue, and ambition, once aroused, demanded an outlet. Or
was she merely succumbing to the emotion he had sensed, the intensity of natural passion? In this place of madness
who could be sure?
He said quietly, "I think it best that you leave now, my lady."
"What?" She stared her disbelief.
"I am being cautious. It would not be wise for us to be so intimate."
"You are concerned with my reputation?" Her laughter was deep, rich, genuine. "Have no fears, Earl. We shall not
be disturbed. And I have no jealous lover and no husband who might call you to account. And if they should exist
and show hostility, what then? You could take care of them, of that I am sure."
"Even so…" He broke off as sounds came from beyond the door. A girl's voice, the deeper tones of a man. In
three strides he had reached the panel and jerked it open. Zenya Yamaipan stood outside.
She was not alone. A guard stood beside her, tall, neat in his serpent-blazoned tunic, a dagger at his waist and a
staff in his hands. He said plaintively, "My lady, please understand. My orders—"
"To hell with your orders!" She glared at him, head thrown back, red patches on her cheeks, dusty beneath the
bronze of her skin. "How dare you bar my way? Me, a blood noble of the Aihult! How dare you!"
 Dumarest said sharply, "Don't blame the man for obeying his orders. Why are you here?"
"To see you, Earl." She turned to face him, her anger evaporating. "I must talk to you. That monk, the one who
came to dinner, he wants to see you."

***

Brother Eland sat in a small room Just within the main gate, a bleak place more like a cell than anything else, a
place, Dumarest guessed, where uninvited visitors were housed until a decision had been made as to their disposition.
He rose as they entered, staggering a little and leaning his weight against a wall.
To the girl he said, "My lady, you are most kind."
Dumarest caught the thin arm, forced the monk back to his seat. "What is wrong, brother? Are you hurt?"
"Bruised, but the ache will pass."
"What happened?"
"I ate here, as you know and also, as you heard, was refused a place at the field. On my return, I found desolation.
Brother Wen had been attacked by men wearing the symbol of a grasping hand. Others waited."
"The Leruk," Zenya whispered.
"They had questioned Brother Wen as to his standing, and accused him of having no place in this society. He had
no money and belonged to no clan." The thin hand touched the homespun robe. "They refused to accept this as a
sign of our allegiance. They had destroyed all we possessed, and then they beat me with staves. And then they left
me."
An old man, without resources or known friends, hurt and alone. Dumarest drew in his breath.
"Why?"
"The Leruk," said the girl, as if that explained everything. "It is their task. Beggars are not allowed; you heard my
grandfather talking. Without money, what else could the monk be?"
Without looking at her, Dumarest said, "What will happen to him?"
"He will be sold at auction. If he has skills, he will get a good price. If not, then he will end as a worker in the
fields or in a factory." She added wonderingly, "I can't understand why they let this man go free. Logically, they should
have taken him also."
Dumarest could guess why they hadn't. To the monk he said, "You asked for me, brother. How can I help?"
"You are a traveler, brother, and known to the church. As I said, all we possessed has been destroyed. The church
is nothing, poles and thin coverings, easily replaced, but the benediction light is another matter. That we cannot
replace. If you would carry word to another world, we would be grateful. Just relay the message to any monk you
may happen to meet. Tell him what has happened here; he will do the rest."
Using the hybeam radio concealed in every benediction light to pass on the word. Dumarest knew of the secret,
knew too of the close-knit mesh of communications binding all monks together and to the great seminary on Hope,
the heart and center of the Universal Brotherhood.
"Please, brother!"
The monk sagged a little. One or more ribs, if not broken, had been cracked, and it was painful to breathe. His
stomach throbbed and his kidneys burned from the impact of savage blows. Bruises mottled his skin, and it was hard
to stand. A harsh world, he thought, but he was used to harshness, as he was accustomed to deprivation. Even the
pain he suffered was not new; he had known pain before, as he had known other things. Disappointment, abuse,
scorn, indifference—all these things were an integral part of the life he had chosen. But the church must not be
allowed to wither on Paiyar. Not if an appeal could save it. And no monk could afford the luxury of pride.
"Please, brother," he said again. "I realize that you cannot help Brother Wen. He will be sold, and he will do what
he can. As I will, should I be taken in turn."
Dumarest said, "Zenya. How can they be helped?"
"What do you mean, Earl?"
"This is a world of clans. How large must a clan be before it is recognized? Ten men? Five? Two? How many?"
"I don't know." She looked baffled. "I've never thought about it. Everyone wants to join an existing house, not set
up on their own. Even those who work for the civil authority are always eager to change."
"We studied the customs of this world before coming here," said the monk. "There are no regulations as to what
constitutes a clan. However, any group must be self-supporting and strong enough to resist aggression." He added
bleakly, "Also, by definition, a clan is a group of more than one person. At this moment I am alone."
"But not for long," said Dumarest. "Zenya, how much would Brother Wen fetch on the block?"
"Not much, I would think. A monk can't be of high value."
An error Dumarest hoped others would make. Every monk was trained in medical skill and the basic necessities
of survival. They could take a desert and cause it to bloom, use a cunning balance of ecology to change hostile
environments, teach a dozen crafts.
He said, "Zenya, you owe me five hundred cran, your grandfather five thousand. I want it."
"I haven't got it, Earl."
"You have jewelry. Get it. Sign a witnessed deposition that you freely give it to the monk, Brother Eland. Hurry!"
She was stubborn. "No, Earl. I can give you the five hundred, and that's all. Chan Parect owes you the rest."
"And he will pay it." His eyes met hers, cold, hard. "If he doesn't, I will. I ask you for a loan, no more. The jewelry
can be redeemed. Now, do as I say."
As she left he said to the monk, "You will take the money and buy your companion. And then, if you've any sense
at all, you'll get off Paiyar as fast as you can. If the girl is right there will be enough left for Low passage, or maybe a
captain will let you ride High for the sake of charity."
"Thank you, brother."
"There's one other thing. Are there any other monks on this world?"
"None. Brother Wen and I were alone."
"I see." Dumarest turned as the girl entered the room. She carried a signed paper and had stripped the serpents
from both arms.
"Take these to the shop of Kren Sulimer," she said. "You'll find it close to the field—a small place with the symbol
of a sword. Don't sell them. Borrow ten thousand and leave the pledge at the gate. Don't fail to do this."
Brother Eland said quietly, "My lady, you have my word."
"I've arranged for an escort to accompany you, and our doctor will attend to your injuries."
"Thank you, my lady."
"For what? I've done nothing." Zenya shrugged, divorcing herself from the incident. To Dumarest she said, "The
debt is yours, Earl. You realize that?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then we can leave now." She shivered, looking at the bleak walls. "I've done as you asked. Now amuse
me."

***

Amusement was the sharing of wine, the playing of a game, dice rattling, falling, counters moved to an intricate
pattern. A game he could play but had never enjoyed. And there had been conversation, innuendos, hints of
knowledge he should have, motivations he should have understood. It had been a relief to get away.
Back in his room he killed the lights and sat before the window. The air held the scent of Lisa's perfume, the
memory of her body, as if she were still present, waiting, demanding. Beyond the window the wall opposite was
mostly dark, the pane he remembered a glimmer of starlight. Above, the stars wheeled in their courses as he sat
silent, watchful.
Something pressed against the door.
It was a small sound, barely heard, metal moving as the knob was turned. Lisa Conenda returning for more
intrigue, to seal the bargain in the only way she knew? Zenya, perhaps, restless and bored and eager for novelty?
Dumarest rose and stood against the wall to the side of the window, away from the betraying rectangle of light.
The door swung open, light from the passage haloing the shape in the opening. It was not that of a woman. As it
moved into the room, glimmers shone from a naked blade held in the right hand.
Dumarest moved, stepping silently along the wall, memory serving to dodge obstacles as he eased toward the
door. He saw the man step toward the bed, the grunt of surprise at finding it empty, then he had lunged forward,
slamming the panel and snapping on the lights.
Zavor glared at him from purpled eyes, the slick sheen of a transparent bandage covering his nose and forehead.
"You!" He sucked in his breath. "You should have been asleep, satiated with the passion of my dear aunt, but
perhaps it's better this way." He lifted the knife. "You were lucky once. It won't happen again."
"We fought," said Dumarest coldly. "I won. What are you complaining about?"
"You marred me. Made me a mock before the others."
"I let you live."
"And I should be grateful for that?" Zavor lifted his left hand and touched his bruised face, letting it fall again
quickly to his side. "Do you know what I intended? Had you been asleep, I would have smashed in your face with
this." He gestured with the knife, the heavy pommel. "Then I would have cut it to the bone and left you a thing of
horror. I saw them smile when you defeated me with that cunning trick. Chan Parect was most amused. I wonder if
he will smile when next he sees you?"
 Dumarest said flatly, "He's insane. Are you?"
"Me? Insane?" Zavor's laugh was a titter. "Now, why should you say that? Because I have pride and want revenge?
Because I have reason to hate a stranger who made me look a fool? A common fighter who belongs in the arena like
the animal he is?"
"You're hurt," said Dumarest. "You should be resting under slowtime. Do it now, and by morning you will be as
before."
"A brave man should not run from the pain of wounds."
"A brave man doesn't come creeping into a room to wreak vengeance."
"Are you calling me a coward?"
Dumarest sighed. The man had been drinking, or worse. The eyes were too bright in their purpled sockets, his
tones too high. Drugs to kill pain and to speed his metabolism, others to give him courage or to numb his fears. And
yet he was not wholly a fool. He had waited until it was late; had his victim been asleep, it would have taken only one
quick blow. And he was a scion of the house, an accident of birth which had served to save him once and was doing
so again.
He said again, "Answer me, you scum! Are you calling me a coward?"
"I'm calling you a fool. Get out of here before you get hurt."
"A challenge? Will you use that knife in your boot?" Zavor edged forward. "Then reach for it. Drop your hand. Do
it, damn you! Do it now!"
He was too confident, which meant that he was better armed than it appeared. A laser, perhaps, or a missile
weapon held in or carried close to the left hand, which he kept at his side.
Dumarest said, "You want to kill me, but you don't want to suffer because of it. If you can claim self-defense, you
might be believed. Do you consider your grandfather to be such a fool?"
Zavor smiled, a distortion of his mouth devoid of humor. "My insane grandfather will believe that you are an
assassin that I confronted and killed to save his precious hide. And you don't have to reach for that knife. I can place it
in your hand when you are dead."
"Get out of here!"
Dumarest stepped forward, watching the knife, the left arm, alert for the tiny movements that would herald
explosive action. The knife would be used, thrown perhaps as the left hand rose, a diversion to gain a clear field for
whatever weapon Zavor carried at his side. And it would be done soon. He was giving the man no chance. He would
have to act or retreat.
"Back!" Zavor sprang to the bed, stood wide-legged on the mattress. He sprang again, right hand lifting, the knife
a spinning blur as it left his hand.
Dumarest ducked, saw it pass harmlessly overhead, watched as the left hand rose with the expected weapon. A
laser adjusted for continuous fire, venting its full charge in a ruby-guided beam of searing destruction, which swept
like a scythe toward him.
Flame burst from the carpet, the wall, touching his shoulder, burning the plastic from the protective metal mesh
beneath, passing, to hit the door, another wall. Zavor was too eager, using the laser like a cane to slash as a boy would
cut air with a stick, moving too fast for careful aim. As he swept the beam backward, Dumarest acted.
There was no time to think; his hand dropped to his boot, rose with his knife, hand and arm sweeping back as the
beam moved toward his face, muscles like springs sending the steel forward, to arc through the air, to end at one of
the eyes, the hilt jarring against the bone of cheek and forehead.
Zavor fell, twisting, the laser falling, still active, to hit and roll off the edge of the bed and explode in a gush of
blasting energy which filled the room with smoke and flame.
Dumarest turned as it fell, catching the blast on his back, feeling the burn of heat, the stench of charred hair as
he lunged toward the door. It opened before he reached it, and he saw the startled face of a guard, a staff lifted,
aimed, a gout of flame.
Something smashed against the side of his head, and he fell into an endless darkness.

Chapter Four
It was cold, with a thin wind blowing from the north over scrub and barren rock, biting savagely at his near-naked
body, the bite reflected by the hunger gnawing at his stomach. High above, against a swollen moon, a shape wheeled,
circling, wide wings soundless in the air. The sling was of plaited leather, the pouch made supple by endless chewing,
the stone it contained carefully selected as to weight, shape, and size. He rose, the sling circling, whining a little as it
cut the air, thong flying as he released the stone at precisely the right moment. Above, the bird jerked and fell, wings
fluttering, a mournful cry marking its passage. He caught it as it fell, wringing its neck, sending sharp teeth to bite into
skin and sinew to the flesh beneath.
The blood warmed him, the meat filled his stomach, and he stared upward, triumphant. Food was life, and now he
would live until it was time to kill again. And kill… and kill… and kill.
The moon splintered into fragments, which became a face.
"I am Dr. Leon Glosarah. Head physician to the house of Aihult. How do you feel?"
Dumarest stared, not answering.
The voice sharpened. "What is your name?"
"Earth," said Dumarest. He had been dreaming of his childhood. "Earth… No. My name is Dumarest. Earl
Dumarest."
"Good." The man sounded relieved. He was of middle age, his skin smooth, a mesh of tiny lines at the corners of
his slanted eyes. "Count my fingers." He held up a hand. "How many do you see?"
"Three."
"What is the last thing you remember?"
"A man," said Dumarest slowly. "A guard, I think. He aimed a staff at me. There was fire, and something hit my
head. A bullet?"
"A low-velocity missile which hit you. Just above the right ear. It shattered the bone and impacted the mastoid
process. You were rendered immediately unconscious. Tell me again, how many fingers?"
"Two."
"Look to your left. To your right. Raise your eyes. Move the right foot. The left. Lift both arms and flex your
fingers. Good. You seem to be in perfect condition."
"Was there any doubt?"
The doctor shrugged. "In cases of head injury, it is always hard to be certain. Fortunately, there was no brain
damage. You were burned a little on the back and shoulders, but the protective clothing you wore saved you from
extensive injury. The shattered bone has been repaired and the mastoid healed. You have been under slowtime,
intravenous feeding and have had regular massage. Please stand up now."
Dumarest sat upright and felt a momentary nausea. He waited until it had passed, then threw his legs over the
edge of the bed and stood upright. His body, he noticed, was thin, the fat vanished, leaving only hard skin and muscle.
"How long?"
"Under slowtime? Thirty hours. That's about fifty days actual." The doctor added, "Healing time, naturally. Can
you walk?"
Dumarest stepped across the room. It was pastel green, windowless, the door set with a judas grille. Aside from
hunger he felt normal. A high-protein diet coupled with exercise, and he would be as good as before. It was hard to
realize that almost two months of his life had been spent in the cot, his metabolism speeded so that he had lived forty
times the normal rate. A long time for wounds to heal when aided by hormone activators.
"There was no hurry," said the doctor when he mentioned it. "Chan Parect ordered a complete recovery, and I
thought it advisable to taper off the drugs. Your clothes have been repaired. There is basic in that container. Please
dress and eat." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "We haven't much time."
"Time for what?"
"You will see. Now, please do as I say."
Fresh gray plastic covered the protective mesh, and the basic was as he remembered. A thick liquid laced with
vitamins, tart with citric acid, almost solid protein. Standard fare on spaceships, where a cup would supply enough
energy for a day. He drank a pint, slowly, ignoring the growing agitation of the doctor. He wanted to be in condition
for anything which might come, and an empty stomach was a poor ally.
"Are you ready?" The doctor moved toward the door, not waiting for an answer. "Open," he said through the
grille, and then added, to Dumarest, "The men outside will take you to where you are to go."
There were eight of them, unarmed but strong, more than a match for anyone just risen from a sickbed. They led
him down passages and up stairs to a room he remembered. A chamber graced with old books and faded maps. From
behind his desk Aihult Chan Parect gestured toward a chair.
"Sit, Earl. Relax. You are well, I hope?"
"Thank you, yes."
"A most distressing incident Zavor was a fool and has paid for his folly. The guard, too, the one who shot you, he
has been disciplined."
Dumarest said dryly, "For almost missing?"
"For shooting at all. He claimed that his thumb tensed on the button—you know how it is. Fire, a man lying dead,
another he thought was about to attack. Even so, he made a mistake and has paid for it. Debts, as I am sure you will
agree, must be paid."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Debts must be paid. The five thousand cran you owe me, for example. And then there is
the question of damages. An attack on my life by your grandson. As the head of the house you are naturally
responsible for the actions of your people." He added formally, "I am sure you will admit that, my lord."
Chan Parect laughed, the sound rising thin in the chamber, and Dumarest felt the prickling of caution. The man
was not normal; never must he forget that. His grandson had been killed, and no matter what his personal feelings as
head of the house, his duty was plain. To avenge the death and maintain his honor. Instead, he laughed; it was an ugly
sound.
"You amuse me, Earl. I find it most entertaining to talk with you. You sit there with the blood of my grandson on
your hands and you talk of moneys owing for the inconvenience. You do not deny killing him?"
"No, but I did not cause his death."
"You blame your knife?" From a drawer Chan Parect produced it. The blade was bright, the hilt free of blood. "It
was a shrewd throw. The steel was buried in his brain. You could have wounded;, instead, you killed, why?"
"I was given no choice."
"Instinct, perhaps?"
"I had no choice," repeated Dumarest. "And, with respect, my lord, his death was predetermined."
"Fate, Earl? You believe in destiny?"
"In fact. Had he been given slowtime, he would not have brooded over his injuries. And the weapon he carried,
the laser. Someone had adjusted it for continuous fire. He dropped it and it exploded. A laser would not do that."
"It did."
"Because it was meant to," said Dumarest harshly. "Whoever adjusted it made certain that it would. A fuse set to
the trigger to activate the entire charge after a lapse of time. Even had he killed me, Zavor would still have died.
Murdered by someone in this citadel."
For a long moment Chan Parect sat without speaking, toying with the knife, his eyes veiled. Then he reached for
wine and poured and sat sipping until the glass was empty.
"Murdered," he said at last. "By whom? Lisa Conenda?"
"I don't know."
"But you don't deny the possibility?"
"No."
"I warned you of her and the others. They are all the same. Warped, twisted, mad with ambition. Did she ask you
to kill me and to share her seat of power?" Chan Parect leaned forward a little, his eyes intent. "Did she do that?"
"Yes, my lord." It was a time to tread carefully, to be polite. And it was obvious the man knew what had happened
in the room. How else could he have known that the knife had been thrown? Monitors, perhaps, or a reported
conversation.
"Of course. She would. And you were clever in your answers, Earl. You did not agree, yet you did not refuse her.
Instead, you were ambiguous. The trait of a cautious man. Some wine?"
The goblet was of crystal, carved and hued with the tints of a rainbow. The wine held the taste of mint.
"The last time we spoke in this room, I told you of a problem," said Chan Parect. "I also said something else. You
remember what it was?"
"You intended to make it mine also."
"You have a good memory. If you had the choice, whom would you marry, Lisa or Zenya? You can be frank."
Dumarest pondered, trying to follow the abrupt shift in conversation, wondering what devious path the man now
trod. Wondering too why he was here at all. A question yet to be answered.
"Zenya is the younger," mused Parect. "A little more vivacious, but perhaps the more tiring because of that. Lisa is
older, and so more mature. And, as we both know, she has ambition. You wonder why I mention the subject? I will be
plain. The house needs new blood. You could provide it. Work with me, do as I say, and you will be rewarded. One of
the women as your wife. An estate. The right to wear the serpent. Comfort and a degree of command. All this can be
yours if you will willingly do as I say."
"And that is, my lord?"
"I spoke to you of a man who held a dream and who beggared himself looking for it. I said that he died on some
lonely world. I lied, in part if not in all. I did know such a man—he is my son. He has beggared himself in the terms
we use. But he is not dead. I want you to find him and bring him back to where he belongs."
Dumarest sipped at his wine. Another lie? More deviousness? But why should there be need of lies, and what
could deviousness hope to gain?
He said quietly, "Do you know where he is?"
"Yes."
 "Then why not just send for him? Tell him of your need?"
"The obvious, Earl, is not always the answer. For example, take yourself. You have a dream of finding a mythical
world. You claim to have been there. I know little of such matters, but one thing to me is obvious. What you have
seen you always remember. There are men skilled in probing into the deepest recesses of the brain. Submit to them,
and who knows what they could find? The coordinates, perhaps? The reading of the instruments on the ship in which
you left? A fragment of conversation overheard but not understood because of your youth? The monk who was here
could, perhaps, have done it. Yet you are not a member of the church. Beneath their benediction light you could find
what you seek. And yet you will not sit beneath it."
Because if he did, he would be instilled with the conditioning imposed by the monks. The command never to kill.
It was a handicap Dumarest could not afford.
"I have wondered why, Earl," continued Chan Parect softly. "And I have thought of a reason. Perhaps you carry
something else held deep within your mind. Or something not so deep. It doesn't matter. A secret you dare not
divulge. You cannot do the one because you fear the other. And so the obvious no longer applies." He poured himself
more wine. "My son refuses to answer my summons. He must be taken by force. That requires a very special type of
man."
Dumarest said dryly, "One interested in ancient records?"
"In part, yes. Salek has a similar interest. I do not believe in the existence of this planet you call Earth. And
neither do I believe in other myths. It was one of the reasons we quarreled and why he left. For years he searched for
something he hoped to find. These books,"—he gestured at the walls, the faded maps—"are a part of his collection.
There was a legend which intrigued him. Earth, perhaps? I will be honest with you, I cannot be certain. But I do know
that he desperately wanted to find the Original People. I think that, perhaps, he found them."
And perhaps not. The whole fabrication could be another lie designed to force him into a particular course of
action. Yet it was a chance he could not ignore. And if Chan Parect had a hidden motivation, Dumarest could not
guess what it was.
He said, "You just want me to go and bring back your son, my lord. Is that it?"
"On the face of it, a simple matter, Earl, but I will not delude you, it will not be easy. You forget who he is and
why he is needed. I am surrounded by enemies who will kill me if they can, and those same enemies will kill my son
if allowed the opportunity. And there are other things." Chan Parect paused, his lips moving as if he spoke to himself,
the words too secret to be uttered. "I can trust no one," he blurted. "No one!"
"My lord!"
"Hold! Do not move! There are guards watching, and they will kill you if you stir!" Convulsively Chan Parect
gripped the knife, locked in the grip of an intense fear. With his free hand he delved into a drawer and produced a vial
of tablets. Swallowing two, he sat, waiting, sweat beading his forehead, tiny rivulets running down the graven lines.
Dumarest sat, watching a man at war with himself, sensing the explosive emotion barely held in check. A wrong
word, a sudden gesture, and he would bring about his own death. And the paradox baffled him. Chan Parect was
unable to trust anyone, yet he was willing to allow a stranger to fetch his son. The thing made no sense, and then,
suddenly, it did.

***

From behind the desk, Chan Parect sighed, seeming to relax, the muscles of his face sagging, so that he looked
suddenly old. It lasted a moment, and then he was himself again, still old, but with the craggy strength of a tree, a
weathered mountain. He said abruptly, "You seem disturbed, Earl."
"With reason, my lord."
"You fear me? You should. As I told you, I intend to make this a personal matter as far as you are concerned. In
fact, I leave you no choice but to do as I ask. You see, I am plain."
Dumarest doubted if he could ever be that. Quietly he said, "As a matter of interest, what would you do should I
refuse?"
"Nothing." Chan Parect was bland. "Of course, there is the matter of the debt you mentioned. Ten thousand cran,
which you gave to the monks. And there is the question of payment for the treatment you received. Even when
deducting the sum which Zenya and I owe you, there is a residue of fifty thousand cran. Need I remind you of what
will happen if you cannot pay?"
Sold into bondage at the public auction. Doomed to spend the rest of his life in abject slavery. With the Aihult
owning the field, there could be no escape.
A neat plan, cunningly devised, bearing the stamp of an elaborate madness. Zenya, of course, had been primed
and given permission to pledge her jewelry. The monks had deliberately been attacked in order to force his hand. But
how had the man known he would be generous? And the guard who had shot him—had he also followed orders?
Chan Parect shrugged as he asked the question. "Does it matter, Earl? The thing is over and done with. A mistake,
I assure you, but a fortunate one, as it turned out."
Too fortunate. And how had the guards known when to arrive? Zavor had made no sound, no cry for help, yet
they must have been waiting. Monitors, perhaps, but there must have been anticipation. And who had adjusted the
laser?
Who had wanted him dead?
No, not dead, thought Dumarest. The beam had seared but not killed. Whoever had adjusted it had seen to that.
And if that someone had known of his protective clothing, it would have been a fair gamble that even though hurt, he
would have survived. Had the whole plan been designed simply to get him into debt, or was there another, deeper
reason?
Chan Parect reached again for his wine. "Let us leave unpleasant matters, Earl. I have made you a part of my
design, and you will not refuse to obey. You cannot. You have no choice."
Dumarest said harshly, "There is always a choice, my lord."
"There is an unpleasant alternative, I agree. Shall we discuss it?" Chan Parect paused, looking at the goblet, the
rainbow hues. "I do not believe in fate, but at times it seems as if destiny shapes our ends. Or call it pure coincidence,
the end is the same. Of all the worlds you could have landed on, you chose to reach Paiyar. A lucky accident, Earl, for
you and me. Have you never wondered how I knew your name? Why the order was placed at the archives? The
reason is obvious when you think about it. You were expected."
Dumarest had no need to answer by whom; he knew. The Cyclan, of course; it could be nothing else. A similar
order must have been placed at every library, museum, and archive on every world in this sector. Traps baited and
set for him to make an appearance. His movements predicted from fragments of information painstakingly gathered
and extrapolated with the skill of which each cyber was a master. All they had to do was to make arrangements, to
wait and then to reach out their hand. And, once it closed around him, it would never let go.
"You spoke of luck, my lord," he said tightly. "Yours and mine."
"Yes." Chan Parect was bland, a man confident in his supremacy. "Luck that you chose to come here, that I was
immediately notified, that you followed Zenya. A simple girl—who would note such an incident? To those outside,
you simply vanished. And more luck," he added. "The greatest of all. The fact that I needed such a man as you
appeared to be. A hard man, desperate, ruthless, skilled in evasion, trained to kill."
The unknown, thought Dumarest. The one factor no cyber could wholly control, and which made it impossible
for them ever to predict with a hundred percent probability. The tortuous workings of an insane mind that had
negated their plan.
But the Cyclan was not easily deluded. Dumarest thought of the silhouette he had seen, the cowled figure bathed
in ruby light.
"Tell me, my lord, have you a cyber in the citadel?"
"One came; he has gone."
"And he said?"
"Little. To be frank, Earl, I have no love for those who wear the scarlet robe. They are too much like machines,
unfeeling, always calculating, manipulating, offering advice, but advice which benefits their organization, not those
whom they pretend to serve." Chan Parect sipped at his wine. "I was, however, a little intrigued at the value they set
on you. Their services offered free for ten years if I should deliver you into their charge."
And cheap at the price if they could obtain the secret he had been given, the one stolen from their secret
laboratory by a man now long dead. Dumarest leaned back, remembering a mane of flame-red hair, a woman who
had loved him and who had given him her dying gift. Kalin—he would never forget her.
And the Cyclan would never cease trying to regain the secret, the correct sequence of the fifteen molecular units
which comprised the affinity twin. A chain of biological fragments which would give them the universe. Reversing the
end of the chain would cause it to become either subjective or dominant. Inject the dominant part into the cortex, the
subjective into a host, and complete unity was achieved. The dominant factor would see, feel, sense, and experience
everything applying to the host. He would have a new body, with all that implied. A temptation no aging ruler could
resist, a bribe no woman could refuse.
And with a cyber mind dominating a ruling host, the Cyclan would rule the galaxy within a lifetime.
"The cyber," said Dumarest. "He will come again?"
"Perhaps." Chan Parect was casual. "What does it matter if he does? Obey me, and you have nothing to fear."
The blind arrogance of a tiny despot unable to comprehend the power he defied. The Cyclan stretched
throughout the galaxy; cybers wherever influence was to be obtained. And, all unknowingly, he had missed the
greatest opportunity he would ever know. Renewed life itself, his old body resting while his mind dominated that of a
young and virile man.
Luck, thought Dumarest. He had walked into a trap and been saved despite his own lack of caution. Luck that
had saved him so often before. How long would it last?
He said formally, "I am willing to serve you, my lord. Where is your son?"
"On Chard."
The name meant nothing, a world among countless others, but it would need a ship to get there and a means of
escape from Paiyar.
"And when will I be able to leave?"
"A ship is waiting at the field—the arrangements were made while you were under treatment."
Dumarest relaxed a little. At least there would be no delay, no time for his host to change his mind or the Cyclan
to offer a higher bribe.
He said, "There is no point in waiting. I would like to leave at once."
"You are eager, Earl, and I am glad. Natural enough, when you think of the alternative. I do not think the Cyclan
would be gentle with you, should you fall into their hands. Now, you are quite clear as to your duty? You are to find
Salek and bring him to me."
"I understand."
"Yes." Chan Parect picked up the knife and turned the blade, so that it caught and reflected the light. "I am sure
that you do. As you understand the penalties and rewards. Find and deliver my son, and you could learn where Earth
is to be found. If not, a wife and all that I have mentioned. You see, I am fair, and you will not blame me for having
taken a small precaution. An insurance in case your natural desire for escape should be stronger than your given
word. If you fail me in any way, I shall inform the Cyclan exactly where you are to be found. You understand?"
Dumarest nodded, unworried. He had run before, and could do so again if the necessity arose.
"Zenya will accompany you."
"That is not necessary."
"That is for me to decide." Chan Parect set down the knife, point toward his guest, and leaned forward over the
desk. "And there is one other thing, Earl," he said blandly. "Something was done to you while you were under
treatment. A little device which I am sure you will appreciate. Should you break your word, or try to run or disobey
me in any way, it will be activated. And then, no matter how you hide, the Cyclan will be able to find you. You will
signal your presence like a star in the sky."

Chapter Five
Chard was at war.
The officer who came aboard as soon as they landed was young, brilliant in a gaudy uniform, arrogant with the
consciousness of power. He made no attempt to hide his disgust at the state of the vessel.
"It stinks," he snapped. "Only beasts would ride in such filth."
Dumarest was inclined to agree. The Topheir was far from being a luxury vessel. It was small, battered, the
plating worn and grimed with dirt. Little more than a hold fitted with cramped quarters and driven by engines
unusually powerful for a vessel of its size. A scavenger of the spaceways, a hit-and-run ship used to carry suspicious
cargoes, slaves, contraband, illegal imports to restricted worlds. A rover, fast, ideal for the job.
Aihult Chan Parect had chosen well.
Captain Branchard matched his command. A squat, powerful man with a ruff of beard and hands which could
bend iron bars. Scowling, he said, "Look, pretty boy, what's this all about?"
"Routine port examination. I am Lieutenant Hein, and I advise you to be civil. Your manifest?"
"Two passengers," snapped Branchard. "Some items of cargo, furs, tanned hides, perfume, ingots of rare metals."
He made no effort to produce papers.
"Crew?"
"Myself, an engineer, a navigator."
Hein frowned. "Is that all? No handler? No steward?"
"This is a free trader. We go where there are cargoes to be taken. The larger the crew, the smaller the share. Now,
look, if you want to play at soldiers, do it somewhere else. I've work to get on with."
He was being unwise. For a moment the officer stared at him and then said coldly, "For your information, we are
in a state of war. There is every possibility that this ship will be commandeered. Until a decision is made, you had
best remember your position."
"Commandeered?" Branchard glared his anger. "Stolen, you mean. Listen, you young fool, start anything like that,
and before you know it, this planet will be avoided as if it had the plague. No ships will land and none return. If you
hope to maintain contact with other worlds, you'd best forget all about throwing your weight in the wrong direction."
He was compounding his indiscretion. Dumarest said quickly, "Captain, I think you misunderstood. The
lieutenant did not exactly mean that he would take over your ship. He means that you might be asked to fetch a
specific cargo."
"I meant what I said," Hein snapped. "Who are you?"
"This is Lord Dumarest, who is traveling with his lady, Zenya." Branchard spoke before Dumarest could answer.
"From Samalle," he added meaningfully. "One of the Warrior Worlds."
A facile lie, but a convenient one. The officer was impressed, but even so he could not restrain his curiosity.
"From Samalle? In such a vessel?"
Dumarest was curt. "How long have you been a soldier?"
Hein reddened. "Not long, my lord, but—"
"Surely long enough to have learned that comfort is not a part of the military creed. This vessel took us where we
wanted to go—that is the end of it. Have you men with you?"
"Five, sir. They wait outside."
"And what use would they be to you out there if this was an enemy ship?" Dumarest gave him no time to answer.
"You are armed, I see, but your holster is fastened. You stand too close when questioning a subject. There is dirt on
your sleeve. If a man is not proud of his uniform, he cannot be proud of his service. Now, straighten, call your men,
have them search the ship."
"Sir!" The lieutenant snapped a salute.
"And be courteous with my lady."
"Is she in the cabin, sir? She will not be disturbed."
"Thank you, lieutenant."
Branchard chuckled as the young man moved away. "You did it well, Earl. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you'd
been born on Samalle. You had the tone, the stance, everything. That young fool didn't know what had hit him."
"Why the lie?"
"Why not?" Branchard was cynical. "You didn't want me to tell the truth, and anyway, it could come in useful. I've
been through this before. A small war starts, and uniforms rule the roost, young fools like that lieutenant strutting like
cockerels and ruining trade. It would be a help to have a friend in a high place. A lord of Samalle, for example. That
officer will talk and word will get around. Men trained on the Warrior Worlds are in demand at a time like this, and if
you can keep the woman quiet, you could ride the crest. If you want to, that is. If you intend to stay."
"I'm staying."
"Well, that's your business." Branchard hesitated, then said bluntly, "I'm not a fool, Earl, and I can smell when
something isn't right I got paid for carrying the pair of you, and no questions asked or answered, but we get on, and
I'll put it plain. You and the girl aren't close. If you want to cut free, now is your chance. Ride along with us. An equal
share in all we make—you know the system."
"Do I?"
"You know it. You've ridden ships before, and not as just a passenger. A free trader once, am I right? This isn't
charity; you would be useful, and you can stay as long as you wish. A month, a year, quit anytime you like."
Dumarest said, "Thank you." And meant it.
"Think it over. The offers open until we leave."
A perfect escape, and one which Dumarest would have taken, had things been normal. The random movements
of a free trader negated even the predictive skill of the Cyclan. He had dodged them by such a method before, and
would again if it hadn't been for the machinations of Aihult Chan Parect. There could be no thought of escape until
he had rid himself of the thing which had been planted within his body.

***

Zenya had dressed with care, a clinging gown of scarlet edged with gold, the sleeves long, the skirt full. Gems
winked in her hair, and precious metal made a delicate filigree around her throat. Against his somber grayness the
colors were accentuated in brilliant contrast. She blinked as he told her of the captain's lie,
"A lady of Samalle? I've never heard of the place, Earl."
"Then don't talk about it. Just remember that it is one of the Warrior Worlds, dedicated to military training, a
supplier of mercenaries. If you are questioned, be vague. If they insist on answers, mention security and refer them
to me. On no account go into detail. You follow me, you do as I order, that is all you need to say."
She looked down at her gown. "Should I change?"
 "No."
"This is hardly a uniform, Earl. Would your lady be so feminine?"
Patiently he said, "You are not a member of any armed force or service. Your prime function is to amuse and
entertain."
"You, Earl? As if I were a courtesan?"
"As if you were the selected lady of a high-ranking military officer. A noble of a military caste. You have pride,
discretion, and are faithful to your position. Try any games, and you could ruin us both. Smile at no one but me. Talk
to no one if you can avoid it. Go nowhere unattended and never be alone with a man other than myself."
Smiling, she said, "That means we have to act as if we are married, Earl. Really married. I'm going to like that."
"I have a job to do, Zenya."
"But do you have to be so remote? All during the voyage you've avoided me. At times you treated me as if I were
your enemy. Why, Earl? What have I done?"
Was she innocent, or ingenious? It was impossible to tell. He said emotionlessly, "I've had a lot on my mind,
Zenya. If you are ready, let us go."
A car waited at the foot of the ramp. As they descended, Lieutenant Hein snapped to attention, his men following
suit. His salute was crisp.
"My lord, I have been in contact with my superiors. They ask you and your lady to be their guests. The car will
take you to the Kesh Tower." He added self-consciously, "It is the finest hotel in the city."
Zenya said, "That is most kind."
"It is a pleasure, my lady." Hein's eyes searched her face, dropped to the contours of her body, rose again as he
became aware of Dumarest's attention. "You have baggage, my lord?"
"We are traveling light," said Dumarest dryly. "A force moves faster when it lives off the land. Who is your ranking
officer?"
"Major Leem, sir."
"Of the field operations, yes. And his?"
"Colonel Paran."
"I hope to have the pleasure of meeting him," said Dumarest. "When I do, I shall commend your courtesy. Now, if
you will take my lady's bag?"
It was small, holding only her gowns, jewelry, and cosmetics. The lieutenant placed it in the car, ushered them
into the rear compartment, saluted again as it drove away.
At his side Zenya said, "That was a nice man, Earl."
His hand dropped to her knee, squeezed it in warning. "A potentially fine officer," he said curtly. "He needs
polishing, but the material is there. Be silent now and allow me to examine the city."
It was as he had expected, a sprawl of low houses dominated by a few high towers, laced with streets and
avenues. Zenya was entranced; she clung to his arm as they glided onward, her eyes wide at each new sight, the lines
of marching men, the banners, the throng of pedestrians wearing a variety of clothing. Uniforms were everywhere,
young men flushed with martial fever strutting along the sidewalks, girls at their sides, reveling in newfound
importance.
Photographers waited outside the hotel, lenses aimed, shutters snapping, a portable TV camera following them as
they left the car and entered the foyer. Publicity Dumarest could have done without, but dared not avoid. The lie
invented by Branchard had spread faster than he had expected, yet the arrival of a reputed master of military
prowess would be a thing to catch the interest of a world at war.
Within the foyer, others waited. A man came forward, recorder in hand. "My lord, have you come to Chard to aid
our war effort?"
"How soon do you think victory will be ours, sir?"
"Are you here as a participant or as an observer?"
"My lady, if you will smile, please?"
A deep voice rose above the babble. "Gentlemen! This is no way to treat our guest. You will all be given the
opportunity of asking your questions at a later date. In the meantime, military necessity must take precedence over
your desire for news."
A tall man moved forward, grizzled hair short beneath a uniform cap, the insignia of high command bright on the
collar of his tunic. The hand he extended was broad, backed with a fine down of russet hair.
"I am Colonel Paran. Welcome to Chard, sir. We are pleased to meet you and your lady."
His grip was firm. As Dumarest released the hand he said, "You are efficient, colonel. We have barely left the
field."
"We do our best, sir. And it would be impolite not to extend a personal welcome to a master of military acumen.
Professional courtesy, in these times more than any other, must be observed." He glanced to where aides had ushered
the newsmen to the sides of the foyer. "Now, of course, you wish to refresh yourselves. All has been arranged. A suite
to accommodate you, food if you are hungry." He paused, then added, "I understand the ship on which you arrived
was not of the best."
"It served."
"To bring you to Chard?"
"It landed here." Dumarest met the shrewd eyes. "Another vessel could take me to where I have a commission
waiting."
"You are engaged?"
"A preliminary survey… but that would not interest you."
"I understand." Paran hesitated. "I would appreciate the opportunity of a conference. A casual discussion with
myself and a few others. If that would be possible…"
"Certainly." Dumarest glanced to where Zenya stood preening herself. "Shall we say in an hour?"

***

The suite was luxurious, broad windows giving a clear view of the city, the furnishings all of white and amber.
Zenya roved through it, her musical voice rising, fading as she passed from room to room.
"Earl, this is delightful. Scented waters in the shower, a sunken tub, carpets everywhere. Such a change after that
dreadful ship."
He stood looking at the walls, the ceiling, making no comment.
"Earl?" She came toward him, painted nails glistening beneath the hem of her skirt, the long, supple lines of her
thighs prominent at every step. "My dear aunt should be with us. She would be green with envy. We have nothing like
this on—"
Her voice broke as he pressed his lips to her own.
"Earl?" Her voice was muffled. She pushed against him, and then her arms rose to tighten about his neck.
Beneath the fabric of her gown her body was a soft and living flame. "Earl! Oh, my darling! My darling!"
He buried his face in the mane of her hair, found her ear, and whispered harshly, "Watch what you say, you fool!
This place is full of electronic devices."
He felt her stiffen, the warmth of her sudden anger. As her hands fell from his neck, to press against his chest, he
added, "We are being watched. Every word we say is being recorded. Why else do you think they gave us this suite?"
In return she whispered, "Is that why you kissed me? Just to stop my mouth?"
A woman scorned was a dangerous adversary. Outraged pride would blind her to the peril of released emotion.
"No," he said. "That wasn't the entire reason. You are a beautiful woman, and you know it."
"Just as long as you know it, Earl." Her voice was a purr. "And there can be no harm in this, can there? This and
other things. After all, I am supposed to be your wife."
A position she wanted to take and one he could not safely deny. Another trap, but one into which any man would
be eager to enter. The bait of her softness, her beauty, the promise Chan Parect had made. A fair exchange, perhaps,
for the endless search for a forgotten world.
"Earl?"
Releasing her, he stepped back, his voice casual. "Later, my dear. First we must bathe and refresh ourselves. Our
guests will be here shortly."
Like a born actress she fitted into her assumed part.
"You must not forget the commission, darling."
"True, but there is no hurry. We could spend a few days here, and possibly learn something of interest. The war
cannot be old, or we would have heard about it." Dumarest moved to a window and stood looking down at the city.
"No anti-aerial defenses," he mused. "Of course, there could be lasers on the roof, but if so, they would be vulnerable
to attack. Well, it is no problem of ours."
"True." She stretched, lifting her arms, throwing back her head, so that the coils of her hair hung loosely down her
back. "I must see about replenishing my wardrobe. We left in such a hurry that I had hardly time to pack a thing. I
wonder if they have new fashions here? Military worlds produce some odd combinations. Will it be possible to go
shopping, do you think?"
"I imagine so."
"Later, after your conference?"
"We'll see."
"And will you help me pick some gowns, darling? You have such good taste when it comes to fashion. I am sure
my aunt would think so. Of course, I had better not buy too many."
"At one time, no," he agreed. The conversation was banal, but safe. They would hardly be expected to wait in
silence, and after a hard journey, a release of passion would be normal.
But Zenya was not satisfied with a kiss.
"We had better bathe now, Earl. Will you help me, please?"
"I'll just take a shower."
"We'll both take one." She looked at him, her eyes alight, lips swollen with anticipation, and he remembered the
archives on Paiyar, the expression he had recognized. Desire, yes, but more than that. A touch of cruelty, of innate
sadism, his inability to refuse accentuating her enjoyment. "Now, Earl."
"A moment. I will join you."
"We have little time."
"I know, so don't waste any."
She was naked when he reached the bathroom, the gown a pool of scarlet on the decorated tiles, jewelry thrown
aside in careless haste. Stripping, he followed her into the shower, turned the water on full, the blasting roar from the
high-intensity spray drowning his words from any listening ear.
"Don't forget that we are being watched."
"Does it matter, darling?" The wetness of her body was like oiled silk as she pressed against him. "We are
married, remember?"
"Married, but not a show."
"You are too delicate." Her arms wound around him. "I don't care if an entire world is watching. I love you, Earl. I
want you. Damn you, can't you see that? I want you!"
And then there was only the water, the pungent scent of perfume, the impact of her body, and an infinity of
expanding softness.

Chapter Six
Seated at the head of the table, Colonel Paran said with military punctiliousness, "The situation facing us is one
peculiar to this planet. Unless it is resolved, it will destroy our financial structure; therefore it is imperative that all
operations be conducted on a basis of minimum destruction. It would be interesting, Earl, to learn if you have come
across a similar situation, and the means you devised to conclude it."
Dumarest leaned back in his chair, not answering, studying instead the others at the board. Colonel Paran had not
come alone. With him were two others, both men of middle age, uncomfortable in their uniforms of maroon and gray.
Colonel Oaken was plump, with a worried frown ingrained between his eyes. Colonel Stone was thin, harassed.
He said, "You don't answer. May I ask why?"
"Before I could even begin to answer, I would need far more information. There is no one sure formula for
winning a war. If there was, the worlds I represent would have no purposeful existence."
Paran caught the hint. "Of course, as a mercenary you cannot be expected to give advice without recompense.
That has been considered. You will not find us ungenerous." His eyes drifted to his companions. "That is agreed,
gentlemen?"
"Well, I'm not too sure about that." Oaken was cautious. '"It depends on the value of the advice. Words come
cheap when that is all that is supplied."
"Then it seems that this conference is at an end." Dumarest rose. "Thank you, gentlemen. There is no point in
wasting further time."
"A moment." Paran waited until he regained his seat. "Earl, I will be frank with you. Chard is unused to war. We
have uniforms, bands, some weapons, and eager volunteers, but that is about all. The thing came on us so quickly
that we had little warning, and less time to prepare. Let me put you into the picture. Our main crop, the one on which
our economy depends, is lofios—a plant which provides fruit, fiber, and rare oils for the making of perfumes and
unguents. We also have a native form of life, manlike and, as some suggest, the descendants of an early wave of
settlement."
"The Ayutha," rumbled Oaken. "Savages."
"Not exactly," protested Stone. "Primitive, perhaps, or so we always thought. Barbaric, even, but not savage."
"After what they've done?"
"Gentlemen!" Paran slammed his hand on the table. "This is no time for personal opinions. We are faced with
facts. Let us deal with them."
"Homand," rumbled Oaken. "Maysown. They are facts enough."
 "Villages which have been destroyed," explained Paran. Of the three, he was the only one with pretense to the
rank he bore; the others, Dumarest guessed, were merchants, given high rank to win their support and salve their
pride. "Let me illustrate."
He unrolled a map that he had brought with him, spreading it on the table as his finger tapped at a variety of
places.
"Our main planting area stretched from here, about twenty miles from the city, up to the hills and beyond. There
are essential minerals in the soil which promote rapid growth, and though we are planting to the south and closer to
the town, so far we have had little success. The first attack was here." His finger moved, halted, tapping. "A small
community, which was utterly destroyed."
"How?"
"What?"
"How was it destroyed?" repeated Dumarest. "With lasers, gas, what?"
"We think with a form of nerve gas coupled with impact weapons. The bodies bore wounds consistent with those
caused by clubs and edged steel. To continue, an expedition was sent to retaliate, and a village of the Ayutha
destroyed. Some crops were fired, and other attacks made. They are escalating—the details are unimportant at this
time. The point is that if the destruction continues, Chard faces ruin."
"Which is exactly what those savages want," stormed Oaken. "They know we depend on the crop—how best to
hurt us than by destroying it!"
Dumarest said, "Don't they need it too?"
"They did," admitted Paran. "A lot of them are employed on the farms. They work, send money back to their
villages, that sort of thing. In fact, we had a perfect working relationship with them. If it hadn't been for the evidence,
I would never have thought them responsible."
"Who else could it be?" snapped Oaken. "I tell you, the only way we're going to solve this problem is by wiping
them out. Every last damn one of them!"
"Then who will work the fields?" Stone was practical. "Their labor comes cheap; use other, and we'll price
ourselves out of business."
"They want our world," insisted Oaken. "They think they own it. They're trying to kick us off the planet." He
scowled. "We've got to kill them, clear them out."
"How? Arm every man and turn him loose to hunt them down? You know what the hills are like. Can you imagine
what it would cost in money and lives? Just remember what happened to the last volunteer force we sent in."
"They destroyed a village."
"The first one, yes, but the second?" Stone shrugged. "They got themselves wiped out to a man."
Colonel Paran sighed. "That is old history, gentlemen. We have to think of the future." To Dumarest he said, "You
realize the complexity of the situation?"
Greed coupled with hate and fear, an old, familiar combination. The human desire to have the cake and eat it at
the same time. As yet, this war seemed to be no more than a few raiding parties driven by some unguessed motive.
No wonder he had seen no anti-aerial defenses—savages would hardly own aircraft.
But then, savages wouldn't use nerve gas, either—if it had really been used.
He said, "What is their political organization?"
"A loose federation of tribes governed by elders," said Paran. "We have tried to aid them, of course. Social
workers have lived among them." He added bitterly, "I assume they are all dead now."
"Well?" Oaken was impatient. "You have heard what Paran has told you. How can we end this war without ruining
ourselves at the same time?"
"There are only three ways to end any war," said Dumarest coldly. "This information will cost you nothing. You
can win, you can lose, or you can negotiate. In many cases, it is better to lose; an early surrender will, at least, save
lives and property. There is no logic in continuing to fight against a force which you cannot defeat."
Stone frowned. "A strange philosophy from one from the Warrior Worlds."
"A realistic one. I am a mercenary; war is my trade. You are in business, I take it? Then you know the futility of
selling goods below their cost of manufacture. In war there comes a point where the object to be attained simply is
not worth the effort expended. That naturally, is a variable."
"Let us not talk of losing," said Paran.
"I mentioned it only to clarify the situation," said Dumarest. "To win, at times, is also unwise. With sufficient force
it is possible to defeat any enemy, but if the force used is too great, what have you won? Corpses and desolation. In
my experience, it is always better to negotiate."
"With killers? Murdering savages?" Oaken slammed his hand on the table. "Never!"
Dumarest shrugged. "That is for you to decide, gentlemen. However, as you should know, the use of force tends
to escalate. First the use of limited weapons, then ones that are more powerful, then the ultimate in destruction. If
that is your choice, I suggest you skip the intermediate steps. Radioactive dusts scattered over the areas in which the
enemy is to be found will destroy them without loss of life on your own side. The mothers of your soldiers, at least,
will be grateful."
"Radioactives?" Oaken stared his horror. "But they will destroy the crops! Ruin the soil for a generation to come!"
"Yes."
"And that is your expert advice?"
"I have given you no advice. I have merely mentioned possibilities." Dumarest rose, ending the conference. "You
seem unable to make up your minds, gentlemen. My trade, as I have said, is war. As yet I have received no offer for
my services."
Colonel Paran said quickly, "You would consider an engagement?"
Oaken was more direct. "How much?"
"That," said Dumarest, "I will consider when I have examined the ground."

***

The raft rode high, the pilot nervous, the two-man escort tense as they leaned over the edge to either side, laser
rifles at the ready. In the body of the boxlike compartment behind the controls, Ven Taykor gestured to the hills.
"There," he said. "Right in among them, that's where you'll find their council house."
Dumarest followed his pointing arm, seeing nothing but the loom of hills slashed with crevasses, thick with
shielding vegetation.
"Have you seen it?"
"Once, when I was a boy. Too long ago now." The guide was weathered, lined with age. His clothing, of thick
weave, was patched, his high boots worn, torn on one of the uppers. "My dad took me. There was a festival of some
kind. They made me a member of a tribe." He spat over the edge of the raft. "I guess that's why I'm alive now." He
added thoughtfully, "I never expected trouble from the Ayutha. No one did. God alone knows what set them off."
Beside them, Captain Louk said, "Have you seen enough, sir?"
"Of the hills, yes." Dumarest looked below. "Can we drop a little?"
"It may not be advisable." The captain was young, conscious that his rank was diminished by his scant command,
but the raft was small, and numbers had been sacrificed to light and speed. "They could be watching us from below,"
he explained. "If they are armed, we could be in trouble."
"Drop," ordered Dumarest. "And tell your men to keep alert."
He leaned over the edge as the ground rose toward them. On either side, as far as the eye could see, ranked
plants made a mat of vegetation, scored by thin lines of paths nearly invisible in the fading light. The lofios grew ten
feet tall, bushy fronds springing from a central bole, branches that now bore succulent fruits, blooms, enigmatic pods.
Bad country for men trained in cities unaccustomed to moving in silence. Perfect cover for guerrillas.
"Mutated stock," said Taykor. "It took almost a century to perfect it. No seasons to speak of in this part of Chard,
and the plants bear fruit, bloom, and pollen all at the same time. No insects, either, so they have those pods, see?" He
pointed. "They are self-fertilizing. The pods explode and release the pollen, which lands on the blooms to conceive
the fruit. I'm no farmer, but I know what it's about."
Without turning, Dumarest said, "What are you, aside from a guide?"
"Hunter, trapper, prospector. Mostly I'm up in the hills. There are some good pelts to be won up there. I was
trading in the city when the trouble started. The quicker it's over the sooner I'll be back where I belong."
"What do you think of the Ayutha?"
"Simple people, but not stupid, if you know what I mean. They have their own way, and it isn't city living. They
don't put much value on goods and possessions. They aren't lazy, but they don't like being forced to work. Come to
think of it, who does?"
"Do they have initiation rites?"
"Maybe. I wouldn't know. I've been in contact with them in a casual way most of my life, but that's about all. Why
do you ask?"
Rites could change. If murder was now the needed proof of manhood, it could provide the answer—or a part of
it, at least.
"Have the farmers been pressing them? Taking their land, for example?"
"No. There would be no point. Lofios doesn't grow everywhere, and that's all the farmers are interested in.
Anyway, they need the labor the Ayutha can supply. There's a lot of weeding and collecting to be done, and machines
are too expensive. And no one yet has designed a machine to extract the natural oil. If we land, I'll show you what I
mean."
"Later." Dumarest straightened and turned to the officer. "Take me to the first place to be attacked."
"Homand?"
"If that's what it's called, that's the place I want."
It was small, a collection of neat houses backed by warehouses and sheds holding equipment for processing the
crop. A school, store, something which would have been a church. A forge and meeting house, a typical backwoods
village. A place where children could grow safe in the knowledge they were loved, where old men could sit and
dream of past achievements. There would be festivals and occasional trips to the city. Transient merchants would
drop from the sky in silent rafts. Life there must have been an easy thing.
Now it was gone. The place was deserted, the houses empty, shattered glass ugly in the streets, black timbers
standing gaunt against the sky where a house had burned, doors scarred with the impact of savage blows.
Dumarest said, "Tell me what happened."
"We can't be sure. A message was received in the city—a garbled thing barely making sense. Something about
monsters. When we got here—"
"We?"
"A party from the city. I was among them. Before I became a soldier, I was a field supervisor on duty at the
reception center."
"Good. Continue."
"When we got here, everything was a shambles. The Ayutha must have hit all over the place at the same time.
Men were lying cut and bleeding, women ripped open, children torn apart, babies with their heads smashed against
doorposts. That building was on fire. Those savage swine didn't leave a thing."
"You are talking of the Ayutha?"
"What else?"
Dumarest said flatly, "I am not interested at this time in your opinions. Did any resident of this place say they
were responsible? Think now, did they?"
"The few that were still alive were dazed, dying. They muttered something about monsters, about being
attacked."
"But did not, specifically, mention the Ayutha?" Dumarest continued at the reluctant nod. "Then we have no
actual proof that they were responsible for what happened here. Was much damage caused to the equipment? No?
Was anything taken? No? Then apparently some force of which we can't be certain attacked and killed for no
apparent reason. Do you agree?"
"Does a savage need a reason to kill?"
"Yes. His reason might not be immediately apparent, but it is always present. Hunger, hate, fear, the conviction
that he cannot become a man unless he does, a stranger who must be disposed of—always there is a reason. How
long did it take you to get here after you received the message?"
"A few hours. We had to find rafts, gather and arm men."
"And there were no survivors?"
"None, not even a baby. Dammit, whose side are you on? If you'd seen what I did. The blood, the mess, heard
them screaming…" The officer caught himself, forced a measure of control into his voice. "I'm sorry, but it hit me
hard. There was a girl I knew… I wish I hadn't found her."
Dumarest said, "Let's look around."

***

It was dark when he returned, the city bright with flecks of light from street lanterns, windows, drifting rafts, and
moving cars. A busy, bustling place, a violent contrast to the village he had left, the place where a community had
died. Zenya was absent, and he looked at the things she had left. The golden dress, the serpents that had graced her
arms, a litter of cosmetics. Quickly, careless of who might be watching, he searched them all, letting the fabric slide
through his fingers, taking care over the jewelry, the pots of unguents, paints, and powders.
He found nothing. If the girl carried a device to activate what was within his body, it must be buried within her
flesh. He had checked on the ship; what he did now was for confirmation. And it was highly possible that she didn't
carry the trigger at all.
Aihult Chan Parect, he remembered, trusted no one.
The phone rang. On the screen Colonel Paran looked anxious. "I heard you were back, Earl. Have you arrived at a
decision?"
"Not yet. I must correlate my findings."
 "Later, then?"
"Later."
A bottle of wine stood on a table, and he poured a glass, sitting facing the window with it in his hand. He felt
tired, uneasy. There were too many problems and too few solutions. Parect's threat, the false position he was in, the
girl. Even now she could be babbling, betraying him, and to a people at war, such a betrayal could have unpleasant
consequences.
He leaned back, sipping the wine, recalling what he had seen. The dusty streets littered with debris, the empty
houses, the pathetic remains of dolls, toys, a wooden animal on rockers, a carefully embroidered shawl ugly with
stains of blood. And marks on doors, walls, the sills of windows. Even the toys had been crushed, cut, hammered
with savage violence. And there had been other marks, bullet holes, the seared patches of laser burns. Some of the
farmers would have owned guns, less the more expensive lasers. All would have possessed knives, machetes for
cutting the crop, axes, hammers. They had been found, and all of them had been used.
He shrugged, impatient, emptying the glass in a single swallow. The war was not his problem; he had conducted
the examination simply to maintain his assumed character. His immediate need was to find the son of Chan Parect.
To finish his assignment before the threat made could be put into effect. And that would not be easy. Why would a
lord of Samalle be interested in such a man?
He wouldn't, but perhaps Branchard would. A free trader could drift around, ask questions, make contacts, and
use bribes, all with relative impunity. And he would be a willing ally if the price was right.
Dumarest rose, and without looking at the phone, moved toward the door. Outside, the corridor was empty but
for a pair of men standing with exaggerated casualness. Guards? Men set to watch his movements? One of them
came forward, recorder in hand.
"My lord, a few words for the media? We are all interested in what you have to say."
"The situation, while serious, must not be inflated beyond its real proportions," said Dumarest. "There is danger
and a threat of escalation, but nothing which cannot be handled without undue interference with normal life. While
brave men are willing to fight, Chard has nothing to fear."
Empty words, but what they wanted. One said, "Will you be taking an active part in the struggle?"
"That depends on your military authorities."
"But you are willing?"
"Again, that depends. Now, if you will excuse me?"
He wandered a random mile before using a phone. Twenty minutes later he phoned again. Branchard was
waiting.
He blinked as he listened. "Sure, Earl, I can do it. Have you got anything I can work with aside from a name?"
"A photograph and physical details—Lammarre System. I'll send you a copy. The money—"
"Can wait. Give me a little time."
The suite was still empty when he returned. He drank more wine and studied the details he had sent to
Branchard. The face was younger than it would be now, but the physical details would never change. If Salek had
ever received medical treatment on this world, or had fallen into the hands of the police, even if he had ever
volunteered to give blood, he would be recorded. And there were other checks; the captain would know them all.
The phone rang. A man's face, smooth, bland. "The Lady Zenya?"
"She is not available. Who are you? What do you want?"
"Zerm Trish, my lord. A creative photographer. I am attached to the house of Jarl, the most exclusive fashion
establishment on Chard. I wondered if your lady would condescend to pose for me in a variety of creations, which, of
course, would remain her property."
Dumarest said harshly, "The wife of a lord of Samalle does not cheapen herself. Do not call again."
From behind him Zenya said, "A pity, Earl. They have some wonderful gowns, and all terribly expensive." She had
entered the suite while he had been on the phone.
Quickly she added, "But of course, the suggestion was unthinkable. At home he would never have dared to make
it."
"Where have you been?"
"Shopping." She spun, blue fabric rising like a sapphire mist, sparkles of brilliant crystal accentuating the hue. "Do
you like it, darling? Susal Paran guided me. The colonel's wife. She is really a most charming woman, and terribly
worried about her husband. She kept asking me what it was like to be the wife of a warrior. How I felt when you were
away, that kind of thing." She smiled. "I think she wanted to ask more intimate details but was too restrained. You
know, how we acted after a long absence, how we felt when together again."
"And you told her?"
"That it is hell to be apart, and heaven to be together. The truth, Earl. Why should I lie?"
 Colonel Paran saved the necessity of an answer. On the screen his face was drawn, anxious.
"I'm at a meeting of the Council, Earl. They need your decision before deciding on a course of action. I hope that
you agree to accept the commission, because I don't like the alternative. The vote is to ask the Cyclan for help if you
refuse. The feeling is that a cyber could advise us of what needs to be done."
"You object?"
"Yes, and I'll tell you why. A cyber predicts; he tells you what is the most likely outcome of any action, but he
doesn't tell you what action to take. That means wasted time, and I've the feeling that we haven't any to waste. What
we need is a man skilled in the art of war, someone who can train men and use what force we have to best advantage.
I liked what you said at the conference—you knew what you were talking about. The choice is yours, of course, but I
hope you agree. If not, the Cyclan will be asked to help."
Dumarest said, "I agree."

Chapter Seven
Inspection was at dawn. A sleepy guard snapped to belated attention as Dumarest, accompanied by Captain
Louk, approached the operations room. Inside, Colonel Paran, red-eyed from fatigue, stood before a table littered with
maps. A scatter of lesser officers stood beside charts, communications equipment, a large contour map dotted with
colored pins. From time to time one of them made adjustments, bringing the field of operations up to date.
"Earl!" Paran reached for coffee, which an aide was distributing. "Want some?"
Dumarest shook his head. "Trouble?"
"We got hit again last night Sonel, a small village far to the west. The usual thing—we received a garbled
message, and by the time we got there, it was all over. A shambles." Turning, he called to an officer. "Any fresh news
on Sonel?"
"No, colonel. The team found nothing they hadn't reported. A complete wipe-out." The officer was young, his
tone bitter. "Sir, I'd like to request a transfer to active duty in the field."
Paran hesitated. "We need you here, Fran."
"Even so, sir—"
"Later."
For a moment it seemed as if the young man would argue; then, scowling, he returned to his duties. Dumarest
studied him; the facial resemblance was unmistakable. He said, "Your son?"
"My only child. Susal couldn't…" Paran broke off, rubbing at his eyes. "That doesn't matter. Every young man is
eager to get into the field and face the enemy, but someone has to handle operations. Fran is good at his job. Moving
him would mean a double set of training—him for the field and another to take his place."
And here in operations, he was as safe as any soldier could hope to be in time of war. A natural assumption,
which others would make, but Dumarest doubted if the colonel had even thought of it. His wife, perhaps, but he was
too dedicated to seek personal advantage from his rank and position.
"The attack," said Dumarest. "How many of the Ayutha were killed?"
"None."
"None at all?" Dumarest frowned. "Don't you think that is strange?"
"I should have said that none were found," corrected Paran. "If any were killed, they must have been removed
before we got there." He gestured toward the table. "Let me show you how we are handling the situation. The green
dots are mobile rafts; the yellow, field detachments; the red, places which have been attacked. We didn't have much
time to organize, but I don't think we've done too badly. Working on the assumption that all attacks emanate from the
hills, we have thrown a line of observers and mobile forces in an arc reaching from here to here." His finger tapped at
portions of the map. "What do you think about it?"
Before Dumarest could lean over the table, a civilian entered the room and came toward him. Deftly he took a
series of measurements, departing as quietly as he came. "For your uniform," explained Paran. "Your rank will be that
of marshal, your pay equal to my own, two years' pay as initial bonus—it has already been placed to your credit. Your
suite, of course, will be provided by the state, and all other expenses similarly met."
"My powers?"
"Advisory as regards operations. Almost unlimited in the field. We need to end this thing, and quickly. Do that,
and no one will argue about what steps you may take."
Dumarest studied the map spread on the table. The rafts were strung in a thin line, and the field detachments
were based, as far as he could see, more on a precise mathematical pattern than on the varying needs of the terrain.
"Your basic assumption is at fault," he commented. "Sonel does not lie within easy attacking distance from the
hills; therefore, we must assume that an attack can come at any time from any direction. I would suggest that half the
rafts be fitted with infrared detectors in order to spot the advance of any large body of men. They should ride high
and maintain constant observation. The field detachments are of little use based as they are. They would be of more
use placed in the actual villages. A strong body of well-armed men will maintain the morale of the farmers and
provide a defensive force against any attack."
"True," admitted Paran. "But then how to protect the crops?"
"You can't, so forget it."
"But—"
"The lofios is important to you," said Dumarest patiently. "I haven't forgotten that. But to protect the crop would
mean a fantastic number of men, and even then you would have no assurance of success. Let me clarify. In any war it
is essential to determine the objective; once that is done, the next step is to decide the tolerable cost in both men and
material. A defensive war is always a long one. In this case, the equation consists of three variables at least; to protect
the crops, to protect the villages, to remove the threat posed by the attacks. You can't do them all."
"No," admitted Paran. "I realize that."
"Remove the threat, and you will have no need to worry about the rest," said Dumarest. "That can only be done
by making contact with the enemy."
"Destroying them? But—"
"Contacting them," interrupted Dumarest. "I am aware of the situation. That means an expeditionary force must
be sent into the hills."
"We tried that," said Paran grimly. "Twice. The second force didn't come back."
"Which means the next must be better trained. I shall need volunteers."
"Sir!" Fran Paran had been listening. He stepped forward, his salute crisp. "With respect, sir, I would like to
accompany you."
Dumarest heard Paran's sharp intake of breath. "No Fran! I can't permit it!"
"Sir?"
Dumarest said bluntly, "What were you before you became an officer? A student?"
"I trained in electronics, but—"
"Have you ever killed a man? Fought for your life?" Unfair, perhaps; few men on a civilized world had done either
of those things. Sharply Dumarest added, "Have you traveled the country? Seen the Ayutha?"
Frowning, the young man said, "I don't understand. I am willing to go. Isn't that enough?"
"Far from it. You realize that if I take you, I could be risking my life on your obedience? That others may die
because you misjudge, or simply because you are ignorant? War isn't a game conducted with neat, clear-cut rules.
There is no glory, and little honor. You'll be tired and hungry and afraid most of the time. You could be killed. And,
frankly, I can't see that you would be an asset. Here you are doing a good job; out in the field you would be simply a
man with a gun. I want more than that."
"You'll get more! Dammit! Must I stay here at a desk just because my father…" Fran broke off, controlling himself.
More quietly he said, "You'll need communications equipment and someone who knows about such things. I am an
expert in the field."
Knowledge and eagerness, two assets for any task, and Dumarest hesitated, conscious of Colonel Paran, the
delicate situation. He was in no position to make enemies.
And then the colonel said flatly, "All right, Fran. I won't stand in your way. If Earl is willing to take you, I'll arrange
for your replacement."
"Sir!" The salute was a model copied from a book. "Thank you, sir. When do I start?"
Dumarest glanced at Captain Louk, who had remained silent during the exchange. "Is there a place we can use
for intensive training?"
"Yes, marshal. The Lambda warehouse."

***

It was a big, rambling structure still redolent of the goods it had once held, the sacks of lofios blooms, the
precious oils. Open ground flanked it, now filled with marching men, uniforms bright in the prenoon sunlight. A
hoarse-voiced officer yelled commands, sending them through routine motions, turning, wheeling, keeping step. His
salute was casual, the gesture of a man who knew his business to those who, in his estimation, didn't.
Captain Louk said, "Lieutenant Thomile, Marshal Dumarest."
Thomile grinned, jerking his thumb at the marching men. "New intake," he explained. "Raw, as yet, but they'll
improve." His eyes studied Dumarest. "I've heard about you, marshal. From Samalle, right? What do you think of the
men?"
Dumarest said harshly, "When talking to me, you stand at attention. You address me as 'sir.' As for your question,
the men look like yourself, dirty, lax, more of a mob than a disciplined unit. How long have you been training them?"
"Eight days."
"What?"
"Eight days… sir."
"In my experience, you should have reached this point at the end of the first day. Basic maneuvering is used only
to instill obedience to orders and to achieve an esprit de corps. I don't want a machine, I want men who can move
and fight and think for themselves. Soldiers, not automatons. Now, get out there, lieutenant, and get to work. Real
work. Move!"
As they moved toward the open doors of the warehouse, Louk said, "You were hard on him, marshal. Thomile's a
good man."
"Too good to be allowed to fall into bad habits," agreed Dumarest. "And while we're on the subject, I noticed too
many soldiers in the streets. They should be at camp, training, not displaying their new uniforms to admiring females.
See to it."
"Yes, sir."
"You don't agree?"
"Well, sir, they are young, and it's natural to show off a little. Also it helps recruiting, and—"
"You think I'm acting like a thick-headed martinet, right?" Dumarest shrugged, as the other made no comment.
"As you heard me tell Fran Paran, war isn't a game. Each of those men may have to risk his life and the only thing
they will have between living and dying is the training given to them. A good officer hates waste, the waste of his
men most of all, and if he is careless of lives, then he is unfitted to hold command. If I appear hard, it is with reason."
He glanced toward the field, where Thomile's voice could be heard. It was different now, harsher, more savage,
and beneath its lash the men had straightened, moved with grim purpose instead of casual indifference.
"Take my compliments to the lieutenant. Ask him to select a group of men from those he has trained. They are to
be tough, skilled, clever, and obedient. He won't find many, but have him send those he picks to the warehouse."
"Sir!"
"You have an intensive training program already under way?"
"Yes, sir. Captain Raougat is in command."
He stood at the back of the vast building surrounded by a circle of men stripped to shorts and shoes. He was of
medium height, well-muscled, his torso scarred from old wounds. He moved like a cat, poised on the balls of his feet,
and watching him, Dumarest was reminded of a fighter, a skilled professional who had earned his living in the arena.
Raougat was talking, his voice like a purr, echoing softly from the beams overhead.
"Now, listen and pay attention. I'm going to show you how to take care of an enemy guard. You there!" He
pointed. "You get up here. Stand in front of me, back toward me, looking ahead."
From a seat he took a length of rope about a yard long, wrapping each end around his hands and leaving a loop
of about eighteen inches. Approaching the back of the waiting soldier, he threw the loop over the man's head, and as
it came level with his throat, lifted his right knee and ground it against the back as he jerked. Coughing, the soldier
doubled, retching, rubbing at his neck.
"I was gentle," purred Raougat. "A trifle more force, and he would be dead now. It never fails."
Dumarest said loudly, "Like hell it doesn't."
"You doubt me?" The captain smiled as Dumarest stepped forward. "And you are…?" The smile widened as
Dumarest introduced himself. "Ah, our famous marshal. The man dedicated to war. Perhaps you are willing to show
me how I am at fault?"
There was no humor in the smile, and less in the soft purr of the voice, and looking at his eyes, Dumarest knew
that, this time, there would be no control of the force used, that given the chance, the man would willingly snap his
spine and rupture his throat.
"You want to demonstrate on me?" Dumarest said quietly. "Is that what you are asking?"
"With respect, sir, if you are willing. Of course, we will all understand if you are not."
"Commence."
Dumarest turned, waiting. He sensed rather than heard the soft pad of feet, the blur as the rope dropped before
his eyes. The man had used his right knee, and he spun to the left as it rose, left arm slashing sideways to catch the
thigh, to knock it away, sending Raougat falling hopelessly off-balance. The rope jerked at the back of his neck, and
Dumarest followed it, ignoring it as his right hand lifted with his knife, the point halting as it touched the skin of the
captain's throat.
For a moment they lay staring into each other's eyes, and then Dumarest said gently, "I have proved my point, I
think?"
"A knife—"
"A guard would be armed. And a knife is unessential." Dropping it, Dumarest rested the tips of his fingers beneath
the other's eyes. "I could have blinded you." The hand lifted, the fingers clamped to form a blunt spear, falling to rest
on the point of the throat beneath the ear. "Or killed you. You see, I had a choice."
"Fast," whispered Raougat. "You were too fast. I have never seen anyone move as quickly. And now?"
"You work," replied Dumarest as quietly. "Doing what you love—teaching men how to kill. But from now on, you
will do it without tricks and without sadistic demonstrations of your skill. If not, we will meet again. You understand
me?"
"Too well." Raougat, his dignity and position saved, essayed a grin. "But, my lord, should you ever grow tired of
the work you do, the stadiums are always waiting. In a year, less, you could be a champion on any of a dozen worlds."
Rising, Dumarest said to the watching men, "That was a lesson. Never make a simple action complex. Never
make the mistake of underestimating your opponent. If you want to kill a guard, do it like this." His hand lifted, swept
down, the stiffened edge halting at the base of Raougat's spine. "Use the barrel of your rifle, the butt, anything heavy
and sharp. And never be gentle. You want to kill him, not bruise him. Hit hard enough, and he will drop like a sliced
tree. Now, get dressed, quickly!" A soldier said, "For exercise?"
"You are soldiers. You don't go into action half-naked. Your enemy may be armored. To be of value, training must
be realistic. Now, move!"
To Raougat he said, "How are they as regards killing potential?"
"Weak." The captain saw the bleak expression in Dumarest's eyes and added hastily, "I have tried to correct it, sir,
but it isn't easy. They are the product of a soft environment. They talk, but when it comes to the time to act, who
knows?"
"You should know," snapped Dumarest. "That is what you are paid for."
"True, but they are volunteers, the sons of rich families for the most part." Raougat shrugged. "I can take a man
and turn him into a beast, given time. If the basic ingredients are there, it is simple. But if they are not, then it is hard.
And I am not dealing with one man, but several."
And there would be more. Dumarest turned as Thomile came into the warehouse ahead of a score of men, Fran
Paran among them. Saluting, the lieutenant said, "The men, as ordered, marshal. The best I could find."
"Which means?"
"Exactly that, sir. A couple of troublemakers, they like to argue, some would-be heroes, the rest bored with
routine and eager for action." He paused, then added casually, "With respect, sir, I would like to see how you handle
them."
A check, but that was to be expected. Wherever he went men would be watching, eager to learn and as eager to
criticize. And Dumarest knew that should he make a single slip, his pretense would be questioned. As a supposed lord
of Samalle there was nothing about war that he should not know.
To Captain Louk, who had accompanied Thomile and his men, he said, "I shall need rafts for transportation. And
weapons firing a low-velocity missile. Pneumatic guns would do, if you can get them. Something to sting, but not kill
or incapacitate."
Frowning, Louk said, "Would low-caliber target rifles do? We could reduce the charge and so lower the velocity."
"Yes. See to it immediately." As the captain moved away, Dumarest added, "And we shall need the services of a
medical team. Make sure they are fully equipped."
Thomile, curious, said, "Your orders, sir?"
"Get the men outside. All of them. Have them move at the double. I want them hot, tired, thirsty, and worn before
those rafts get here. Let them carry the heaviest packs you have. Move!"
At his side Raougat said, his voice a feral purr, "My congratulations, marshal. A hard medicine, but an effective
one."
"You understand?"
"Of course. How often have I trained men for the arena in exactly that fashion? The best way, sir, and when time
is short, the only way. Let us hope that certain outraged parents will not be screaming for your blood when they learn
what you have done to their precious offspring. To have them hunt each other, to shoot at each other, to learn by
actual pain to hide, to aim straight, to hate. A neat plan." He squinted up at the sun. Already it was a furnace in the
heavens, gilding the dust rising from the impact of running feet, beading faces with sweat, darkening uniforms with
perspiration. "A hot day, marshal." His chuckle was a whisper of sadistic anticipation. "A hot day, for them, in more
ways than one."

***
 The medic rinsed his hands and said with a weary finality, "That's the last one, marshal. If you've any bright ideas
for tomorrow, perhaps you'll let me know. I'm not fond of surprises."
"You object?"
"I'm a doctor. What else would you expect me to do, cheer?"
"You are an officer in the medical corps," corrected Dumarest. "If you don't like picking pellets out of barely hurt
men, how are you going to handle real casualties?"
"I've done it before."
"Accidents, yes. Stitching up a knife slash, maybe, but I'm talking about men with their intestines hanging out,
limbs torn from their bodies, faces roasted in laser beams. You think that what happened today was bad? It was
nothing, an essential part of military training. How else can you teach men to dodge and stay under cover? Those
who got hit learned the price of being careless."
"One man blinded in his left eye," said the doctor savagely. "One shot in the groin—and he hasn't been married a
month. Two others practically riddled, and one of them with a slug almost touching his heart. A dozen more with
minor wounds, twenty others in pain, most of the rest suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion. A hell of a
way to train men!"
He was disrespectful, forgetting rank and the deference due to higher command, outraged and unable to retain
his opinions to himself. A dangerous man to have in any military force.
Dumarest crossed the space between them in three long strides, reached out, and caught the front of the green
smock the man wore, lifted his right hand, and deliberately slapped the rotund cheek.
"Listen," he grated. "I am a marshal of the army of Chard. You are under military law. You could be facing a
court-martial for those remarks, and I mean a drumhead trial here and now with death as the penalty, should you be
found guilty. You doubt my power to do it?"
"You can't—I have my rights!"
"You have no rights," snapped Dumarest. "You yielded them all when you put on that uniform. What's bothering
you, doctor? You want the glamour without the responsibility? The right to command without the duty to obey?
Those men you treated wanted to be soldiers. I've shown them what it means to face an enemy, and did it by taking
away the real danger. That eye can be replaced, the groin will heal, not one of them will suffer more than a little
inconvenience, and under slowtime they will be ready to march in a day. You know the alternative. That force which
got itself massacred taught you that. And you know what we're up against—or have you remained blind to what was
found in the villages?"
"You're hard," whispered the doctor, rubbing at the welts on his face. "By God, you're hard."
"But truthful."
"Yes, I guess you are. It's Just that…" The doctor broke off, kicking at the leg of his field table. "Dammit, why do
fools make war out to be wonderful?"
"Because they are fools," said Dumarest bitterly. "Because they never have to fight. They prate of glory and
heroism and ignore the death and dirt and wounds. No sane man or culture wants a war."
The doctor blinked. "You say that? A lord of Samalle?"
Dumarest stepped to the door of the tent. Outside, it was dark, the night blazing with stars, relatively cool after
the heat of the day. Without looking at the other man, he said, "You think I should glorify war because it is my
profession? You are a doctor, a surgeon, do you then love pain and operations?"
"The things aren't the same. I work to heal."
"And so do I. What can be worse than a badly fought war? With skill I try to limit the destruction, but if you think
that any soldier loves war, you are mistaken." Without changing his tone, Dumarest added, "You have the necessary
equipment to conduct a deep bodily survey?"
"What?" The doctor looked baffled. "I don't understand."
"I have reason to suspect that I may have a foreign object buried somewhere in my person." Dumarest turned and
faced the man. "With action imminent, I want to make certain that I am fit. Will you please examine me and report on
what you find."
A chance, but one which had to be taken now that he had the opportunity. Chan Parect had spoken of a device, a
radio capsule perhaps, something implanted which could be triggered into activity. As yet he had found nothing
remotely resembling a trigger, not among Zenya's clothing, nor any scar tissue where it could have been implanted in
her body. He had searched carefully, running his fingers over every inch of her body as she lay quivering beneath
what she thought was his sensuous embrace. Now it was time to examine himself.
He lay nude as the doctor busied himself with his instruments, talking as he worked.
"Has there been any pain? It would help to localize the potential site. Were you wounded? Your head? I see. Well,
let's take a look." A long silence; then, "Nothing there that I can see, marshal. Elsewhere, perhaps? Would it be
metallic? A fragment from a bomb, a bullet? There is such a diversity of weapons. Well, we shall sec."
And then, finally, "Nothing, my lord."
"Are you certain?"
"I have made a thorough examination. There is nothing metallic."
"It needn't be metallic."
"Even so, there would be traces. A foreign object cannot be simply inserted into the tissue without some
distortion of the surrounding fibers, and there would be a difference in density. My instruments would have revealed
any such divergence. You may rest assured, marshal. There is nothing implanted within your flesh."
"I see." Dumarest sat, brooding. "Could there be a possibility that…"
He broke off as Fran Paran burst into the tent. The youth was wild-eyed, panting. He said, "For God's sake, Earl,
marshal, Lord Dumarest—"
"Control yourself, lieutenant! Report!" The man, Dumarest remembered, had been placed in charge of the
communications equipment.
"Sir!" He saluted and said, his voice strained against imposed control, "A message from the city, sir. Verital is
under attack!"

Chapter Eight
There was time for thought on the journey. Sitting, hunched in the body of the raft, Dumarest thought of Aihult
Chan Parect and his madness. His deviousness and his threat. All were real enough, and he had been even more
cunning than suspected. Dumarest had imagined that a radio beacon had been implanted while he had lain helpless
beneath the ministrations of his doctor. A device, booby-trapped, maybe, but a thing which could be safely removed
with care and skill. Yet it seemed that the obvious had not been employed. A bluff ? It was barely possible, but
Dumarest doubted it. Chan Parect had been more clever than he had guessed.
"Sir?" Fran Paran was at his side, earphones on his head, a communicator in his hand. "A recording of the initial
message, sir. Do you want to hear it?"
The voice was strained, incredulous.
"Monsters! Things all around. Killing, screaming, everywhere. Help. Send help. This is Verital calling. Verital. For
God's sake, come quickly! It's horrible! Ghastly! We haven't got a chance. Hurry! Hurry! Devils from hell, spawn of the
underworld, help! Help!"
The rest was distortion, a mouthing of frenzied words, screams, the sound of smashing timbers.
Dumarest played it again, a third time, learning nothing new. A man, almost incoherent, pleading for help from
the city, raving about monsters and things of nightmare.
To the lieutenant he said, "Contact the city. Find out if there is anything new."
In the earphones Colonel Paran's voice sounded as if he were speaking through layers of cotton. "Nothing since
the message, Earl. I've ordered two units to rendezvous with you at map reference 0136-2784. That's a mile from the
southern edge of the village."
"Is there anything closer?"
"A detachment was based twenty miles to the west. We can't establish contact." The voice hardened a little.
"Natural enough if the devils attacked them first."
"Not natural," said Dumarest. "They should have been alert. Guards would have given the alarm. Have you a raft
in the vicinity?"
"Yes."
"I assume it has flares. They must remain aloft, drop flares, and see what they can. If the detachment appears to
have been attacked, they must wait until daylight before landing. If not, let them land, take as many men aboard as
they can, and throw a line directly north of the village—about ten miles north." In the glow of a light, Dumarest
studied a map. "That is in a direct line to the hills."
"You hope to catch who did it?"
"If possible, yes."
"Should I send in more men? Withdraw detachments from the villages?"
"No. The damage has been done now. There's no point in leaving other villages undefended. Just send out a
general red alert to all forces and have them keep a man on constant radio watch. I want a running commentary, and
if anything should happen, let me know at once."
"I hope you get them," said Paran. "By God, I really hope that. Susal was born in Verital."
 And perhaps his son would die there. Time alone would tell.
Lights marked the rendezvous, bright points drifting against the fading stars, rimming the outlines of the rafts
which waited high in the sky. Below, it was totally dark, the massed lofios plants seeming to absorb all light, so that
the ground was an infinity of distance, a trick of perspective which vanished as one of the rafts dropped a flare.
Dumarest watched it fall, to burst into eye-bright luminescence, leaves springing into life beneath the glare,
betraying their presence if the riding lights hadn't done it already. Another followed it, a third, as excited men
searched for anticipated prey. From one of the rafts a laser sent a ruby beam to impact on a plant, fire rising, edged
with smoke, from the tip of a frond.
"Stop that!" Dumarest shouted above the rising babble from the rafts. "Cease all fire! No more flares. Fall into line
and remain silent!"
"I saw one!" The voice was young, hysterical. "I saw one of the devils. There!"
Again the laser fired, fresh flame rising from another plant, this time far to the left.
"He's right!" Another voice, equally young, just as high. "There! See!"
He owned a rifle, and echoes rolled as he fired, amplified by the lofios, increased as others joined in. Within
seconds the body of the raft was a mass of winking points and ruby beams as men leaned over the edge shooting at
imagined shapes on the ground.
To Fran Paran Dumarest snapped, "Get the number of that raft. I want the name of every man in it. The officers
too. The damned fools should be able to maintain order better than this."
"They're volunteers, sir," said the lieutenant. "A group from one of the villages."
"It makes no difference. Establish contact and order them to stay well clear. Have them patrol to the east—and
don't forget to record those names." To the pilot Dumarest said, "Head for the village. Fast."
Already they had lost the element of surprise and given any waiting enemy the choice of retreat or setting up an
ambush. If the enemy were still at the village, it had taken time to cover distance. As the raft swept forward, it
dropped until it was almost brushing the plants beneath. They vanished, edging a clearing, a barely visible cluster of
houses, limp figures lying in the streets. "Flares," ordered Dumarest.
He turned as they fell, looking at the scene clearly revealed, every detail painted in the stark, white glare. Beside
him a man was suddenly sick, vomiting over the edge of the raft.
Another cursed with monotonous repetition. "God, look at it! God, look at it!"
Dumarest said, "Contact the other raft. Have them remain aloft and drop flares as needed. We shall land at the
northern edge of the village. Two men to stay with the raft, four others to spread in line facing north. Fire at anything
that comes toward you. Remember that, toward you. Lieutenant, you are in charge. The rest follow me. Open order,
and no firing unless I give the order." He added grimly, "I'll kill any man who disobeys."

***

Once, on a distant world, he had seen an ancient painting in a dusty museum depicting, so the curator had said,
an impression of hell. It had been a scene of torment, bodies lying, disfigured, faces contorted, blood and devastation
all around. The artist could have taken Verital for his model.
Dumarest studied it from where he crouched behind the cover of a building. The wide main street was a
shambles. The air reeked of blood. A man sprawled, stomach slashed open, intestines in a blue-red mass of coils, a
rifle frozen in his hand. Close by, a woman, knife in hand, showed a hole between her eyes, the back of her head a
soggy mass rimmed with lank hair. Two others lay in a carmine pool, hacked to bloody fragments. A child lacked
limbs, another had been seared to crackling, a third, a baby, lay with a crushed skull beneath a red smear on the
corner of a building. And there were others. Too many others.
From one side a man said sickly, "The bloody swine! Savages! Only animals could have done a thing like this!"
Another said, "Let's get them!"
He rose from where he had been crouching, rifle in hands, almost staggering as he moved down the street.
Dumarest watched him go, willing to accept the proffered bait. If any enemy should still be in the village, the easy
target might draw his fire.
The man was lucky; none came. Dumarest waited, then moved from behind his cover.
"Search," he ordered. "House to house. Be careful."
He kicked open the door of the building behind which he had crouched. The interior was dark. Cautiously he felt
along the wall, found a switch, turned it. No light came, and he crept forward, tense, nostrils flaring with remembered
smells. His foot hit something soft, and he jumped back, eyes narrowed, cursing the darkness. The window was
shuttered, and he threw them wide, light from the flares illuminating the room.
A woman stared at him with wide, dead eyes. The ax in her hand was stained, her hand, the entire arm to the
shoulder. The man beside her lay face-down, the back of his head crushed and oozing brains. Dumarest stooped over
the woman. She was young, nubile, her body firm. The blood coating her was not her own, and as far as he could see,
she was uninjured.
Uninjured, but dead, her flesh barely cool.
Upstairs a baby lay in a cot. Dumarest took one glance and turned away. A pet, a small animal, lay against the
wall, fur matted with blood, fangs bared in a final defiance. The claws held strips of skin and particles of flesh. The
rest of the house was empty.
Back in the street, he called for three men and went in search of the power supply. It was housed at the far end of
the village, a compact atomic pile together with generators and rectifiers. In it someone had run berserk, chopping
wires, hacking at cables, paying the price in released energy, which had seared him to a crisp. Motes of soot hung in
the air, which stank of char.
One of the men said, "Hell, we'll never be able to fix this in a hurry."
"How long?"
"At least three hours, sir. It will be dawn by then."
Dumarest nodded, arriving at a decision. "Get back into the street. Find something to make a fire, several if you
can. Get the doors and windows open. If there is anyone still alive, I want to be informed at once. Move!"
As they emerged into the street, a man came running toward him. He halted, saluted, said, "Report from the
lieutenant, sir. The raft above is almost out of flares. Your orders?"
"I'll give them personally. You help these men." At the raft Dumarest snapped, "Tell them to ride high, drop what
flares they have left, then land to take on those we are carrying. Where is the other raft, the one sent to the east?"
The lieutenant shrugged. "Still there, as far as I know, sir. I can't establish contact."
"Damn them!" Anger darkened Dumarest's face. "Keep trying. I want them to head north and land to form a line
ten miles ahead facing the village. If…" He broke off, listening.
"Sir?"
"Be quiet!"
It came again, the distant blast of shots, a thin screaming. The pilot of the raft said, "They've found something!
Goddammit, they've found the enemy!"
That or another outburst of hysteria which turned shadows into menacing figures; yet there was always the
chance they were fighting living things. Dumarest sprang into the raft, snapping orders.
"Lieutenant, contact the other raft and have them follow us. Pilot, up and head toward that noise. The rest of you
stay here and hold the village."
Lightened, the raft almost shot into the sky, leveling, the air gusting as it drove toward the sound of battle. Ahead,
the darkness was broken by a dull glow, smoldering plants sending up thick columns of smoke from a base of flame.
Details sprang into life as flares dropped from the sides of the vehicle, men crouching, firing, their raft lying to one
side, shielded by smoke drifting beneath the impact of a gust of wind. They faced southwest, toward the village.
"They've got them," said Fran Paran. His voice was tense with eagerness. "Trapped the swine on their way back
to the hills. If we land, we can catch them between us."
"And face the fire of our own troops," reminded Dumarest. He glanced to where the other raft, laden with men,
moved toward them. "Have them land to the west of the action, drop half their men, then move on to the east. Open
order and reserve fire until they recognize their targets."
A basic maneuver when fighting in darkness against an unknown enemy. Properly conducted, it would face them
with a wide semicircle, which could move in to surround them with a ring of steel. A trap that could not fail—if the
men remained cool, if they obeyed orders, if they retained their fire and didn't shoot each other down.
As the raft passed them, the lieutenant said, "And us, sir?"
"We'll stay aloft, dropping flares and maintaining observation." Dumarest thinned his lips as he recognized the
other's expression. "You don't like it, lieutenant?"
"I'd rather be down there killing the swine who did that horror to the village."
"Instead of which you'll have to let others do the killing while you tell them where to shoot."
Leaning over the edge of the raft, Dumarest studied the scene below. The fire was erratic, seemingly unanswered,
rifles and lasers blasting in all directions. Above the shots rose the sound of shouting, a wild screaming, a hideous
cacophony of bestial noise. And then, suddenly, the raft was the target of concentrated fire.
The pilot reared, crying out, falling as bullets tore at his chest, a laser beam searing into his side. The raft tilted,
the engine ruined, the anti-grav conductors ripped and inactive. Dumarest caught Fran Paran as he almost went over
the side, throwing him to the floor of the raft, holding him as the vehicle crashed. The vegetation saved them,
cushioning the impact, and they landed heavily, to roll on the soft dirt.
"They got us!" The lieutenant staggered to his feet. Blood trickled from a shallow gash at the side of his head.
"Where's my rifle? They must be close. Where the hell is my rifle?"
"We were shot down by our own men," said Dumarest He watched as the other found his weapon, his eyes
cautious. "What do you intend to do?"
"Get in there and join the fight. What else?"
"It might help to know what we're up against," said Dumarest dryly. He coughed as a gust of wind threw an eddy
of smoke over the place where they stood. "We don't want to kill our own men, and we certainly don't want to be
shot in error. They almost got us once. We might not be as lucky the next time."
"They wouldn't do that."
"They did. I was watching. The fire came from directly below." Dumarest coughed again, his lungs constricting,
his eyes watering so that the figure of the officer blurred and took on distorted lines in the dying light of the flare.
And there was something else, a sweet, sickly odor riding on the breeze, bringing an overwhelming tension, a sharp
appreciation of impending danger. "We'd better get away from here."
"Run, you mean?"
"We were shot down. If the enemy are close, they would have seen us fall. They know we would carry arms and
ammunition. Take the lead, lieutenant. Head for the east."
"The action is toward the north."
"And the other raft is over to the east." Anger sharpened Dumarest's voice. "This isn't a one-man operation,
lieutenant. And we've no place for heroes. Just obey orders and stop arguing if you want to avoid a court-martial.
Now, move!"
Fran Paran said tightly, "You can go to hell, marshal. I'm here to fight, and that's just what I intend, to do. Run if
you want, but I'm no coward. Those swine are going to pay for what they've done, and I'm going to see they do it.
And neither you nor anyone else is going to stop me."
He stood, very young, very defiant, breathing deeply of the smoke-laden air. And then, abruptly, he screamed.
It was a harsh sound, wordless, a noise torn from a distorted throat, powered by fear and hate and blind ferocity.
Dumarest was moving as the first note cut the air. He had sensed the tension, seen the beginning of the grimace, the
rifle lifting, aiming directly toward his chest. As the officer fired, he threw himself to one side, ducking low as a
second bullet cut the air where his head had been. Before the muzzle could lower, he was rising beneath it, slamming
his shoulder hard against the barrel, throwing it upward, to spout missiles at the sky. His right hand lifted, the fingers
clenched, the hard mass of bone and sinew slamming at the unprotected jaw.
He caught the man as he fell, fighting a sudden nausea, a flashing of his vision, the sickness which filled his
stomach. Dropping the limp shape, Dumarest staggered to one side, doubled, retching. Around him the plants seemed
to move, to grow arms and legs and grinning faces, crimson cowls framing heads like skulls, the snarling mask of a
fighter moving in for the kill, other shapes, all menacing, all horrible.
It lasted for a few moments and then passed, leaving him weak and drenched with sweat. Turning, he looked at
the officer. Even though unconscious, he twitched on the ground, arms reaching, fingers scrabbling, booted feet
churning the soil. Dumarest reached him, slashing at the bright uniform with his knife, cutting strips of fabric to bind
the hands and feet. The rifle lay to one side, and he picked it up and moved like a shadow into the vegetation.
Beneath the fronds it was totally dark; the flares had died, and the fading starlight couldn't penetrate the broad leaves
and wide-spread branches. The wind had ceased, the smoke rising straight, black against the bright stars.
The air was silent; the shooting had stopped, the screams and shouts and bestial noises. There was nothing aside
from the darkness, the rising smoke, the faint tang of burned explosives. Dropping flat, Dumarest rested his ear
against the soil, finding no vibration of moving feet. If the enemy had been close, they had gone, or were more still
and silent than any humans he had ever known.
The lieutenant was conscious when he returned. He lifted his hands. "Why this?"
"Don't you remember?"
"We were talking. You said something about finding the other raft. Then I was on the dirt tied up like a beast for
slaughter. What happened?"
Dumarest said, "How do you feel?"
"Sick. My head aches and my jaw…" The bound hands lifted, rubbed. "It hurts. Did I fall or something? But, if so,
why am I tied?"
"You tried to kill me. You would have done so if I hadn't knocked you out."
The lieutenant blinked. "Kill you? But, sir, that's impossible."
"I wish it were," said Dumarest. With his knife he cut the lashings. "Get up. Search the raft. If you find a
communicator, try to contact the other raft. Have it come over and pick us up." He added grimly, "If you see a
weapon, don't touch it. If you do, I will kill you."
The officer commanding the other raft was a squat, middle-aged man with a dull, phlegmatic nature. A born
soldier who loved to live by the book. As the raft landed, he jumped out, saluting.
"Lieutenant Hamshard reporting, sir. As ordered, I dropped half my men to the west of the action and continued
to the east. Those first dropped reported they were establishing contact."
"And?"
"One message, and then silence, sir. My guess is they ran into friendly fire, returned it, and then got wiped out
The others, under my command, remained in position."
"No contact established?"
"No, sir."
"Why not!"
"To be frank, sir, it seemed that all hell had broken loose. I didn't want to throw my men away if the enemy had
overwhelmed the position; still less did I want them to get shot by our own men. I held them back until I could get
information from a scout. He didn't come back. I was about to mount another reconnaissance when your message
was received. I pulled out, and my men with me." He jerked his head to where they waited in the raft. "Was the action
in order, sir?"
"Yes, captain."
Hamshard frowned. "A mistake, sir. I am a lieutenant."
"As from this moment, you are a captain. A battlefield promotion. Lieutenant Paran, make a note and inform
headquarters of my decision." Dumarest looked at the sky. "How long until dawn?"
"Less than an hour, sir. Orders?"
"Get up and stay up until full light. We can do nothing in the dark. If the enemy were here, they are gone. If they
weren't, there is little we can do but wait."
Hamshard said shrewdly, "Sir, do you think the action we spotted, the shooting and noise, was the result of
hysteria? That they were firing at the air and at each other?"
"You think it possible, captain?"
"Well, sir, they were a pretty high-strung bunch. If they thought they saw something, landed, got confused with
shadows, and then my men coming toward them—yes, sir, I think it possible."
"Well." said Dumarest, "We'll soon find out."

Chapter Nine
"Gas!" Colonel Paran thinned his lips, his eyes hard. "Are you sure, Earl? There can be no mistake?"
Dumarest shook his head, leaning back in his chair as he fought the numbing weight of fatigue. From across the
table around which sat the council of war a man said, "Examination of the bodies supports the marshal's theory. The
toxic substances used must have been of short duration; no residue was found, but I fail to see how any other cause
could have achieved the same result."
Lem Vandet, a hard-faced, sharp-eyed man who spoke with determined precision. A chemical scientist before he
had donned the uniform and insignia of a major.
Colonel Oaken said, "Can you be certain of that? Without definite proof ?"
"We must work on the basis of available evidence, colonel. As the marshal pointed out, the clues were there all
along. The villages without any Ayutha bodies—they couldn't have made a physical attack without suffering some
casualties. Examination of the weapons used also proves that they were used against each other—blood and tissue
samples leave no doubt. And the initial messages, which are all the same. Clear evidence of some form of
hallucination that distorted reality so that the villagers imagined they were being attacked by monsters. In fact, they
were the victims of their own minds."
From where he had sat in brooding silence, Colonel Stone said, "The Ayutha are primitive. The manufacture of
nerve gas requires a relatively high technology. They lack both the knowledge and the means."
"As far as we are aware," admitted Vandet. "But they could buy what they cannot make."
Dumarest watched their faces as they realized the implication of the comment. It was frightening. A band of
marauding primitives was one thing; armed with nerve gas, they were something else, and if they had a source of
supply, the economy of Chard was doomed.
He said, "This is speculation. We have no proof that the Ayutha are involved. But I am fairly certain that the
nerve gas is derived from lofios oil. I assume that it would be relatively easy for an unscrupulous man to contact them
and to buy oil direct But why should they have wanted gas in the first place? That implies not only a savage hate but a
calculated plan. Is it possible that you have commercial rivals who would gain by creating discord?"
Oaken shook his head. He wasted no time now in bluster; the plump lines of his face had settled into determined
hardness. He was not a fool, thought Dumarest, watching him. Neither he nor Stone. Merchants, perhaps, rich men
both, but never fools.
"We've thought of that," said Stone. "Lofios oil is rare and cannot be synthesized, so we own the entire supply. To
destroy it would benefit no one—not even the Ayutha. That's what makes this whole thing so incredible. Now we
have no choice but to send strong punitive expeditions into the hills, find their supplies of gas if possible, destroy
what we can in order to teach them a lesson."
"No."
Oaken frowned. "Marshal?"
"You don't put out a fire by throwing oil into the flames. You tried it once, and the second time achieved a total
loss of all your men. As I explained at the beginning, wars of this nature tend to escalate. There will be no punitive
expeditions."
"You mean we must do nothing?"
"I didn't say that. As yet no real attempt has been made to contact the Ayutha. Until an attempt has been tried, it
would be stupid to waste men and aggravate the situation. We could create havoc, perhaps, but it would take only one
man with one container of gas to destroy a village."
Colonel Paran said, "The marshal has a point, gentlemen. The attacks are escalating. Two other villages
destroyed since Verital." To Dumarest he explained, "The word came while you were in the field. They were far to the
west, and there was nothing you could have done."
"I should have been informed." A map lay on the table and Dumarest studied it, noting the positions of the red
dots, widely spaced, villages destroyed at apparent random. Primitive savagery might account for it, but why should
they have passed villages close to the hills to attack others much farther away?
"I want a computer analysis made of these attacks," he said. "The times, the distances, the weather conditions,
everything. Colonel Paran, I asked for rafts equipped with infrared detectors to maintain constant patrol. Did they
spot anything?"
"No, but that isn't conclusive. The lofios holds warmth and baffles the scanners."
"I was thinking of much closer to the hills."
"Still nothing."
Which meant little; any attacking force could have remained under cover, living on carried stores and moving
under the protection of the leaves.
"Is there nothing we can do, marshal?" Stone was anxious. "Aside from punitive expeditions and constant
surveillance, I can't see how we are going to resolve this conflict."
"Three things," said Dumarest. "Major Vandet, from your examination, would you say the gas was one which had
to be inhaled?"
"Yes. There are no marks of burning on the skin, and in any case, that would assume sprays were used. From
your own experience, I would say that it is a relatively simple vapor—natural enough if we remember their limited
sources of manufacture." He added, "Unless, of course, they are actually buying more sophisticated material."
"We can discount that," said Colonel Paran. "Every ship reaching this planet is checked and cargoes verified. The
gas they use must be locally produced."
"Then respirators and air tanks would give total protection," said Dumarest. "See to their manufacture. Every man
in the field must be equipped, and half of them must wear the masks at all times. The second thing—in order to
protect the villages, all lofios plants to the extent of a mile must be cut down."
"Destroyed?" The merchant in Oaken forced the objection. "Do you realize just how many plants that is? Marshal,
we can't do it!"
"Thirty villages," said Stone. "Three hundred square miles. The economy would never stand it."
Colonel Paran said shrewdly, "You're thinking of cover, Earl? It makes sense, but would a mile be necessary?"
"To give complete protection, yes."
"I see. And the third thing?"
"To make contact with the Ayutha." Dumarest rose from the table. "I will see to it as soon as I have enough men
properly trained. And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me?"

***

He heard the sound of water as he entered the suite and Zenya's voice raised in song. It was a cheerful air such as
might be sung at a celebration, the words casual, hinting of love and fulfillment and eternal bliss. A dream, as all such
songs were.
"Earl?" She had heard the sound of the opening door, perhaps the heavy tread of his feet. She came from the
bathroom, rubbing her hair with a fluffy towel, the long lines of her body barely covered by the material. "Darling!"
Her eyes mirrored the shock in her voice. "You look dreadful—so tired. Some wine?"
"Later."
"After when, darling?" She saw the drawn look on his face and ceased her romantic byplay. "A hard time?"
Times were always hard when dead men lay thick, broken bodies like discarded toys on the soft dirt. And there
had been more than men—women, children, babies, even pets.
"Yes," he said flatly. "A hard time."
"But it's over, and you've come back to me, and now you're safe." She looked at the package he carried. "A
present?"
Without answering, he set the parcel on a table, ripped it open, and activated the mechanism it contained. An
electronic baffle to nullify any watching device—high rank had certain conveniences.
"Your uniform came," she said. "I've hung it up in the wardrobe. Are you going to wear it? It would be nice for us
to go out and eat somewhere and have everyone looking at us and know that you are the marshal and I am your lady.
Susal—the colonel's wife—took me to a place last night for dinner. The food was fabulous, and they had a wonderful
troupe of dancers. The best I've seen since we left Samalle. Earl…" She frowned. "You aren't listening."
He said flatly, "Just what instructions did Chan Parect give you before we left Paiyar?"
"Earl?" She stared at him, eyes wide. "Earl, you told me not to mention things like that."
"You can talk now. This will baffle any listening ears." He gestured at the mechanism softly humming on the table.
"Did he tell you why we came here?"
"Of course. To find his son, Salek."
"And what else?" He resisted the impulse to reach out and shake her. "What would you have done, for example,
had I shipped out?"
"I'd have gone with you."
"And if I'd left you behind?"
A veil seemed to fall over the amber of her eyes, making her suddenly appear older, more subtle, a little evil. A
mask to hide nothing, perhaps, or to hide a secret she had no intention of telling. And yet, it was something he had to
know.
"Earl!" She recoiled as she saw his face, the cruel set of his mouth. "Earl, don't look at me like that!"
"You were given orders," he said tightly. "I want to know what they were."
"Why bother, darling?" Her smile was soft, wanton. "You'll find Salek, and we'll all go home, and then we'll live
happily until we die. You see, it's all so simple. There is no need for you to worry at all."
A man to find, who could be anywhere; a threat hanging over him, should he fail; a war to win before his pretense
was discovered. And she said that he had nothing to worry about.
A child would have spoken like that, but Zenya was no child. With savage answer he threw the flat of his hand
against her cheek.
"Damn you, woman! Tell me!"
"Earl!" She recoiled, eyes wide with shock, one hand lifted to the red welts on the bronze of her skin. "You hit me!
You hit me!"
"I'll kill you if you don't answer!"
He meant it; the need of survival overrode all gentler instincts, and his determination showed on his face, in his
eyes, his voice. She recognized it, accepted it, found a warped pleasure in surrendering to his mastery.
"I was to send a message to the Cyclan telling them where you had been and where you were going if possible.
And I was to send another to grandfather telling him that you had failed. That I had failed."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, Earl. That is all."
It was too simple, too open for the devious mind of Aihult Chan Parect, and yet he had no evidence that she
spoke other than the truth. Had the old man gambled on the bait of her body and the promise of later fortune being
enough to hold him? Thinking it enough when coupled with a bluff ?
Wine stood on a table, and he helped himself, ignoring the girl, standing with eyes narrowed before the window.
Rafts passed in the night outside, lights brilliant against the stars, each vehicle loaded with uniformed men. Fresh
detachments for the field, forces accumulating for the inevitable attack, should all else fail. And other rafts, big cargo
carriers, grim as they transported their loads of dead.
From behind him Zenya said softly, "Earl?"
She had dressed in a gown of clinging golden fabric, gems bright in the mane of her hair, head held high, the
marks of his fingers carried proudly like a badge.
He said, "Tell me about Salek Parect."
 "You should bathe, Earl, and change. It will refresh you, and I want to see you in uniform."
"Tell me about the man I'm looking for."
"I never saw him, Earl. He left Paiyar before I was born. From what others have told me, he was a dreamer,
always reading old books and studying ancient scrolls. He had a theory that men had left the right way—whatever
that is supposed to mean. Can't we forget him, Earl?"
"I have to find him."
"I know, but later. You have been away a long time, and I missed you." She came forward a little, perfume wafting
before her, arms lifted in invitation. "I missed you so very much."
He said, "I need to bathe and change."

***

They ate in a place gilded with glowing light, rainbows chasing each other on the walls, the ceiling a mass of
drifting smoke shot with glimmers of random brightness. Music came from a living orchestra, martial tunes and
exotic rhythms, the throb of drums merging with the wail of pipes, flutes soaring, strings quivering the air. Tall
hostesses moved softly on naked feet, their ankles adorned with tiny bells which chimed as they glided between the
tables. The food was a succession of dishes, spiced, plain, meats and fish and compotes of fruit, delicacies composed
of crushed nuts blended with a dozen different flavors.
Uniforms were everywhere, officers entertaining their women, faces flushed, voices a little too loud, peacocks
strutting and enjoying their hour of glory. Volunteers all, paying for their uniforms, their arms, looking on the war as a
great adventure.
"Earl," whispered Zenya, "I'm so proud of you. You make these others look like inexperienced boys."
Dumarest made no comment, sipping wine that tasted of honey and mint, icy cold to the mouth, warming as it
slid past his throat. He felt tired and wished that he was back in the suite, but it was to be expected that he would
entertain his lady.
"Sir?" A middle-aged man stood before him, the insignia of a major bright on his collar. "With respect, marshal,
the captain and I are having a little argument, which perhaps you would be good enough to resolve." He gestured to
the table he had left, the man and the two women watching. "With your permission?"
He was more than a little drunk; it was easier to agree than argue.
"What is it, major?"
"It has to do with weapons, sir. I advocate lasers, but the captain states that a rifle is as effective, in trained hands.
Your opinion?"
"The captain is right."
"But surely, sir, a laser, especially when set for continuous fire, can be more destructive?"
"True, major, but a man can be killed only once. A bullet will do it as well as anything else. If the object of war
was simple destruction, we would all be armed with missile launchers."
"But, sir, surely—"
"That will be all, major."
Dumarest sipped again at his wine. The music had fallen to a repetitive beat, bass notes seeming to vibrate the
very air, pulsing like the sound of a giant heart. A dancer spun onto the floor, whirling, veils lifting to reveal milky
flesh, hair an ebony cloud around the painted face. Another joined her, glistening black, a third as red as flame.
Trained litheness merged, parted, met again in a combination of limbs, so that for a moment the three bodies seemed
one, to part, to join again in the age-old invitation of all women to all men.
"Beautiful," whispered Zenya. "How could any man resist them? Could you, Earl? If I wasn't here? If they came to
you?"
They were marionettes, toys, painted dolls dedicated to their art. He turned from them, busy with his wine.
"Have you ever known a woman like that, Earl? An artiste? You must have. Did she love you? Did you love her?
Earl, answer me, I want to know."
He said, "Zenya, do you know what love really is?"
"Tell me, darling."
"It isn't the game you play. For you it is all pleasure, fun, excitement. But real love isn't like that. There is pain in it,
and sacrifice, and yearning, and something, perhaps, which you have never known. A caring for another person. A
tenderness… I can't put it into words. If you feel it, you know it."
"As you have done, Earl?" She frowned as he made no answer. "Earl?"
She looked at his hand, tight around his wineglass, the set look on his face, the eyes misted with memories.
Jealous, she said, "Earl, I'm bored. Let's get out of here."
 Branchard was waiting when they returned to the suite. He straightened from where he leaned against a wall, face
splitting into a grin as he saw the uniform. Formally he said, "My lord, may I have the pleasure of a few moments of
your time?"
The words were for the benefit of the honor guard standing stiffly beside the door. Maintaining the pretense,
Dumarest snapped, "This is irregular, but, as you are here…"
Inside, Branchard glanced around, saw the electronic baffle, and relaxed.
"I tried to get word to you, Earl, but you didn't ring back, so I had to take a chance and come myself." He nodded
at Zenya. "The girl took the message."
"What message?" She frowned. "A man rang a few times asking for you to call back. A news service, I
understood. Naturally you wouldn't want to be bothered."
"You should have told me," said Dumarest mildly. The delay wasn't important. "Any luck?"
"Some, but you may not like it. The name didn't help, but names can be changed, and the man you're looking for
is known here as Amil Kulov."
"You're sure?"
"There's no doubt about it, Earl. The Lammarre details match to the last decimal point. He had an infection
shortly after landing and was treated in the city hospital. He also worked for a time in a chemical factory, doing spot
checks on sprays and fungicides, and he's on record in their medical section. The thing is, he isn't in the city."
Dumarest frowned. "Where, then? At one of the villages?"
"Not even that. He's one of these crazy guys, you know, always trying to help those who don't really want him to
interfere but are too polite to say so. The last known of him was that he was living in the hills among the Ayutha."
Branchard poured himself some wine, emptied half the glass in a single swallow. "Nice stuff, Earl. They seem to be
treating you well."
"Stick to the point, captain."
"That is it, Earl. You might as well forget the man. The odds are that he's dead by now. Everyone I spoke to
reckons that all the social workers who interested themselves in the primitives got the chop when the trouble started.
One thing is for sure—if you go looking for him, you'll head smack into trouble."
Nothing was simple. Dumarest said, "Thank you, captain. I'll send money to you at the field."

Chapter Ten
From the head of the column Ven Taykor said, "I've never been a gambling man, Earl, but if I were I'd take odds
that none of us will get back alive." His voice was muffled, distorted by the diaphragm of his respirator. "If I were
with the Ayutha, I could pick us off one by one and never need to show myself at all."
A gamble impossible to avoid. Pausing, Dumarest glanced back at the column of men. They had been marching
since dawn from where the rafts had dropped them, following Taykor as he led them toward the hills. They were tired,
hot, and irritable, and showed it. Hand-picked, but poorly trained; there had been no time for that.
He said, "You're a pessimist, Ven. All we want to do is to make contact."
"Let's hope that we don't do it the hard way." Taykor reached up to scratch his face, swore as his fingers met the
mask. "Do we have to wear these damn things all the time?"
There was no wind; the leaves of the lofios all around were still, swollen pods taut beneath the sun. They had
worn the respirators continuously, field training to get accustomed to the equipment, but the capacity of the tanks
was limited.
"We'll take a break," decided Dumarest. "Captain Corm, set guards. Respirators to be worn, no firing on any
account unless I order. Lieutenant Paran, report."
He listened as the other relayed details of the situation.
Rafts, heavily armed, riding high at the edge of the hills, men tense to shoot at anything that moved below. More
rafts, deeper in, scanning with electronic sensors.
"A party has been spotted moving toward the west, sir. About thirty men, as far as can be determined." His voice
hardened. "They could have been responsible for the recent attacks."
"Any other signs of movement?"
"No, sir. That party, sir, do you wish it destroyed?"
"No." Dumarest's voice was harsh. "My orders are plain—no firing for any reason unless I give the command. Any
man disobeying will be shot. Our objective is to contact the Ayutha. If we start shooting, they will run."
Run and attack in turn, and the column he commanded was too vulnerable for his liking. As they settled, one of
the men complained, "A hell of a thing. Why couldn't we have used rafts to drop us right in the hills? All this walking
seems crazy to me."
His companion, more logical, said, "Use your head, man. Suppose you were one of the Ayutha. You could see a
raft coming for miles, right? You'd see it land and armed men get out, and then what? I'll tell you, you'd run and get
help and set up an ambush. The marshal knows what he's doing."
A blind confidence that Dumarest hoped would be justified. Squatting, crouched over a map, he studied the
terrain. They were close to the foothills, where a shallow gully wound into the higher regions, heading, so Ven Taykor
had said, to one of the Ayutha settlements. It would be deserted now; even primitives would not have remained
massed together to offer an easy target, but equally so, they would have remained scattered in the vicinity. If he could
reach the area without being attacked, if they were a little curious and held their fire, if the men behind him would
control their nervous tension, it was possible that his mission could be a success.
He said, "Ven, come over here."
Taykor made no reply. Looking up, Dumarest saw him standing beside one of the lofios plants. He had dropped
his respirator and was digging with his thumbnails into one of the blooms. He turned, grinning, oil gleaming on his
thumbs.
"Here, Earl, come and smell what this is all about."
The scent was incredible. It rose from the oil, catching at the senses, filling the mind with sensations of warm
suns and sultry days, of fields of flowers and silken skin. A gourmet would have found in it the succulence of favorite
foods, a lover the impact of his woman's flesh. For a moment he stood, confused with a variety of impressions; then
Ven Taykor dropped his hands, wiping them on his faded tunic.
"It gets you, doesn't it? I've known men to become so hooked on the stuff they spend their lives among the lofios
just collecting, smelling, drifting into a private world all of their own. Not many, but it happens." He added grimly,
"You find them sometimes. Mostly bones. With fruit all around, they sit and starve to death."
"A narcotic?"
"No. It isn't habit forming in the sense that it creates a dependency. It's just that a few men like it so much they
haven't the will to leave it alone. Mostly you build a tolerance toward it. The marketed stuff, of course, is diluted and
refined." Taykor reached up and jerked a fruit from its branch. "Try it, it's good."
The fruit was round, the size of a clenched hand, the rind easily peeled from the juicy pulp beneath. Dumarest
lifted his mask and buried his teeth in the flesh. It held a cool, refreshing tang, tart and yet sweet, devoid of seeds.
He said, "How do the plants propagate?"
"By cuttings. They are all from one original hybrid. Even so, the blooms still need pollinating." Taykor lifted his
hand and rested it on one of the swollen pods. "See?"
As he rapped it, the pod opened in a gush of golden grains, tiny motes rising, to drift high into the air, a smoke-
like cloud which hung over the guide as if a mist.
Dumarest snapped, "Be careful!"
"Why?" Taykor frowned. "They're harmless, Earl. The dust is only pollen. It might sting your eyes if you stood too
close, and maybe make you sneeze, but that's all." He reached out to gather more fruit. "You'd better let the men eat
while they have the chance. From now on the going gets rough."
Eat and recharge the air tanks and get ready for the next stage of the journey. Dumarest moved softly around the
camp, watching the shadows beneath the plants to either side. He saw nothing, but that meant little. Their progress
had been not as silent as he wished; a stray Ayutha could have spotted them, be even now keeping watch. But if so,
there was nothing he could do.
Two hours later they saw the skull.
It was the fleshless head of some beast mounted on a short stick, facing them with fanged jaws. Ven Taykor
looked at it, hand rising to his mask in conditioned reflex as he tried to scratch his jaw.
"Well, now," he said. "This is something new. I've never seen anything like it before."
Dumarest looked to either side. The lofios had given way to scrub, matted vegetation covering torn ground. A few
of the plants stood in sheltered places, thin and with dulled leaves, ragged beneath the sun, their roots driving deep
for the specialized minerals they required. Spined vines pressed against them, yellow flowers bright among the
thorns,, red berries hanging in clusters beneath orange leaves.
He looked again at the skull. It was old, the bone yellowed, fretted, patches of lichen clinging to the underside of
the jaw like scales of dried blood.
A warning. It could be nothing else. Stop! Come no farther! Go back—or else!
To Ven Taykor he said, "How much longer before we reach the settlement?"
"A few hours." The guide was uneasy. "That's if they let us get anywhere near it. If they want to stop us, it would
be easy. The ground ahead is full of crevasses—a perfect spot for an ambush."
"Can we bypass it?"
 "I'm not sure." Taykor scratched at his mask. "One man could do it easy, but not if he's a target. A file of men
would be conspicuous every step of the way. If you want my advice, Earl, you'll call it a day. Radio up a raft and get
out of here."
"I won't do that."
"No," said Taykor. "I didn't think you would. But if the Ayutha are gunning for us, you'll wish you had." He glanced
up at the sky, where tiny motes drifted, almost lost in the distance. Watching rafts containing enough power to wash
the area with destruction. "Maybe you should bring them in close—just in case."
"No. Is there any sign of peace the Ayutha recognize? If a stranger comes up to others, what does he do?" He
said sharply, as Taykor hesitated, "What did you do when meeting them? Hold out your hands? What?"
"I didn't do anything special. Just walked in slow and quiet and normal. They didn't bother me, and I didn't bother
them. They didn't used to be warlike then, remember. Things have changed." Taykor shook his head, baffled. "I just
don't know, Earl. From here on, anything can happen."
A quiet, primitive people suddenly turning to violence, old customs revived, perhaps, memories of other days
when life had been hard and only the strong could hope to survive. How would such a people react to the presence of
armed men? He could guess, but the chance had to be taken.
"Take the lead," he said to the guide. "Walk with your hands empty and in full view. If you see anyone watching,
do nothing. Captain!" Dumarest turned to Conn. "Single file, rifles slung, hands exposed. You understand?"
The captain was a tough farmer who had lost his family during the first attack. Scowling, he said, "I don't like it,
marshal. You're turning us into sitting targets. If the Ayutha attack, well all be wiped out."
"You heard my orders, captain!"
For a moment the man hesitated, on the brink of disobedience; then he shrugged. "Yes, sir, but God help you if
you've made a mistake."
"A threat, captain?" Dumarest didn't pursue the matter. "Never mind. Have the men maintain constant
observation. One to look ahead, the two behind him to left and right alternately. Anything seen to be reported
immediately. Right, Taykor? On your way!"
The gully narrowed, widened into a shallow valley, the walls lifting, to close again as they climbed upward. The
vegetation grew thicker, thorns tearing at clothing, rubble underfoot making progress difficult. Aside from the rasp of
boots and the sound of harsh breathing, there was no sound. The column seemed to be moving into an infinity of
emptiness, nothing but the hot sun above, the encroaching scrub, the rocks beneath. An hour later they found a
second skull, human this time, and the men skirted it, eyes wary, hands gripping their slung rifles. A crest rose, gave
way to a narrow declivity, the ground rising beyond to a steeper gradient.
They found a hut, deserted, a small garden unkempt, plants choked with weeds. Another that had been burned,
gray ash thick on the stone. Two more, roofs sagging, doors open, to reveal naked interiors. The embers of a fire over
which stood a tripod of thin metal struts. Dumarest touched them, felt the dead ashes and found them warm. Word of
their coming had preceded them; whoever had lived here had taken their possessions and run.
A man said sharply, "Over there! See?"
His rifle lifted, aiming. Dumarest reached him and slammed down the weapon. "No firing! You heard my order!"
"I was just—"
"You don't need a gun to point! What did you see?"
"Something over on that ridge. It's watching us. There!"
Dumarest followed the pointing hand and saw nothing but a tree, stunted, branches like arms, a patch of lighter
coloring that, to a nervous man, could have looked like a face.
"There's nothing there. Don't be so quick with that gun the next time. Lieutenant!"
"Sir?"
"Any further reports on movement within this area?"
There were three. Heat-radiating masses, which could have been men, moving invisibly in the vegetation, coming
from the north and east.
"We could have rafts track them, sir," suggested the officer. "So that if they start anything they wouldn't have the
chance to get away."
"If you were of the Ayutha and saw rafts heading in, what would you think? That we were bait to set a trap,
maybe?" Dumarest shrugged. "We're here to contact them, not kill them." To the guide he said, "All right, Ven, lead
on."
An hour later they were attacked.
It happened as the guide topped a rise, standing for a moment silhouetted against the sky, passing on into the
valley beyond. Captain Conn followed him, his rifle, despite orders, clenched in his hands. Dumarest saw him pause,
the gun lifting, aiming, firing as he shouted.
 "Captain! No!"
The flat report of the shot rolled from the flanking hills, repeated as the captain fired again. Ven Taykor appeared,
running back over the rise, hands lifted, face contorted behind his mask.
"Earl! We're surrounded! That crazy fool—"?
Captain Conn dissolved into a pillar of flame.
It happened almost too fast to see. One moment he was standing firing; the next, something had touched him and
turned him into a living torch, Dumarest snatched at his rifle, lifted it, fired, sending a bullet into the shrieking mass.
As the captain fell in merciful death, he yelled, "Scatter! Down! Stay under cover! No firing!"
He caught the guide as he passed and threw him down as something cut the air with a vicious hiss. Together they
rolled to the side of the boulder, crouching as more arrows splintered against the stone. To one side a man rose,
firing, turning, to fall with a shaft of wood penetrating his chest. Shots blasted, hysterical fingers jammed against
triggers, firing at the air, the trees, the rocks all around. More flame burst around them, ugly patches edged with
smoke, filling the air with tiny motes of swirling soot.
"Flame bombs," gasped Taykor. "They'll burn us alive!"
Ten yards behind, broken stone formed a rough circle, slabs and fissures giving protection. Dumarest sprang to
his feet and raced toward it, shouting orders over the din.
"Retreat! Form defensive positions. Stop firing. Stop firing, damn you!"
A man snarled as he tumbled over the rocks. "You killed the captain. One of your own men. Whose damn side
are you on?"
"Would you have left him to roast?" Taykor tried to spit, remembered his mask, tore it free with a savage gesture.
"The fool started all this. If he hadn't fired, we could have made contact. They were waiting for us."
"He still killed the captain."
There had been nothing else to do. Conn had been seared, blinded, already dying; it had been an act of mercy to
save him further agony. Dumarest glanced around the crude fort. The stone gave protection only while they hugged
the rocks; once they left it, they would be exposed to hidden snipers. Behind them, three men lay where they had
fallen. As he watched, another gulped, threw up his hands, and fell backward, a hole between his eyes, blood gushing
from the back of his shattered skull.
"They've got us," said Taykor grimly. "All they have to do is wait. Once we start to move, well be helpless." He
lifted his head, squinting. "They must have been following us all along. They're out there now, hidden, waiting until we
show ourselves."
Lieutenant Paran came crawling toward where they crouched. His face was taut, strained, his eyes a little wild.
"The rafts," he said. "Let me call them in."
Dumarest was cold. "To do what?"
"Burn the area. Send those devils running so they can land and take us aloft."
"Abort the mission, you mean? Lieutenant, we came here to do a job. We'll leave when it's done or when I decide
that it is impossible to do. Report on the casualties."
The snap of his tone restored military obedience. The officer blinked, then said flatly, "Five dead, sir, including
the captain. Four injured, two seriously."
It could have been a lot worse, and Dumarest wondered why it hadn't been. A disciplined force could have almost
eliminated them at the first attack, but arrows had been used, not the rifles they must possess, flame bombs instead
of the lasers they must have captured.
He said, "Thank you, lieutenant Tell the men to hold their fire. Have some take care of the wounded—all to
remain alert and under cover."
"He's young," said Taykor as he inched away. "But he'll learn—maybe."
Dumarest ignored the implication. "Those Ayutha you saw waiting for us. Were they in plain sight?"
"A score of them at least!"
"Armed?"
"I didn't see any weapons, but I didn't have much time to look." Taykor raised his mask and spat. "That damned
fool cut loose too soon. I guess he was thinking of his family, but he should have waited. They must have had men
watching from under cover."
"Never mind that." Dumarest had no patience for listening to the obvious. "The Ayutha were in plain sight, you
say. No weapons visible that you could see. That means they were ready to meet us." He frowned. Conn was dead,
the damage done. The problem now was to lessen the danger of the situation.
He raised his head over the edge of the rock and looked around. The trail they had followed was deserted aside
from the bodies they had left. The ridge ahead was naked against the sky, but the flame bombs must have been fired
from launchers, and they could bathe the ring of stone with fire at any moment He wondered why it hadn't already
been done.
"Lieutenant, you have a spare communicator. Let me have it."
As he handed it over, the officer said, "What do you intend to do, sir?"
"The only thing there is to do. The thing we came here for." Dumarest rose, standing clear against the sky. "I'm
going to talk to the Ayutha."

Chapter Eleven
It was like walking through a nest of sleeping, venomous serpents, knowing that the slightest touch, the smallest
noise, would waken them and cost him his life. Above, the sun beat down with eye-stinging brilliance, the vegetation
seeming to rustle from the impact of invisible shapes. Dumarest moved steadily from the circle of stone, the
communicator at his belt, both hands raised and empty, in the universal sign of peace.
An arrow splintered on the ground five feet to his left. He ignored it, moving steadily toward the ridge. Another
shattered on the rocks to his right, a third stood quivering in the ground directly ahead. A warning not to proceed? A
test to see if he would break and run for cover while behind him the men opened fire? Or perhaps it was a simple
means to determine his courage; primitive peoples had their own ways of arriving at a decision.
The body of Captain Corm lay a crusted mass of charred flesh. He had thrown away his rifle when the missile
hit, and it lay to one side against a bush clear in the sunlight. A tempting object for an unarmed man surrounded by
enemies, but Dumarest made no move toward it. To touch it would be to abort his mission, to invite the flame bombs
that must be aimed at him to leave their launchers. And there was no one close to give him a merciful death should
they strike.
He reached the top of the ridge, halted, hands lifted as he called down to where the Ayutha had been waiting.
"I come in peace. I am Earl Dumarest, marshal of Chard. I come to talk."
Nothing. Not a leaf stirred, no shape appeared, and yet he sensed the presence of watching eyes.
"I come in peace," he said again. "I am alone, unarmed, as you can see. If you wish to kill me, do it now."
On the ridge he had a slender chance of being able to duck, to turn and run back to the circle of stones, the
waiting, armed men. A thin chance, but below the crest of the ridge he would have none at all. For a long moment he
waited, and then, deliberately, strode on down the slope.
The Ayutha were waiting.
They appeared like silent ghosts, rising from the ground, bushes moving to become men, figures stepping from
behind sheltering rocks. Dumarest halted, studying them. They were human, and yet each carried a subtle distortion
of a familiar shape. Tall, their shoulders were a little too narrow, the heads elongated, the arms longer than he would
have expected, the chests pronounced, as if the lungs within had a greater capacity than his own. The faces, too,
carried an alien stamp. The lips were wide, down-curved, the noses beaked, the eyes buried under a ridge of
prominent bone. Their hair was long, silver among the black, the tresses braided with colored fibers. They wore pants
and an open tunic, sandals, wide belts hung with pouches. All carried weapons—slings, bows, clubs, spears, rifles, and
a few lasers. He could see no signs of missile launchers or other more sophisticated devices, and was glad of it. They
would be there, but only fools would display their full strength to an enemy they intended to leave alive.
Dumarest said loudly, "I have come to talk and all can hear what I have to say. But is there one among you who
can talk for the rest?"
A voice said, "Why did you come among us?"
"I have told you." Dumarest turned, looking at the speaker. He was old, his face seamed with tiny lines, hair bright
with silver. An elder, possibly, or a wise man, a councilor perhaps—he knew too little about their social structure. "I
came to meet you. To talk."
"Yet, when we waited for you, death came to two of our number."
"Against my order."
"Do your men not obey you?"
"Do yours?" Dumarest looked at the men pressing all around. "If one of your people does what he should not do,
what then? Is he made to leave your company? Is punishment taken? Does he face the penalty of your law?" Words,
he thought, and perhaps words without meaning to those who listened. They could have a different code, mores other
than what he knew, customs that did not recognize the duties more civilized men placed upon themselves. He said,
"The man killed against my order. Because of that, I killed him in turn."
A voice in the background said, "That is true. I saw it done."
"The one responsible was dying." Another voice, doubtful.
"Even so, he was slain."
 A babble arose, soft voices whispering, as if a wind had passed over the assembly, stilling as the elder raised his
hand.
"Why did the man fire? What had we done to harm him?"
"His family died in an outbreak of violence. He blamed you. Among my people the desire for revenge is very
strong."
"And would killing us restore his family?"
"No."
"Did he know that?"
"He knew it."
"Then why did he seek to kill?"
"Because he was a man," said Dumarest harshly. "A man suffering pain and hurt from his loss and wanting to give
to those he thought responsible the same pain and hurt he had known. You have worked among us, you know how we
are. And you too have killed. What drove you to take innocent lives?"
"Innocent?" The elder made a gesture, one hand lifting, fingers extended, thumb pointed downward. "They came
against us with fire and steel and killed without warning. And you, you came to talk, you say. Do you need guns to
make conversation?"
"For defense… and I have no gun."
Again the babble rose, men speaking, not raising their voices, arriving at a conclusion by a means Dumarest
could guess at but not really know. Telepathy, perhaps, vocalized thoughts resolving, meeting, transmitted to their
spokesman. As it died the man said, "According to the habits of your people, you display great courage. Why are you
here?"
"To end the war."
"That too is our wish. It is not good for our people to bear instruments designed to kill those of our own kind. It
hurts them. But it is a thing I cannot alone decide. There are others—you must meet them, talk with them, let them
judge you in our manner. You are willing?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Let's waste no more time."

***

It was dawn when he returned, the stars paling, fading motes in the light of the rising sun. A sentry called out as
he approached the circle of stones, his voice high, brittle with tension.
"Halt! Who—"
"Marshal Dumarest."
"Earl?" Ven Taykor rose at the sentry's side, knocking down the aimed rifle. "You're back! I was beginning to get
worried. Half the men thought you'd been roasted and eaten, the rest that you'd sold us out. How did it go?"
"Fair enough." Dumarest added, "Ven, have you ever known any of the Ayutha to lie?"
"No."
"Never? Not even in small things?"
"They've never lied to me, and not to anyone else as far as I know. They just don't bother. They simply tell the
truth, and to hell with the consequences."
Natural enough if they were telepathic, even if the talent were rudimentary. Lies would be too easily discovered
and serve no useful purpose. The very concept of falsehood would be alien to a race that exposed its innermost
thoughts.
As Dumarest entered the circle, Lieutenant Paran sprang to his feet. He had been sleeping, his face still drawn
with the lines of fatigue.
"Any luck, sir?"
"Some. We can get out of here alive, at least. Send for a raft to pick us up. Just the vehicle and pilot, no troops.
How are the injured?"
"Comfortable, but one man is pretty bad. I doubt if he'd make it if we had to carry him." The officer busied
himself with his communicator. "Anything else, sir?"
"Get me headquarters."
Captain Louk appeared on the tiny screen. He looked harassed. "Marshal! Thank God you've made contact.
We've had a hell of a night."
"Report."
"Two more villages were hit." He gave the map references. "A total wipe-out. The field detachments close by got
there while it was happening. They were unaffected, but there was nothing they could do. Colonel Paran's out there
now." He added, "It's bad, marshal. Damned bad. Those villages were close, and if the Ayutha is stepping up the
attack—"
"Were any signs of the Ayutha found?"
"No, but that doesn't mean anything. If they're using gas, and they must be, we wouldn't—"
"Have men search every inch of the area for at least a mile around each village," interrupted Dumarest sharply.
"Concentrate on the ground. If a living enemy attacked, there must be traces."
"Sir?"
"Find trackers, men accustomed to hunting game. Dammit, captain, use your head. I want a full report when I
return. In the meantime, no offensive action is to be taken against the Ayutha of any kind. Do you understand me? I
have arranged a truce."
The captain hesitated, then said, "There was a Council meeting last night, sir. The decision was to launch punitive
expeditions at noon."
"Cancel those instructions."
"Sir?"
"You heard me, captain. Use the men to form a thick line around the base of the hills. If you have body-
capacitance detectors, use them; if not, cut a clear path through the lofios. Halt and hold for questioning any Ayutha
you may find. You understand? I don't want them shot, simply held. That's an order, captain. The success of the truce
depends on your cooperation."
"Yes, sir. The Council?"
"I will report on my return."
As Dumarest broke the connection, the young officer said dubiously, "Will they keep it, sir? The truce, I mean.
Those two villages—"
"Were affected last night. The truce runs from this dawn. You'd better notify all units as to the success of this
mission."
"Yes, sir, but your plan? It will need a lot of men."
"They can be found." From the streets, the restaurants, those sporting uniforms and those still waiting to join the
forces. Arms wouldn't be necessary; all he wanted was for men to watch. A living line of witnesses, so as to prove a
point. "Check the men, lieutenant. Have them put by their arms. We won't be attacked, but I want to take no
chances."
At his side Ven Taykor said, "I wish I'd gone with you, Earl."
"One was enough."
"I guess so." The guide sucked in his cheeks. "Did you reach one of their councils?"
"I saw a lot of old men. If that is a council, then I saw it. Is their word good?"
"You mean can they speak for the rest?" Taykor nodded. "I would say they could, but how can I be sure now?
That attack, that was something I've never seen before, and that flame they used. How did they get weapons like
that? They're primitive; to make such things you need a knowledge of chemicals, a factory of sorts." He shook his
head, thinking; then, after a moment he said quietly, "What was it like, Earl? Tough?"
Dumarest leaned back against the stone, not answering, remembering the journey he had made, the twists and
turns, the cavern into which he had been ushered. There had been fires and torches and things of painstaking
fabrication; mats woven from fine materials, seeds linked into patterns, bones carved into delicate shapes, wooden
artifacts, and items of fretted stone.
It had been full of the Ayutha, all male; he had not seen a single woman or child.
They had sat around him, asking questions, talking softly among themselves, conferring, remaining silent for long
periods of time. And all the time he had concentrated on the single-minded desire that the conflict should end, that
there should be peace.
"You were lucky," said Taykor. "No, not lucky, you had guts. Maybe someone else should have tried it. If they had,
those villages might be normal now instead of filled with dead. Well, it can't be helped, but the way I see it, things will
never be the same again. I used to feel safe in the hills—they were just like home. Now, I guess, if ever I rove them
again, I'll keep looking behind me."
"You'll forget," said Dumarest. "This whole thing could be a mistake."
"Maybe." Taykor didn't sound too sure. "If so, it's one hell of a mistake to have made." He squinted up into the
sky, grunting with satisfaction. "Here comes the raft."
It was empty, as ordered, the pilot scared. He licked his lips as they loaded the dead, the crusted remains of
Captain Conn. As they lifted he said, "I've got a message for you, marshal. A member of your family has arrived on
Chard. She's waiting for you at home."
"She?"
 "Yes, sir. The Lady Lisa Conenda."

***

She was all in black and silver, shimmering mesh hugging the contours of her body, ebony belting her waist, more
on the tips of her fingers, the toes of her feet naked in delicate sandals. She came toward him as he closed the door,
smiling, teeth gleaming between her parted lips. Cosmetics accentuated the elfin planes of her face, the enigmatic
look of her eyes.
"Surprised, Earl?"
"Where is Zenya?"
Shrugging, she said, "Does it matter? Shopping, making love to one of those young men in uniform, telling more
than she should to those who would be your enemy—who can tell what the young fool is doing?"
"Try again."
"Sensitive, Earl? I don't know where she is, but we both know what she is like. Did you expect her to remain
faithful? If so, you were a fool." Turning, she glanced around the suite. "So comfortable," she murmured. "So snug.
Have you enjoyed the honeymoon? She bringing you the arts learned in countless engagements, and you… What did
you bring to her? The domination she needs? The mastery she had never known?"
He said flatly, "Stop talking like a jealous woman. Why are you here?"
"Where else should I be… partner? Or have you forgotten what you promised?"
"We are no longer on Paiyar."
"True, and perhaps you didn't mean what you said there, but in one thing I was right. You are clever and hard and
meant to command." Nearing him, she lifted her hands, touched his uniform, the insignia of his rank. "A marshal of
Chard—everyone is talking about you. What would they say, I wonder, if they knew the truth? That you aren't a lord
of Samalle, but a common traveler sent to perform a task. An opportunist wearing false colors. Tell me, Earl, what
would they say?"
"Tell them," he said curtly, "and find out."
He was hot and grimed, and fatigue gritted his eyes. Ignoring the woman, he went into the bathroom, stripped,
and showered.
Over the rush of water he heard the signal of the phone, the woman answering, her voice indistinguishable.
When, dressed, he returned to where she stood, she said, "Zenya called. She seemed startled to hear me. We had
quite a nice chat."
Like dogs snarling over a bone or cats stalking, ready to claw and tear.
"How did you get here, Lisa?"
"By ship, how else?" She crossed to where wine stood on a table and poured two glasses. "A fast vessel chartered
by Aihult Chan Parect. I think he was a little concerned at my grief when you had departed." Handing him one of the
glasses and lifting her own, she said, "To your health, Earl. And to our future."
Without touching the wine, he said, "The truth, Lisa. I'm in no mood for games."
"Have you found the man you were sent to find?"
"No."
"But you will?"
"If he is still alive, perhaps." He added, "Is that why you were sent after me? To make certain that I did not
forget?"
"You will not forget, Earl," she said. "You dare not."
Was she carrying the trigger, the means to activate the device that he had been told had been planted in his body
to radiate his whereabouts to the Cyclan? It was more than possible, a second string to Parect's bow, a path his
devious mind would have taken, trusting no one, setting one against the other, using the very jealousy of the women
to ensure success.
And yet, no device had been found. How did they intend to bend him to their will?
Brooding, he stared into his glass. Parect must have known that he would have himself checked and that nothing
would be found. Either the man had command of a science unusual for the society in which he lived, or there was
something he hadn't revealed. It could even be a naked bluff; if necessary, he would take the chance.
"Earl, how close are you to finding him?"
"Salek?" He shrugged. "All I know is that he is among the people with whom the residents of this planet are at
war. The chances are that he is dead."
"Or will die?"
He caught the subtle undertones, the barely concealed hint, and remembered how she had once stood against
him, the ambition she possessed.
"You could forget him, Earl," she whispered. "Chan Parect is old and will soon be dead. Suppose you didn't find
the man, or found him too late? Who would question what you said? And then, later, when the old man is dead, have
you forgotten what I promised?"
"Forget it, Lisa."
"Forget?" Anger suffused her face, turning it ugly. "Has that young fool wound you around her finger? Are you so
besotted that you can see no further than a pillow supporting your head? Are you in love with her? Tell me, Earl! Are
you in love with her?"
She was shaken, her composure ruined, and any woman in the height of passion would forget her caution. A little
more pressure and he would learn what he had to know.
"Yes," he said. "I love her."
She screamed a word.
It was formless, a combination of sounds complex and unknown, long, echoing. Dumarest felt as if something
had exploded within his skull. Turning, he reached for the phone, picking it up, saying to the face on the screen, "This
is Earl Dumarest. Connect me to the Cyclan."
"Sir?" The face frowned, wondering.
"This is Earl Dumarest. Connect me to the Cyclan." Dumarest heard the words, saw the face, the indecision
turning to acquiescence. Again he said, this is Earl Dumarest. Connect me to the Cyclan." He could say nothing else.
A hand entered his vision, the nails shining with their coat of glistening black varnish, the needle points reflecting
tiny splinters of light. A voice whispered a word in his ear, and suddenly he was free again.
"Forget that," he snapped. "Cancel the order."
"As you wish, sir." The face on the screen relaxed. 'It was an unusual request, but—"
"Forget it." Dumarest found he was sweating. "A mistake."
"Of course, marshal."
The screen died, and he turned to face the woman, her triumphant smile. "There is no cyber here on Chard, Earl.
At least, not yet. But should you insist, the Cyclan will be contacted. And should you run, no matter where you go,
that compulsion to call them will always be present. You see, my darling, just how helpless you are?"

Chapter Twelve
A saw whined, the note falling as the edge hit the bole, rising as the powered teeth ripped through the mass of
fiber. A lofios fell, pollen rising in a cloud, to cover the heads and faces of masked men. They gripped it, dragged it to
the center of the narrow clearing, fired it with the concentrated beams of lasers. Thick smoke rose unwavering into
the windless air.
Smoke that ran in an unbroken line in a wide arc around the foot of the hills.
Turning from the screen, Colonel Oaken said bitterly, "Destruction. Savage, wanton destruction. Why did you
order this, marshal? Are you trying to ruin us?"
"No, to protect you."
"By slashing down the lofios? Captain Louk had obeyed your order to form a line."
"It was unsatisfactory." Dumarest strode across the operations room to where the big contour map stood marked
with colored points and lines. One, amber, ran in a short curve before another, blue, which told of the progress they
were now making. "Look. If you were an enemy trying to get past, you could do it without trouble. The captain
concentrated his forces facing the valleys, but no enemy would take the obvious route. My way is the best, a complete
line twenty yards wide, giving clear vision to men and an open field for instruments."
"Rafts would have sufficed."
"No. They would have had to ride too high and maybe miss what we are looking for. Even so, rafts will also be
used for general scan." Dumarest turned, impatient. "I know my trade, colonel. This line must be maintained; the
truce depends on it."
"The truce." From where he sat at the table, Colonel Stone shook his head. "I'm not belittling what you did,
marshal, but how can you be sure they will keep their word? Even while you were in the hills, two villages were
destroyed, some of your own men killed. I hate to admit it, but I think that Colonel Oaken has a point. The Ayutha
have changed. They have become savage. You should not have canceled our order for the punitive expeditions. A
strong reprisal is the best deterrent."
"It is also the best method of creating antagonism."
"Marshal?"
 "I warned you about this at the beginning," said Dumarest. "All wars tend to escalate. You hit them, and they will
want to hit you. Then you hit them again, harder this time, and get the same in return. If that is the kind of war you
want to fight, I want none of it. I find no pleasure in seeing a world tear itself apart."
Colonel Paran said quietly, "We gave the marshal full responsibility while in the field, gentlemen. In any case, the
attacks were made before the truce. Also, the destruction is not as bad as it seems; the lofios can be regrown. I
suggest we hear his motives before we condemn him."
"Am I on trial?"
"No, marshal, the word was badly chosen."
Perhaps, but it carried the tone of the Council, the criticisms they were eager to make. To Captain Louk Dumarest
said, "Disperse the men, as I ordered. Individuals set at twenty-yard intervals, regular watches of two hours on, two
off. Set monitoring posts behind the line with scanners aimed toward the hills. No firing; that is essential. In fact, you
had better disarm the men on watch."
"Disarm them?" Lome sounded dubious. "Is that wise, sir? They wont like it, and if the Ayutha should attack at
night—"
"Guns won't save them," interrupted Dumarest curtly. "But some trigger-happy fool could break the truce. The
rafts can be armed in case of emergency, but if anyone opens fire without waiting for orders, he will be court-
martialed and shot. I mean that, captain."
Louk swallowed, thinking of Corm, the way he had died. Rumor had exaggerated the incident, forgetting the
mercy of the shot, concentrating instead on the captain's disobedience. "Yes, sir."
"And see that my orders are obeyed as given." Dumarest's voice matched the anger on his face. "I want no further
compromises. That line should be finished by now, would have been if you hadn't dallied." To a junior officer he said,
"What is the weather report?"
"Some cloud, with a high possibility of rain, sir."
"Wind?"
"None, and the air should remain steady."
"You expect the rain when?"
"At nightfall, sir. It should be widespread over the entire lofios area."
"Good." To the waiting colonels Dumarest said, "Now, gentlemen, I am at your service."
They sat at a table in a room paneled with softly grained wood, wine standing beside maps, glasses of water, jugs
of ice. Comforts for a heated day. But the comfort was illusory, the meeting more of an inquisition than Dumarest
would have liked.
"About Captain Corm," said Stone. "I know his father. He is disturbed by the reports. Did you actually kill him?"
"I shot him to save him pain."
"Couldn't he have been saved?"
"He was burning. We were under attack. Men would have died to bring him to shelter, and we would have saved
nothing but a corpse." Dumarest shrugged. "That is a detail. The truce is more important. As I told you, the
agreement is that they will not harm any of our people. In return, I gave a similar promise. I believe they will keep
their word. I intend to make certain that we do."
"The line," said Paran. "A barrier?"
"A test." Dumarest riffled the papers before him, found the one he wanted. "I ordered Captain Louk to send men
to search the ground around those villages that were destroyed. The latest ones. This is their finding. Nowhere could
they find any sign that the ground had been disturbed other than by our own people." He looked at their blank faces.
"Don't you realize what this means?"
"The Ayutha are savages," said Oaken. "They wouldn't leave tracks."
"We are assuming they are using gas. If so, it must be transported in containers of some kind. Unless they
approached actually within the villages, those containers must have been launched by some apparatus. We had men
alert, on guard—did they report seeing any of the Ayutha?"
"No," said Paran. "I made a point of questioning each man. They were masked, of course; that is why they
survived, but…" He broke off, frowning.
"The Ayutha are close enough to humans—in fact, are human—be to affected by the same gases that we are.
They don't have the technology to make respirators. If they released gas, they must have done it from a distance, or
some of them would have been affected." Dumarest looked around the table. "No one has ever reported seeing any
of the Ayutha at any place which has been attacked," he said deliberately. "No signs were found of any launching
apparatus when I searched for them. As far as I can determine, there is only one logical answer. The Ayutha aren't
responsible for this trouble at all."
He leaned back, waiting for the explosion, the burst of unthinking protestation, inevitable from men who had
firmly made up their minds.
Oaken said, "Are you out of your mind, marshal? Are you telling us that none of this has happened?"
"I'm saying that as far as I know, the Ayutha aren't responsible."
"That's ridiculous!" Oaken scowled. "Just what kind of a deal did you make up in the hills? Did they brainwash
you or something?"
Paran said, "Careful, colonel."
"What for? In case he treats me like he did the captain? You heard what he said. All those people, men, women,
children, and he says that those savages aren't behind it. They have to be!"
Stone, less explosive, more shrewd, said, "What are you saying, marshal?"
"You heard what I said, colonel." Dumarest glanced at Oaken. "Some of you may not want to hear it—it could be
interesting to find out why. In most wars, some people usually manage to make a profit. A war needs an enemy; the
Ayutha are convenient Maybe they have to stay the enemy until certain deals are completed."
"I know what you mean, Earl," said Paran grimly. "But, take it from me, nothing like that is going on here."
"As far as you know, colonel," reminded Dumarest. He didn't press the matter; it had served to shock them, to
gain their attention. "Look at the evidence. Not one of the original messages says anything about the Ayutha; all they
rave about is monsters. Well, we know why: the gas had affected their minds. Add to that the fact that no traces of
launching apparatus have been found, that no Ayutha dead were discovered, that when I spoke to them they denied
they had ever attacked a village, that monitoring rafts discovered no trace of any moving body of men in the area
under attack, and I think we have a very good reason for assuming their innocence."
"Assuming?"
"We can't be positive without more proof," admitted Dumarest. "That is why I ordered the construction of the
line. No one can pass it without being seen. I've had men and rafts search the lofios area, and no trace of the Ayutha
has been discovered. Now, if another village is destroyed, what must we assume?"
"I see your point," said Stone. "If they weren't in the area, then they couldn't have done it."
"They could." Oaken was definite. "They are cunning; they could leave the hills to the north and swing in a circle
past the ends of the line. Dammit, marshal, you don't need me to tell you that."
"Outside the lofios the ground is pretty open," said Dumarest patiently. "Rafts will spot any movement." He
reached for another paper. "This is the computer findings on the attacks. When you look at the map, they seem
absolutely random, but that doesn't make sense if directed by a force operating from the hills. Men can travel on foot
only so far in a day. Equipment would be heavy, and the danger of discovery enhanced the farther they penetrated.
Yet villages close to the hills were missed and others, much more distant, attacked."
Oaken scowled. "So?"
"You're convinced the Ayutha are the enemy. I'm trying to show you that they needn't be. For example, if I
wanted to ruin the economy of Chard, I could work from the city, delivering stores, maybe, cases containing gas and
timed charges. Any chemist could make such things. If that was the case, then the random pattern makes sense."
Another shock, but now they were not so quick to protest. He had shaken their iron confidence, shown them that
what seemed to be obvious was not always the correct answer. As they sat, brooding, he filled a glass with water,
added ice, sat with the frosted container in his hand.
Oaken said, "You put up a good argument, marshal, but it isn't good enough. You say the Ayutha can't be
responsible; I say they are. No civilized man would spread nerve gas among harmless people. They told you they
hadn't done it, and you believed them. Why? How can the ones you spoke to know everything that's going on?"
"That's right," said Stone. "And they've changed. You saw that for yourself. The flame bombs they used—how
would primitives have made them without help? And if they had help to make those things, they could have had
more." He added pointedly, "You must have thought of that."
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"And guessed who could be responsible?"
"Yes," he said again.
"Those damned social workers!" Oaken slammed his fist on the table. "Of course! We assumed they had been
killed, but suppose they hadn't? Some of them were clever and skilled with their hands. They could have been taken
prisoner, forced to teach the Ayutha to make gas, other things. There's your answer, marshal. I say to hell with the
truce. Let's go in now and end this thing once and for all."
Dumarest said, "You can't. You daren't."
The phone rang before anyone could answer. It was Zenya. She said quickly, "Earl, I'm sorry, but I have to talk to
you. It's Lisa, she—"
"I am in conference."
"I know." The face was stubborn, the tone to match. "The operator told me, but this can't wait. She said that you
wanted me to—"
He sensed the coming indiscretion and snapped, "I told you that I was in conference. Naturally your aunt will stay
in our suite for the duration of her visit. Entertain her. Urgent business will prevent my seeing either of you for a
while."
"Please, Earl. I need you."
He said harshly, "And so does the war. My place is in the field. I suggest, my lady, that you remember yours."
And remember too the listening ears, the watchful eyes, the indiscretions and the jealousy which could ruin his
pretense. Lisa had been goading her—that was obvious; and like a child, she had sought his help and reassurance.
Well, let them fight if they wished; he would stay away from both until one problem, at least, had been solved.
Oaken said, "What did you mean, marshal? We can't go in. We daren't."
"Think about it." Dumarest looked at his glass. The ice had dissolved; the water was cold, refreshing. "As you
pointed out and as I know to my cost, they have flame-bomb launchers. Small, perhaps, but they can be made larger,
the bombs also. Go into the hills, and they will scatter. You will need thousands of men to comb every nook and
cranny, and at least a quarter of those men will die. You doubt it?" He looked from Stone to Oaken, seeing their faces,
merchants who believed that a large enough number of men would ensure certain victory. "If I worked for the Ayutha
and not for you, I could maintain this conflict until you were bled white. Every soldier you sent would bring me arms
and ammunition. Rafts could be shot down from the sky. Unless you used radioactives, I would turn those hills into a
citadel. I would lose, eventually, but only because of the limited number of my men. But I assure you, it would take
years."
Dumarest refilled his glass, conscious of thirst, the tension caused by fatigue and mounting strain.
He continued, "The Ayutha are telepathic A rudimentary talent, perhaps, but enough to give them a close-knit
network of communications equal to if not better than our own. And you forget how vulnerable you are. Destroy the
lofios, and you have lost the war. With more powerful launchers and larger bombs, they could do just that. Fire is the
best friend of the guerrilla. One man can destroy a city by its means. The Ayutha have thousands." He ended, "I
suggest you do it my way, gentlemen. It might not be as spectacular, but believe me, in the long run it will be far
cheaper."
Colonel Paran said, "Earl, do you trust the Ayutha?"
"I think they have a genuine desire to end this conflict, yes."
"Why?"
"Because they are afraid," said Dumarest bluntly. "Because they are basically gentle. Because they are human."
And because they were telepathic and knew the danger inherent in the carrying of weapons. The arrogance,
aggressiveness, insensitivity, and contempt the power to kill gave a man unless consciously controlled. He had seen
the results of military castes on a dozen worlds, and all had followed a path that led to the inevitable destruction of
all that was kind and gentle. When respect became equated with force, only brutality could hope to survive.

Chapter Thirteen
Someone had lit a fire, a small thing of burning twigs, spluttering a little as it rested in a shallow dip at the edge
of the line. It glowed, a patch of brightness in the night, a thing built more for comfort than anything else. Smoke rose
from it, a thin plume breaking as it reached the height of the lofios, to ripple in a delicate fan.
From beside it a corporal rose, saluting. "Sir!"
"Anything to report?"
"No, sir."—the soldier leaned forward, squinting—"marshal. Not a thing. Everything as silent as a grave."
The association disturbed him. He added, "That is, sir, a—"
" 'Boy creeping up on a girl hoping to kiss her unawares,' " said Dumarest. "I understand, corporal." He glanced at
the fire; the ashes were too red, too bright. "Better bank that."
"Kill it, sir!"
"No." There would be other fires, and orders could be enforced only so far. "Just cover the embers so you won't
lose your night vision. I want sharp eyes when you go on watch. Worried, soldier?"
"I'd be happier with a rifle, sir."
"You're covered, so don't worry. Just remember that there's a promotion for the man who spots any of the Ayutha
and keeps his head. I hope you win it, corporal. You'd make a fine officer."
Bribery, but everything helped. As Dumarest passed on down the line, Captain Hamshard, at his side, said, "Do
you think anything will happen, sir?"
"Such as?"
 "Well… another attack."
" 'Incident' would be a better word, captain, but I know what you mean. The answer is no. I don't think the Ayutha
will attack."
"The truce seems to be working, sir." Hamshard returned the salute of a man barely visible as he stood at the
edge of the line. "No trouble last night, none at all yesterday, everything quiet so far. Let's hope that it will last."
Last night had come the promised rain; the day had been windless, but now the weather was changing. Dumarest
remembered the thin column of smoke, breaking as it reached higher levels. He looked up at the sky, saw cloud and
hoped for more rain.
He said, "Continue down the line, captain. Make sure that every man remains alert. If you need me, I'll be in the
command post."
It was a tent set well back from the line, men busy at communicators as they received reports from the
monitoring posts. Portable lamps threw a dull glow, softly crimson, light designed to retain the visual purple. As
Dumarest entered, Lieutenant Paran rose from a field desk.
"Movement spotted in the foothills, sector nine, sir." He rested a finger on a map. "A small party, by the look of it,
approaching the line."
"Anything else?"
"No, sir, just the one party."
"Maintain observation," said Dumarest. "What is the weather situation to the south?"
"Dry. Wind rising."
"Send a general alert. All guards in the area to remain fully masked. Villagers to be confined to their homes,
masked if possible, separated if not."
The lieutenant frowned. "You expect trouble, sir?"
"I am trying to anticipate all possibilities. If anything should happen, we need to be prepared. Contact the
monitoring raft and find out how close that party is now."
They were within a mile of the line, heading directly toward it. Dumarest said, "Have the raft drop a flare. Use
loud-hailers to establish contact. Tell them to use the communicator I gave them to speak to me direct." Waiting, he
paced the floor, studying maps, frowning as he read the report of rising winds. The party had chosen a bad time to
make their approach.
"Sir!" The lieutenant turned from his desk. "I think we have something."
The face on the screen was that of an elder; Dumarest couldn't remember having seen him before. He was
squinting as if trying to send thoughts as well as words over the instrument. A dull glow illuminated the oddly
distorted face, giving it the appearance of a brooding idol.
He said, "We have conferred and would talk with you. There are those among us who are uneasy at what is
happening. Are we animals to be caged in the hills?"
"The line is for your own protection," said Dumarest. "It will be maintained until we are truly at peace."
"We have never been other than that. It was your people who attacked our village. When they came again, we
defended ourselves. All this was told to you—we thought you understood."
"I did. I do."
"Now you have forces facing us, armed men in the skies. One among us has said that you prepare to exterminate
us. That you will attack and burn and kill and destroy while we respect the truce. Is this so?"
"No."
"Then you will dissolve the line. You will take your men from the skies. You will trust us as we trust you. If not,
we too will ready our forces. The one who lives among us has told us what we must do."
Dumarest said harshly, "Who is this man?"
"A teacher. A friend."
"Who will destroy you if you listen to him." Behind him Dumarest heard the lieutenant's soft whisper. "More
movement reported, sir. Two strong parties at sectors three and fifteen."
Both places consisted of broken ground, easy to defend, hard to attack, even from the air. They could be
equipped with launchers, large flame bombs. If used, fire would bathe unarmed men and lofios alike.
To the face on the screen Dumarest said, "Retreat. Go back and find this man who has advised you. Bring him to
the line. You will not be hurt; you have my word for that, but I must see him and talk to him." He added, "And warn
your people. If anyone should strike against us, the truce will be over. From then on it will be a war of extermination."
He turned as the screen died and met the lieutenant's eyes, saw the grim expression. "A traitor," said the young
man. "Someone who advises them, who has taught them to make arms, gas even. He won't want peace, sir. He wants
to ruin us."
"Maybe."
 "Can you still be in doubt?" Lieutenant Paran clenched his hands, gripping an imaginary rifle, shooting, killing,
destroying the threat to his world. "You heard what he said."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Recall the rafts from over the hills."
"Sir?"
"Have them withdraw to beyond the line. Put every man available on watch. I want to make certain that none of
the Ayutha get past."
Paran frowned. "You expect trouble, sir?"
"A soldier always expects trouble, lieutenant By doing that, he manages to stay alive. But the best way to avoid it
is to make sure that it doesn't happen."
"Sir?"
Dumarest made no answer, stepping out of the tent and staring up at the sky. Cloud swirled over the stars, driven
by a mounting wind, blowing strongly from the south. There was nothing to do now but wait.

***

At a village far to the south, on the edge of the lofios area, a man rose and stretched and yawned with a gaping of
his mouth which revealed the strong white teeth set in his jaws. Bran Leekquan had had a hard day. Everything lately
was hard, and now with the two boys off somewhere playing at soldiers, the Ayutha nowhere to be seen, the work
was piling up.
From a rocker his wife said, "Tired, Bran?"
"Beat," he admitted. "I guess I'm not as young as I was, Lorna."
"Neither of us is."
That was the truth, and he stood staring at her for a minute, remembering the young girl she had once been, the
strength which had enabled him to work all through the day and kept him busy half through the night. Well, times
changed, and a wise man accepted it. And there was comfort in maturity, or at least there had been until the trouble;
with ambition dulled a little and the farm ticking over, there had been time to relax and to enjoy the long summer
evenings with others who had grown old at his side.
As he yawned again, a heavy hand pounded at his door. Beyond stood a masked, uniformed figure.
"Red alert," he said without preamble. "Wear masks if you have them. Stay apart if you haven't. Orders from the
marshal."
Bran frowned. "Stay apart? What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Separate rooms, locked doors, no contact."
"Is an attack expected?" Lorna, worried, joined her man at the door. "I thought we had a truce."
"We have," the uniformed man admitted.
"Then what's this all about?" Bran was irritable. "The army has the Ayutha cooped up in the hills. You boys have
made sure there are none of them around. So what have we got to be afraid of ?"
The man was a stranger. Casually he shrugged. "Don't ask me, I'm just the messenger around here. You've heard
the order." He moved off, to pound at another door.
"Crazy." Bran stared after him, scowling. "No sense to it at all. That's the trouble with these military types, they
just like to see people jump when they give their commands. Well, to hell with him, the marshal too. It's my life, and
I'm living it as I damned well please. Come on, Lorna, let's get to bed."
She hesitated, "Well, Bran, maybe—"
"Well take the gun," he said. "Put it by the door. If any of those savages attack, well be ready for them." He
yawned again. "Come on, honey, you know I can't sleep alone."
He woke, restless, irritable, to rear upright in the bed, conscious of something wrong. Habit had left the window
open, the curtains torn by the rising wind. Outside, he heard the sound of a shout, the sudden blast of a gun. Rising,
he crossed to the window and looked outside. It was dark, cloud scudding over the stars, shadows appearing to
vanish again in the fitful light. As he thrust out his head, he caught the scent of something sweet, sickly.
"Bran?"
He breathed again, wind brushing past his face, the scent stronger now. Turning, he cried out, a voice rising as he
saw what crouched on the bed. A thing, dripping slime, a mass of vileness fringed with tentacles, beaked, glowing-
eyed, horrible. It stirred as he darted toward the door, keening, appendages reaching toward the bedside table.
Ceramics splintered around him as he snatched at the laser he had set against the wall, sharp fragments slashing his
face, his hands. The keening rose to a shriek as he spun, the weapon leveling, the wordless cry rising to a scream as
his finger pressed the release.
Smoke rose from the impact of the beam, thick, heavy with the stench of char. He fired again, a third time,
spearing the horror on shafts of searing destruction, gloating as liquids gushed from gaping holes. Beneath it the bed
sent up fingers of brightness, the covers catching, adding their heat to that of the laser. Twitching, the creature fell,
sprawled in a growing nest of fire.
Tearing open the door, he raced downstairs and into the street, firing at moving shadows, a hopping, toad-like
monstrosity, a thing like a flapping blanket. Something shrieked and rushed at him with extended claws.
He burned it down, heard the blast of a rifle, and felt the smash of the bullet which sent him to the ground. He
rolled, firing at a looming shape, seeing it fall as the rifle fired again. The slug broke his arm, passed through into his
chest, tearing at his lungs so that he lay drowning in his own blood.
Dimly he saw the figure come closer, reach toward him as, one-handed, he fired the laser for the last time.
"Lorna," he whispered as the thing fell. "Lorna!"

***

On tight beam, scrambled, Colonel Paran relayed the news. "It's happened, Earl. Another attack. The truce is
broken."
"No."
"How can you say that?" Paran looked baffled. "I tell you I've seen it. Fifteen men and women dead. Five soldiers
—"
"How did they die? The soldiers, I mean?"
"Shot down by the civilians." Paran was bitter. "They had to fire back in turn in order to defend themselves. If the
fools had only obeyed orders…" He shrugged. "Well, Earl, there it is. We have no choice now but to go in and finish
it."
"You aren't thinking, colonel," snapped Dumarest. "The Ayutha aren't responsible; they couldn't have been. We've
got them sealed in the hills. Not one of them has passed the line since the truce. That village was way to the south.
Even one man on foot would have taken a couple of days to get there; more would have taken longer. And the local
patrols had scouted the entire area. Dammit," he added, as the colonel looked dubious, "why do you think I ordered
this line to be established in the first place? I wanted to prove something. Well, I've done it. None of the Ayutha had a
hand in what's happened."
"I'd like to believe that, Earl."
"You can."
"But what's the alternative? Is someone working with them, using them?"
"Maybe. I intend to find out. Certainly someone is advising them. My guess is that it's one of the social workers,
but I could be wrong." Dumarest glanced around the command tent, seeing the hard, tense faces, sensing the grim
determination, the desire for revenge. Natural enough, but misplaced and dangerous. He added, "Play this down,
colonel. No hysterical publicity. The last thing we want now is to break the truce."
"If it hasn't already been broken."
"It hasn't, not by the Ayutha, but it might be to someone's interest to insist they are responsible. Make sure that
doesn't happen. In fact, the best thing you can do is to maintain a silence about the whole incident. As soon as you
persuade the Council, I'll detach men from the line to fell the lofios, as I suggested."
"Clear them away for a space of a mile around each village." Paran shrugged. "I remember, Earl, but they'd never
agree."
"If it had been done, those people would be alive now," snapped Dumarest. "If you won't do that, then evacuate
the villages." As the screen died, he said to the lieutenant, "Have three rafts move forward to check on whether that
party is returning. Have they made contact?"
"No, sir."
"Get those rafts off, and keep trying. Find Captain Hamshard and have him report to me personally. I'll be at
monitor post sixteen."
It was a short tower fitted with a platform and staffed by three young officers and five rankers. The officers each
took turns at using the light-amplifying scanner and the radar detector; the rankers stood on guard by the compact
bulk of a missile launcher aimed at the hills.
Dumarest busied himself with the instruments, checking positions on the map in the light of a dully glowing
lamp. A low mound rose a few hundred yards toward the hills beyond the edge of the line. Men behind it would be
invisible, but easily placed for a quick attack. To either side ran a narrow gully, merging somewhere up and back,
flattening to shallow declivities at the foot of the mound. It was a good place for a meeting, one he had chosen from
earlier studies.
As Captain Hamshard appeared, saluting, he said, "I want you to take charge here, captain. This entire sector.
This launcher is to be zeroed in on the crest and rear of that mound. Use liquid flame. If necessary, I want you to
throw up a barrier nothing living can pass."
"You expect action, sir?"
"Not the kind most of the men are hoping for, captain. Just call it insurance. Contact the posts to either side and
have them zero their launchers to the gullies at either side of the mound. Similar loads and instructions."
Hamshard nodded, understanding. "I get it, sir. You want to throw down a three-sided box to contain anything on
that mound."
"That's right," said Dumarest. "But remember, captain, to contain, not to destroy. You'd better send out a party of
men to light a fire on the mound. I don't want those who are coming to lose their way."
"The Ayutha, sir?"
"Yes, bringing with them, I hope, their friend."
"Do you think they will come?"
"Yes," said Dumarest grimly. "They will come."

Chapter Fourteen
The hours dragged. The fire died, was replenished, died again to a smoldering bank of embers that threw little
light and less heat. Standing beside it, Dumarest threw fresh fuel on the glow, tiny flames springing up to illuminate
his face, the brightness of his insignia. From the communicator at his belt came the soft voice of Lieutenant Paran.
"Party spotted, sir. Heading in from the northeast, and close."
"How close?"
"Less than a mile, sir."
Too close; they should have been spotted earlier. Either the men were careless or the Ayutha more cunning than
he had guessed. Men, traveling alone, could have used the terrain to baffle the electronic devices.
Captain Hamshard was hooked into the circuit. He said, "About a dozen, sir. I've launchers from posts thirteen
and twenty following them."
"Unnecessary, captain. They've come to talk, not fight."
Summoned by repeated commands to explain the violation of the truce, threatened with reprisals if they did not
attend with their mysterious teacher. Unfair, perhaps, but when had war ever been fair? War and other things,
conflicts between men and women, between an arrogant, insane ruler and the pawn he hoped to command.
Dumarest kicked at the fire.
There had been time to think while waiting. The post-hypnotic command which Lisa had triggered had, in a
sense, negated itself. Dead, she could not give the key word. Apart, he wouldn't hear it. As a threat, it was limited,
something to be used, perhaps, if all else failed, but her uncontrollable jealousy had caused her to reveal too much.
And if she repeated the word, and he could record it, any expert psychologist would be able to wipe the command
from his subconscious.
He wondered if Zenya, also, had been entrusted with the key sound. Or if she had been given another. And yet
Chan Parect would have trusted neither too much. There must be something else; the man was too devious to have
been so obvious.
Dumarest kicked again at the fire.
"How close now, lieutenant?"
"Two hundred yards, sir. Approaching now directly from the north. I can't be too sure about their number, there
seem to be more now than before."
"Anything else?"
"Two large groups to either side of the mound and about a quarter of a mile back."
"Thank you, lieutenant. Captain, have launchers zeroed on both groups. Designation alpha and beta. No firing
unless I give the order."
"Yes, sir. Should I have rafts standing by?"
From his tone Dumarest guessed that Hamshard had already given the order. "One raft, captain, eight men,
armed. Pick steady types." He looked toward the crest of the mound. "Here they come."
They arrived like shadows, feet silent on the ground, tall shapes limned by the firelight, bright points winking from
flaked stone, metal, brittle glass. Arrows and spears, crude, but effective at short range. And he guessed there would
be other things aimed at him from the shielding darkness.
An old man, the communicator in his hand, lifted it and said, "We heard. We came."
"Your friend?"
 "He waits."
Dumarest said harshly, "That isn't good enough. I asked for him to be brought here. Where is he, and where are
the others like him? Those of my people who worked and lived among you?"
"They are safe." The old man paused, and then, as Dumarest made no comment, added, "We have kept them so.
If you again attack us, they will die."
Hostages. Dumarest had expected it; the Ayutha were learning fast.
"Many have died," he said. "If you don't want to follow them, you will do exactly as I say. That man—where is
he?"
"We made no attack."
"Can you prove that? Words aren't enough. If you are sincere in your desire for peace, you will give me the one
you call a friend." His voice hardened. "Understand me. Obey or die. I want that man."
"You threaten? You? Alone? One man against many?"
Dumarest said sharply, "Captain! Alpha, aim over, one shot, fire!"
Something rustled through the air, to fall far back in the hills. Flame rose, the roar of the explosion following,
echoing, rolling like thunder. The face of the elder convulsed.
"You attack us! You kill us!"
"Not yet—that was a warning."
From where he stood beside the elder a man lifted a spear, drew back his arm, froze as he met Dumarest's eyes.
"You've got sense," said Dumarest. "You might be able to kill me, but if you attack, every man here will die. Those
waiting in the hills will die. Every last one of your people will be eliminated. Is one man worth the entire race of the
Ayutha?"
"You mean it!" The elders face was bleak. "Your mind is full of hate."
"Not hate—not for you."
"But our friend?"
"Is not of the Ayutha. If I kill him, I will not be breaking the truce. But unless you take me to him now, the truce
will be over." Dumarest met the other's eyes. "You have ten seconds to decide."

***

Dawn was breaking when they arrived, the raft dropping, to hover over torn ground, a sheer slope marked by a
narrow trail leading to the dark mouth of a cave. Captain Hamshard had accompanied the raft. Leaning over the
edge, he said, "There could be men posted, sir. I'd best deploy our forces."
The elder who had ridden with them said, "They will not harm you."
Perhaps, but in war men could change loyalties and primitives followed their own inclinations. The man could
have dedicated followers, willing to kill for him, to die while doing it. Dumarest waited as the raft lowered, lifted,
moved on, to lower again, men jumping out and taking up positions. Their guns could cover the entire area outside
the cave. Within, it was another matter.
As they neared the dark opening, the captain said, "Sir, let me go in first. Against the light you'd be a clear target."
"And you wouldn't be?" Dumarest smiled. "Well go in together, captain. Fast, and moving one to either side. I
don't have to tell you that we want whoever is in there alive."
Dumarest halted as they reached the opening, looking up at the low ridge of stone above, eyes searching for traps
and snares. He saw nothing, and with a quick movement dived inside, resting his back against the wall, eyes narrowed
as he stared into the gloom. Facing him, the captain began to edge forward, pistol in hand.
From a niche twenty feet down stepped one of the Ayutha.
He was young, tall, dressed in a shapeless garment of dull gray, a squat tube held in his hands, the butt against his
shoulder. Dumarest yelled, fired, moving as he pressed the trigger. The bullet hit one of the arms, spinning the figure,
which turned to face him. From the mouth of the tube shot something that smoked.
Dumarest dived, hitting the floor as flame burst behind him, firing as he fell, the roar of his shots blending with
those fired by the captain. Rising, he ran forward, past the crumpled figure, shadows reaching ahead from the light of
the flame blazing against the wall.
"One!" gasped Hamshard. "There could be more!"
He fired at a shadow, fired again, a scream echoing the shot. Something hummed an inch from his head, to rasp
against the stone, not fire this time, but a sliver of steel, a bolt fired from a crossbow. It was followed by the ruby
beam of a captured laser. It struck high, lowered, seared the rock where the captain had stood as Dumarest slammed
into him and threw him to the floor. Rolling free, he triggered his pistol, sending bullets to whine in savage ricochets.
A man screamed, another died as he ran toward him, a third spun, dropping a rifle, blood gushing from an open
mouth.
Dumarest dropped the empty pistol, lunged forward, and snatched up the rifle, firing as he rose, sending bullets
whining down the cavern to where it turned at the far end.
In the following silence he looked around at the captain, climbing stiffly to his feet, a thread of blood running
down one cheek, the dying light of the thrown bomb, the dead sprawled on the floor.
Young, too eager, too quick to shoot, and too impatient to aim. The fault of all green troops if they were not
frozen with fear.
He said, "Captain, how badly are you hurt?"
"Just a scratch, sir." Hamshard lifted a hand, dabbed at his temple, wiped away the blood on his cheek. "Do you
think there are more of them?"
"I doubt it. One, perhaps, but no more guards." Dumarest hefted the rifle. "Let's go and get him."
The turn of the cavern was filled with light, a cold, bluish glow illuminating a wide expanse beyond. Wooden
tables bore a litter of apparatus; a crude lathe stood to one side, retorts, containers of glass and plastic, tubes of
metal, drums of chemicals, scales. Dumarest looked at a crude laboratory and manufacturing plant.
"This is where they made the flame bombs," said Hamshard. His voice was taut, ugly. "And maybe other things.
But they couldn't have done it alone. Someone had to teach them—the damned swine!"
"He wasn't responsible for the villages, captain."
"How can you be sure of that?"
"I'm sure." Dumarest moved cautiously down the area, eyes searching the shadows beneath the tables, behind the
heaps of sacks and bales. Cylinders held the familiar shape of missiles, squat tubes similar to the one the guard had
used as their launchers. He paused, examining a larger object, seeing the vents at the rear.
"Self-propelled," snapped Hamshard. "That thing could reach for miles."
"He didn't start this war," said Dumarest sharply. "So don't get carried away when you see him. Remember, I want
him alive."
Alive and unhurt and able to travel. Dumarest had no doubt as to who it must be.
A door stood at the end of the area. He opened it, saw a narrow passage running beyond, and led the way down
a gentle slope illuminated with softly glowing crimson bulbs. A second door stood at the end. It was thick, heavily
padded, reluctant to move. He tugged it open, to reveal the chamber beyond. A small place, snug, the walls covered
with plaited mats of local manufacture, a shelf of books, a projector, wafers of condensed information, a revolving
globe which threw swaths of kaleidoscopic light, reds, blues, greens, yellows, merging, rippling like rainbows.
On a narrow cot a man lay supine.
He wore a robe knotted with a cord around the waist, the cowl raised to shield an emaciated face, both hands
lying on his stomach, the fingers wasted, skin tight over prominent bone. In the ruby light streaming through the open
door he looked corpse-like, horribly familiar.
Dumarest stared at him, the face, the rifle lifting in his hands, aiming, his finger closing on the trigger.
Captain Hamshard smashed the barrel upward as he fired.
"Sir! For God's sake!"
Dumarest spun, dropping the rifle, hand lifted, palm stiffened to strike. He saw the startled face, the thread of
dried blood on the cheek, and turned, staring at the figure on the bed. It had risen, legs drawn back, face ghastly
beneath the cowl. The revolving globe threw a swath of emerald over the bed, turning the robe from crimson into a
dull brown. A supporting strut stood beneath a shelf. Dumarest gripped it with both hands.
Harshly he said, "Get him away from me. Keep him clear."
"Sir?"
"Do it!"
Beneath his hands Dumarest felt the wood yield and tear.

***

The tisane was hot, pungent, dried herbs yielding their oils and flavors to form a tart, refreshing brew. Unarmed,
seated at the far side of the table with his back against a wall, Dumarest watched as the captain set a cup before him.
He was dubious. "I don't know if you should drink this, sir."
"It isn't poisoned."
"Maybe not." The captain wasn't convinced. "I don't think I should have stopped you, sir. But you did say that you
wanted him alive."
"You did right." Dumarest leaned back, feeling the quiver of his muscles, the aftermath of strain. The urge to kill
had gone now, but the tension remained, joining the ache in his temples. It had faded a little as the tisane had been
made, but the liquid shook as he lifted the cup to his lips.
To the cowled figure he said, "You are known as Amil Kulov." It wasn't a question. "Before that your name was
Salek Parect. The son of Aihult Chan Parect."
"Yes."
"Why did you help the Ayutha?"
"Someone had to." Salek put down his cup and rested his arms across his chest. He sat on the edge of the cot at
the full distance of the room. Within the cowl his face was drawn, bone prominent on his cheeks beneath the upward-
slanting eyes. "Could you ever begin to understand? They are unspoiled, innocent. When first attacked they didn't
know what to do. They were numbed, incapable of resistance, children faced with something they couldn't
understand. That attack was brutal, savage, a vicious, wanton, unthinking crime. So I helped them as best I could."
"With weapons," said Dumarest. "Advice. Flame bombs and launchers. What other things did you have in mind?"
"Does it matter now? The truce—"
"You are not a part of it. In any case, your guards broke it."
"They were young," said Salek quietly. "And foolish. I told them not to resist, but they obviously refused to listen. I
would have stopped them had I known, but I was tired, working beyond my strength. And I didn't think that you
would come so soon."
Closed in his room, lost in exhausted sleep, he would not have heard the shots and screams. Dumarest studied
him sipping the tisane. An idealist, and dangerous, as all such men were. Single-minded in his pursuit of what he
considered to be right. And the technical knowledge he possessed gave him more power than others of his kind.
Hamshard said, "The men, sir?"
"Have them remain outside. If any of the Ayutha try to enter, warn them away. If they insist, then shoot them
down."
"Like dogs," said Salek bitterly. "Is that what you think of them? Animals to be destroyed."
"No. How long have you lived among them?"
"Over ten years now. A long time. Long enough for me to appreciate what they have to offer, what they can
teach. Mental peace, tolerance, understanding, an affinity one to each other. And they have a history, tales handed
down from generation to generation, a legend of an old time, when things were not as they are now. Perhaps I should
explain that I am interested in ancient myths."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I know. Your father told me."
"My father!" Something, hate or contempt, twisted the emaciated features. "How could he ever begin to
understand? His mind is closed to new concepts. To him only the house of the serpent is important. The welfare of
the Aihult. He could never admit that Paiyar is only one small world among billions, and that there have been others
against whom we are as children."
"Legends," said Dumarest.
"But each one holding a kernel of truth. I have spent my life trying to find those truths. Here, on Chard, I have
found something, a clue. The Ayutha know more than is guessed, more perhaps than they realize. A race which came
to this world eons ago. From where? And how did they travel?"
And why hadn't they progressed? Dumarest could guess the answer to that. Once, perhaps, their telepathic ability
had been stronger than it was now, and that trait was no friend to a race struggling to survive. The price was too high.
Violence had no place when all fear and terror was shared, when a beast which could provide food was allowed to
run free, an enemy avoided instead of being destroyed.
The Ayutha were not a growing, viable culture but a decaying one. An off-shoot of the human race, something
tried by nature and found unsuitable, to be discarded by a more efficient form. They had fled into the hills, avoiding
contact with aggressive types, dreaming, perhaps, around their fires, of vanished glories. Tales to amuse children,
props for a vanished pride.
He said, "You can't help them, Salek. You must know that. In order to survive, they must change. No culture can
remain isolated when others are so close."
"Their traditions—"
"Are distorted memories. You gave them weapons and taught them how to kill. Can you realize the price they
must pay? Their guilt could destroy them. They could go insane."
"No!"
"Remember your guards. Young men eager to kill. Trying to kill without logic or reason. You turned them into
beasts, to die like animals. The best thing you and the others like you can do is to leave them alone."
"To be exploited," said Salek bitterly. "To be used as simple, mindless workers in the fields. An old, proud race
reduced to the status of beggars."
"They wouldn't be the first," said Dumarest. "And they won't be the last. Among races, like men, only the strong
have the right to survive. But it won't be like that here. The farmers need them, and now that the war is over,
arrangements can be made. Land grants given them so they can retain possession of the hills. Their children can be
given schooling, taught trades, ways to use their talents. They can work if they wish, or sit and dream if they prefer.
But you will not be among them."
"Revenge?"
"A precaution. The Chardians have no reason to trust you, and they would never allow you to remain. In any
case, you have other duties. Your father needs you."
Salek frowned. "You mentioned him before," he murmured. "But how do you know him? Did he send you to find
me?"
"Yes."
"And you are taking me to him?"
Dumarest looked at his hands. The tremors had stopped, his head now free of the nagging ache. It was, he
thought, now safe to move.
"I'm taking you back to the city. There are people you know there." Rising, he called, "Captain!"
"Sir?" Hamshard appeared at the doorway of the passage.
"I'm putting this man in your charge. Take him to my suite in the city and allow him to take with him anything he
wants. Before you leave, have the men destroy everything in the cavern. The weapons, the tools, the chemicals,
everything."
"Yes, sir. And you?"
Dumarest said flatly, "I am going to finish what has to be done."

Chapter Fifteen
The line had held seven thousand men, and he used them all, rafts going to each village, men dropping, busy with
saws, with lasers, axes, anything that could cut and fell. Fire bloomed around each village, sparks flying from burning
plants eating a wide clearing around the buildings. The men were mostly from the woodlands to the south, clerks
from the city, workers who had no immediate interest in the lofios, sharing only the crumbs from the rich growers'
table. Some of the officers were less eager.
"Marshal!" A major, red-faced, irate. "You can't do this! The Council—"
Dumarest snapped, "Lieutenant, place this man under close arrest. He is subversive to the state."
A captain, less polite, "Dammit, you want to ruin us all? You crazy fool, you can't—"
He joined the major, a dozen others, all fuming, helpless to resist. Dumarest had ended the war, and the men were
grateful. More, they liked his style, his manner. And the loyalty of the men, as Dumarest knew, was the real basis of
power for any commander.
Riding high, he watched the growing clearings, the thickening columns of smoke.
"Sir!" From the body of the raft Lieutenant Paran looked up from his communicator. His face was strained, torn
with indecision. He felt that he should be doing something to halt the destruction, but didn't know what. "Colonel
Stone, sir."
"Let him wait."
The next call was from Colonel Paran.
"What's going on, Earl?" His face was lined, eyes pouched with fatigue. "We've been getting reports about you
burning the lofios. I can't hold the Council back much longer. They're assembling weapons and men to put you under
arrest."
"They can try."
"They will try, Earl. You've hit them where it hurts. Raougat has found a bunch of men who will do anything for
pay." His control broke a little. "Dammit, man! The last thing we want is a civil war!"
"You wont get it." Dumarest studied the terrain below. The firebreaks had been cut, and the lofios was well ablaze;
nothing now could prevent what he had started. "All right, colonel, I'm coming in."
It was dark when he arrived, and they were waiting in the light of standards set before the Lambda warehouse,
Stone, Oaken, the smiling face of Captain Raougat flanked by a score of armed men. Others stood behind Colonel
Paran, more disciplined, equally well armed. At their head Lieutenant Thomile scowled at the other group. As
Dumarest dropped from the raft, he snapped to attention, saluting.
Dumarest returned the salute, then turned to stare at Raougat. For a moment their eyes met, and then the captain
lifted his arm.
"Marshal!"
 "Your men are badly dressed," said Dumarest coldly. "Have them straighten their line. An honor guard should
have respect. They are soldiers, not scum."
Raougat stared at the tall figure, the uniform stained with char and blood, the hard, cruel set of the mouth. When
next he saluted, his movement was brisk.
"Yes, sir! As you order!"
Of the colonels, Paran was the first to speak. He stepped forward, hand extended. "Marshal, my congratulations
on your success. As I was telling the Council, you must have a good explanation for what you've done."
"Yes, colonel."
"By God, it had better be a good one!" Oaken, face flushed with rage, stood with hands clenched, trembling. "Is
this the arrangement you made with the Ayutha? That you would ruin us in return for their cooperation?"
"Treason," said Stone. He sounded dazed. "Three hundred square miles of lofios destroyed, not counting the
plants you felled to make the line. Why, marshal? Why?"
"To end the war."
"But you'd done that. The Ayutha—"
"Had nothing to do with what happened to the villages," snapped Dumarest impatiently. "I thought that would
have been obvious by now. The line proved it. Nothing living could pass without my knowing it, and yet there still was
trouble."
Stone said slowly, "Then someone else? Sabotage?"
"No, the lofios itself." Dumarest turned toward the raft. "Lieutenant!"
Fran Paran dropped the rifle he had been holding and lifted a sack. Jumping from the raft, he moved forward, to
stand at Dumarest's side.
"The clue was there all along," said Dumarest. "But you couldn't see it. You were too close. When the trouble
started, you naturally thought of the Ayutha, and from then on blamed everything on them. But the real cause was
much closer to hand, in the plants you grow and harvest for profit."
Oaken sucked in his breath. "You're lying," he said. "Trying to justify what you've done. You have no proof !"
"How many more dead do you need before facing reality? Two more villages? Three? The city itself ?" Dumarest
reached for the sack. "The lofios is a mutated hybrid. You have lived with it so long that you can't even begin to
imagine that it could be anything else but harmless. But plants change. They mutate. In this case, the mutation has
resulted in a subtle alteration of the pollen. A freak—it couldn't happen again perhaps for a million years—but once
was enough. Now, some of the pollen isn't harmless. It contains a hallucinogenic of a particularly horrible nature. It
affects the brain, turns people insane, makes them kill, and then causes them to die in turn. You have seen the
effects."
Paran said shrewdly, "Some of the pollen, Earl?"
"Perhaps one plant out of ten. I don't know; your scientists can determine that. But some, certainly, there can be
no doubt. All the evidence points to it; the villages destroyed without trace of an external enemy, that raft that landed
and the men who fought each other—they must have broken open dangerous pods. I caught a scent of it myself,
sweet, sickly, and I felt its effects." Dumarest glanced at Lieutenant Paran standing at his side. "I felt it and saw what it
could do. We were lucky, breathing only a trace, but even that was enough to have killed us both. Now you know why
I ordered clearings to be made around every village. The protection isn't enough, but with masks, working without
them only when there is no wind, it should serve." He added bitterly, "I asked you to do that before. You refused. How
many men, women, and children have died because of that refusal?"
Too many, but they were not wholly to blame. Old habits die hard, and when bolstered by greed, rarely die at all.
The clearings had been made and the warning given; he could do no more.
Oaken said, "I don't believe it. It's a trick of some kind. Maybe he got paid to ruin our economy and invented this
story to cover himself."
Stone added, "But proof ? We still have no proof."
Ignoring the insult, Dumarest said, "I checked all the weather reports. There had been wind each time a village
was affected. And if you want more proof still…"
From the sack he took a lofios pod. It was ripe, the membrane taut. He said, "I've twenty others in the sack. They
could all be harmless, but the odds are against it. If not, they will prove what I say beyond any possibility of
argument."
He, Fran Paran, and the men Thomile commanded were all equipped with masks. Dumarest raised his own,
waited until the others had followed suit. The wind was blowing from behind them, toward where Raougat stood with
Oaken and Stone before his men. Raising the pod, Dumarest threw it hard to the ground.
It burst, releasing a fine cloud of misty particles, immediately caught by the wind, to swirl in a fine dust about
their faces.
 "Marshal! For God's sake!" Oaken sneezed, flapping his hands, dabbing at his eyes. "What the devil are you
doing?"
Dumarest lifted another pod.
"No!" Raougat sprang to one side, hand snatching at his gun. "Don't do it! You'll kill us all!"
Lieutenant Thomile rapped, "Drop that gun, captain! Drop it!"
His own pistol was lifted, the rifles of his men a steady line. As Raougat's pistol hit the ground he said, "Carry on,
marshal."
Dumarest looked at Oaken, at Stone. "You seem afraid, gentlemen. And yet why should you be? If you are so
certain that I am wrong, then the pods must be harmless."
"No," said Stone. "No more. Please."
"Colonel Oaken?"
"Put the damned thing away!"
"You are convinced, then?" Dumarest dropped the pod into the bag. "You had better be," he said grimly. "The
mutation is spreading. I don't know how you're going to handle it, but you'd better do it soon. Before a strong wind
rises from the hills and blows over the lofios toward the city." Jerking tight the neck of the sack, he handed it to
Colonel Paran. "Here," he said. "Your enemy."

***

The water was hot, scented, refreshing to his skin. Dumarest felt the beat of it wash away the grime and ease his
muscles. Dried, he looked at the rumpled uniform, then turned to his own clothes. Tall, in neutral gray, he left the
bathroom and met Zenya's incredulous stare.
"Earl! Why have you changed?"
"The war is over."
"But surely they won't…" She broke off, regretting his altered status, the loss of his reflected glory. As the lady of
the marshal of Chard she had been feted, spoiled wherever she went. With swift recovery she said, "Well, darling, it
doesn't matter. At least back home you won't be in danger every minute. We are going back home, Earl?"
"Yes, Zenya, I'll be leaving Chard."
Too engrossed with her own concerns, she didn't recognize the ambiguity. "You've done wonders, Earl. Not only
have you stopped this stupid war, but you found Salek. Grandfather will be pleased, and you know what he promised.
Us, together, on our own estate. Earl, we'll be so happy!"
For a while, he thought, until the novelty wore off and her own restless compulsion drove her to seek fresh
titivation. And then, in order to retain his pride, he would have to fight and kill—that or beat her into submissive
obedience. Two things which, for him, held no attraction.
A wanton, he thought, looking at her. Amoral, warped by the society in which she lived, the inbreeding which had
accentuated weakness. A bitch in every sense of the word, yet beautiful, as all such women were.
Wine stood on a table, and she poured him a glass, resplendent as she turned, shimmering all in gold. Smiling,
she handed it to him, waited as he sipped.
"We should go out, darling. For the last time, in your uniform, so that everyone can see the man who saved
them."
"Perhaps."
"And you can tell me exactly what happened in the cavern. When you and Captain Hamshard shot down those
savages. He told me about it when he arrived with Salek."
"Salek." Dumarest set down the glass. "Where is he?"
"In the other room. With Lisa… Earl!" she cried out as he sprang to his feet and ran toward the door. "Earl,
what…"
They were together, sitting very close on a couch, the man still wearing his coarse robe, the cowl thrown back to
reveal the gaunt structure of his skull. Beside him the woman looked a thing of legendary evil, shimmering black
accentuating the whiteness of her face, her neck, ebony-tipped nails reaching like claws, to hover an inch from the
sunken cheek of her prey.
"Lisa!" Dumarest dropped his hand, lifted it with the knife, light splintering from the edge, the needle point. "Drop
your hand! Drop it!"
"Or what, Earl?" She turned to face him, the hand not moving, the sharpened tips of her nails like tiny spears.
"Will you throw that knife? Kill me, perhaps? Do you honestly believe you could move fast enough?"
"Do you think I couldn't?"
A gamble with her life as the stake, but one she couldn't win. It would take time to reach, to press, to break the
skin, and already Salek, warned by some instinct, was moving from her side.
"What is wrong?" he said. "What is happening?"
"She intends to kill you."
"Lisa? But why? How?"
"Look at her hands," snapped Dumarest. "Those nails carry poison. And she intended to kill you, because your
father wants you dead."
From behind him Zenya said, "Earl, that's ridiculous!"
"You heard the child?" Lisa leaned back on the couch, smiling, confident of her power. "You were employed to
find him. To return him to Paiyar. Has the war turned your mind so that you have forgotten why you were sent to
Chard?"
"I was not employed, I was forced, and I do not like to be driven."
"Have you any choice?" Lisa's voice was a feral purr as she spoke directly at him, ignoring the others. "Do you
want me to say that word again? Have you forgotten that also? Driven?" Her laughter was thin, brittle. "Yes, you have
been driven, and will continue to be so. Like a beast on a rein. My beast."
Zenya whispered, "Kill her, Earl. Kill her!"
He fought the temptation, lowering the knife, so that it hung loose at his side. She was a woman, they were on a
civilized world, the death that closed her mouth would bring a kindred penalty.
To Salek he said, "Have you never wondered why I tried to kill you when first we met?"
The slanted eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "I thought that perhaps… I was wearing this robe, the light was red, for a
moment you could have mistaken me for a cyber. Lisa…"
"Told you how much I love them?"
"Yes. She said that you feared and hated them. It would be natural for you to have wanted to kill one."
A facile tale that would have satisfied a mind dulled by years of close proximity to innocence. Dumarest said,
"And all the time she was telling you this, she was moving closer, a warmly intimate relation talking over old times
and, perhaps, making plans. Don't you realize that you are the greatest obstacle to her ambition? Did she ask you to
marry her?"
Salek flushed. "I will never marry. I told her that."
"And so she decided to eliminate you. To obey her master's orders. Why, Lisa? Does he know you so well, that
you have no mind of your own? Was it necessary to kill?"
"Be careful, Earl!"
Beside him Zenya whispered again, "Kill her, Earl. Kill her!"
Mad, he thought, the entire family insane. Chan Parect didn't want his son returned alive. That would have
presented a threat to his authority—the one thing he could never tolerate. And yet the man had been living, and
might one day return. How simple to find a tool to dispose of the inconvenience. A complex plan, but when has
simplicity ever appealed to a deranged mind? And, almost, it had worked. If it hadn't been for Hamshard, his own
savage struggle against the ingrained command, Salek would be dead by now.
Lisa said urgently, "Earl, nothing has been lost. Salek can vanish, Zenya also. Together we can return to Paiyar.
The old man cannot last long, and when he dies, we shall rule."
"No."
She cried out, the same sound as she had made before, and again he felt what seemed to be a dull explosion
within his skull. But minor now, and he made no move toward the phone. The trigger hadn't worked; a one-shot
command, perhaps, an overlay of the deeper compulsion, an ironic jest of Chan Parect, or perhaps it had been
negated by the hallucinogen he had inhaled, his own struggle in the cavern.
He said quietly, "It doesn't work, Lisa. You can't rule me now."
Zenya laughed.
It was as if she had lashed the woman across the face. The elfin features grew haggard, ugly, the eyes blazing with
maniacal rage. Like a spring, she rose from the couch and lunged forward, hands extended, nails catching the light,
reaching for his eyes.
His left arm swept upward, slamming beneath the wrists, lifting the poisoned fingers. As they rose, he felt the
knife snatched from his hand, heard the blow, saw Lisa's sudden look of shocked disbelief, the unmistakable filming
of her eyes.
"Earl," she whispered. "Earl…"
He caught her as she fell, blood running from her mouth as he rested her on the floor.
Zenya laughed again, high, shrill. She stood with the knife in her hand, ugly stains on her arm, the front of her
dress. Her eyes blazed, alight, insane. "I did it! I killed the bitch! Now we can be together!"
 ***

The cell was like others he had known, a barred window showing the lights of the field, the glow of the sky. More
bars ran from roof to floor, enclosing a cot, toilet facilities, a square of faded carpet. From where he sat with his back
against a wall, Dumarest could see a portion of the corridor and the foot of a barred door at its end. From beyond it
came little sounds, the scrape of a chair, the coughing of the jailer, the thud of heavy boots.
More footsteps joined the others, softer, pausing as the door opened, halting again at the cell. As the door clanked
open, Colonel Paran stepped inside.
"I know you didn't do it," he said, dropping to the edge of the cot. "Salek told me, the girl too."
"What will happen to her?"
"Nothing. She will be put on the first ship leaving for Paiyar. That is the least we can do for the lady of the
marshal of Chard."
"Paiyar? You know?"
"From almost the first, Earl. Before I donned this,"—Paran touched his uniform—"I was chief of police. I held that
position for fifteen years. Long enough to have established certain habits, among them one of checking every
important detail. And, to be honest, your lady was a little indiscreet."
A danger impossible to avoid, but why had the pretense been allowed to continue?
Paran shrugged at the question. "You seemed to know what you were doing, Earl. And you helped my boy. After
that, I didn't give a damn who or what you were, just as long as you could resolve the mess." He looked bleakly at the
cell. "I'm sorry about this, but the formalities had to be observed. You understand?"
"And now?"
"That's what I want to talk about, Earl. For me, yon could stay as marshal for as long as you like. The men are
with you, the officers too. The pods have been tested, and what you said is true. A hell of a mess, but it has to be
faced. I doubt if Chard will ever be the same again."
"That needn't be a bad idea," said Dumarest. "You had a tight economic society here, and they are always
vulnerable. Fire, storm, disease—anything can happen. What are your own plans now?"
"I'm not sure. The army—"
"Should be kept. You need a counterbalance to the influence of the growers."
A counterbalance and a force to oppose the vested interests, which discounted human life in the search for gain.
Dumarest said, "The Ayutha need to be protected and their rights safeguarded. Salek could advise you on that if you
decide to let him stay."
"I'll think about it, Earl, but that can come later. You're more important. Oaken and Stone don't like you. Raougat
has sworn to kill you. You can handle him, I know, but he isn't alone. You made him look small, and he can't forget
that. That business with the pods…" Paran shook his head. "You took a hell of a chance."
"Not really," said Dumarest. "They all came from the oldest plants I could find."
"A bluff ? Well, if so, it worked. No one thinks of blaming the Ayutha now. In fact, everyone wants to help them."
He paused, then added, "As I want to help you, Earl. Chard owes you a hell of a lot. As I said, you can stay, but there's
something you had better know. The Council has called on the Cyclan to help them in the emergency."
And the first thing they would do would be to demand him as a part of their price. Dumarest said, "It doesn't
matter. They would have known I was here anyway. The Cyclan aren't fools. They would have known I landed on
Paiyar and predicted where I would arrive. You know how they operate."
"I know." Paran drew a deep breath. "I think we're going to need that army. Something to face up to the growers
and the red swine they've employed. I've lived through something like this before, on Elchan… Well, that doesn't
matter now. You're leaving, then?"
"Yes."
"I thought you would. I've had the money owing you put into oils and loaded on the Topheir. I've had it held until
you made a decision. It'll leave when you're ready." Paran rose. "There's not much else to say, Earl, aside from
thanking you for what you've done." He held out his hand in an old-fashioned gesture. His grip was hard. "There's
someone else outside who wants to see you."
It was Salek. He came from a circle of light, to stand thin and a little forlorn in his robe. "You've heard about
Zenya?"
Dumarest nodded.
"She loves you, Earl. She killed just to save you. She will wait for you on Paiyar—she asked me to tell you that."
"She'll wait a long time," said Dumarest. "I'm not going back to that world, and if you've any sense, neither will
you, until your father is dead."
"Earl!" Salek hesitated. "There's something else. When Lisa was talking, she mentioned your interest in ancient
things. That world you are looking for? Earth?"
Dumarest remembered what Chan Parect had said—that if he found Salek, he would find the answer to his
search. A lie, he had thought, another bribe to add to the rest, yet there was always the thin chance that, for once, the
old man had told the truth.
"You know where it is?"
"No, not exactly, that is…" Salek broke off, making a helpless gesture. "I can't be sure," he complained. "But there
are names. Sirius, Polaris, Alpha Centaurus, Procyon. Polaris was reputed to be the one star that didn't move. I'm not
helping you much, but there's something more. A suspicion, but I think—in fact, I'm almost certain—that the Cyclan
knows just where the planet is to be found."
The one group he couldn't question.
"Does it help, Earl?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "It helps."
Then he turned and walked across the field to where the Topheir was waiting, Branchard standing at the foot of
the ramp, grinning a welcome.
"Glad you could make it, Earl. Now, let's get on our way."
Up and out on a series of random journeys impossible to predict, to move on to where the stars hung thin against
the sky and ancient names were remembered. To the one world he was searching for and, one day, would find

ELOISE

Chapter One
There was nothing soft about the office. It was a vast chamber designed on functional lines, bleak in its Spartan
simplicity; the sound-proofing which covered the walls, floor and roof a dull, neutral gray, devoid of distracting color
or decoration. Only the blazing simulacrum which hung suspended in the air at the center of the room gave a
richness to the place; a depiction of the galaxy at which Master Nequal, Cyber Prime, stared with thoughtful interest.
It was a masterpiece of electronic ingenuity; tiny motes of light held in a mesh of invisible forces, the entire lens
constrained within three hundred cubic feet of space. With such compression, detail had to be lost; the billions of
individual worlds, the comets, asteroidal matter, satellites, minor regions of dust, all swallowed in the glowing
depiction of countless stars. Nequal touched a control and red flecks appeared in scattered profusion, irregularly
spaced but extending throughout most of the area. Each fleck represented a cyber, a trained and dedicated servant of
the Cyclan of which Nequal was now the accepted head.
An ancient emperor would have felt gratification at the extent of his rule, but Nequal could feel no such emotion.
And there was no need of personal ambition. To be Cyber Prime was to be at the very apex of his world. Even to be
a part of the Cyclan was to be a part of a near-invisible empire which would, in time, dominate every known
fragment of space.
Softly he walked beside the simulacrum, concentrating; noting gaps, the proximity of concentrations, the blank
regions in which no red glimmers showed, turning as the door opened to admit his aide.
"What is it?"
Cyber Yandron bowed. "Those for processing. Master. They await your attention in the reception chamber."
"A moment." Nequal continued his examination, then again touched the control. The projection faded to dissolve
in splintered shards of luminescence; the brilliant glow replaced by a more subdued illumination, a blue-white actinic
light which gave maximum visibility, rich in ultraviolet for reasons of hygiene. "I am ready."
Outside the office the passages were a hive of controlled activity. Cybers, alike in their scarlet robes, moved
soundlessly about their tasks. The air was chill and Nequal almost decided to raise his cowl. He resisted the
temptation. The body was a weak and irritating thing; to pander to it was foolish for it grew on what it was fed. And
yet the air did strike chill. Perhaps he should order the diet increased a little. Every machine needed fuel, and energy
lost in combating cold was energy lost to the efficient working of the brain. He would have the dietitians look into the
matter.
A decision made in the time it had taken to walk three paces, another made in the time it took to walk seven.
"Action to be taken on report 237582EM," he said to Yandron. "Have the laboratories concentrate on a cheap and
simple method of manufacturing churgol by synthesis from easily available products. The resultant information to be
disseminated on the worlds of Sargolle, Semipolis and Sojol."
Churgol was the major export of Churan, a proud and independent world; the others, the main customers for the
medicinal compound. Once their major source of income had vanished, the Ghuranese would be less independent
and not as proud. They would be eager to seek helpful advice in order to restore their fortunes and be willing to pay
for the guidance of a cyber. The thin end of the wedge which would place yet another world under Cyclan
domination.
A decision made, a problem solved!—he wished that all were as simple.
A small group waited in the reception chamber; the scarlet of their robes warming the bleakness, the material
rustling a little as they moved aside to allow the Cyber Prime a clear passage to where five men rose painfully from a
bench.
"Be seated." Nequal stepped towards them, his thin hand extended in greeting. Two were old, two diseased, their
bodies bloated in grotesque proportions; the other twitched with an uncontrollable affliction of the nerves. Nequal
studied him for a moment, but the eyes were clear and the man would never have been passed by the physicians had
his mind been affected. "You, all of you, are welcome."
They bowed where they sat, brief inclinations of their heads, then straightened as they looked at the tall figure of
their master. He was old, for men do not achieve great power without waiting, and lean, for a thin body was more
efficient than one soft with killing tissue. His face was set in a mask of impassivity; the head hairless, skull like. the
contours relieved only by the glowing intelligence of his deep-set eyes. On his breast, as on the breasts of them all,
the great seal of the Cyclan glowed with reflected light. Like them all, he had long ago accepted the truth of the creed
which dominated their lives.
The body was nothing but a receptacle for intelligence. Emotion was to be decried, eliminated by training and
surgery; the severance of certain nerves leading to the thalamus when young, the operation which left every cyber
the living equivalent of a machine, able to find pleasure only in mental achievement. But none counted it as a loss.
Only the mind counted, the sharpening of the intelligence, the cultivation of the pure light of reason and inexorable
logic.
Traits which made every cyber able to take a handful of facts and build from them the most probable sequence
of events. To extrapolate the result of every action and course of conduct. To make predictions so accurate that, at
times, it seemed they could actually read the future. A service for which rulers and worlds were willing to pay far
more than they guessed.
"You have worked well," said Nequal in his trained modulation. A voice carefully devoid of all irritating factors.
"Your dedication, skill and application have earned you the highest reward it is possible for any of us to know. I shall
not keep you from it." He gestured at the attendants. "Go now. Almost I envy you."
But there was no need for envy, even if he could have felt the emotion. He, all of them, every cyber who reached
old age or imminent death, all who had proved themselves; all would take the same path as the attendants now
prepared for the five.
First they would be shown the great halls, the endless passages and vaulted chambers gouged from the living
rock far beneath the planetary surface; the entire complex buttressed and reinforced to withstand even the fury of
thermonuclear attack. They would see the serried rows of vats, the laboratories, the hydroponic farms; the whole
tremendous installation which was the headquarters of the Cyclan.
And then, assured, their gestalt finned, they would become a part of it.
They would be taken and drugged. Trepans would bite into their skulls and expose the living brains. Attachments
would keep them alive, as they were lifted from their natural housings and placed into containers of nutrient and that
the intelligences would remain awake and ever aware. And then, finally, the living, thinking brains would be
incorporated into the gigantic organic computer which was Central Intelligence.
To live forever. To share in the complete domination of the universe. To solve all the mysteries of creation.
The aim and object of the Cyclan.

***

Nequal watched them go, wondering if they would have been so eager had they known what he knew; the
problem which threatened to overshadow all others. As yet it was a minor incident; but he would not have been a
cyber if he had not known where it must invariably lead if unchecked.
A passage led to the laboratories; the office of Cyber Quendis, the papers and graphs lying thick on his desk.
"Master!"
"Report on the decay of the older intelligences."
Quendis was direct. "There is no improvement. The deterioration previously noticed is progressing into all
increasing decay."
"Action taken?"
The affected part of the computer has been removed from all contact with the main banks. A totally separate life
support and communications system has been installed, and tests made to discover the cause of decay. Results to
date show that there is no apparent protoplasmic degeneration, the condition was not induced by defective
maintenance and there is no trace of any external infection."
From where he stood at one end of the Desk Yandron said, "How did you arrive at your conclusions?"
"Ten units were detached, dismantled and inspected. I chose those showing most signs of aberration."
Ten brains destroyed. Ten intelligences, the seat and repositories of accumulated knowledge, totally eliminated.
Yet, thought Nequal dispassionately, it was a thing which had to be done. Again Yandron anticipated his question.
"Your suggestion as to the cause of the decay?"
"Psychological." Quendis touched a sheet of paper covered with fine markings. "The conclusions of three
different lines of investigation. The cause could be based on the necessity for the brains to rid themselves of
programming, by the means of paradoxical sleep. The need to dream."
"That is easily arranged," said Nequal. "There are drugs which can achieve the desired effect. Have they been
used?"
"Yes, Master. The results were negative. To use the term paradoxical sleep in its widest sense. It could well be
that the affected units have lost all touch with reality. This could be due to their extreme age, in which case the
maintenance of units is limited by a time factor of which we have been unaware. If this is correct the decay of all
units is, in time, inevitable."
"But manageable," said Yandron. "New units can replace the old."
"That is so," agreed Quendis. "Once we determine the efficient life-expectancy of the encapsulated brains,
arrangements can be made for routine elimination. However the present danger lies in the possibility that the
paraphysical emanations of the deteriorated units could spread the contamination."
Nequal said, "Has the affected bank been questioned?"
"Yes, Master. On seven occasions. Each time the response was sheer gibberish. The units seem to lack all
coordination."
Yandron said, "Cannot something be done? The units separated and placed in cyborg mechanisms?"
"Separation has no effect." Again Quendis touched his papers, as if to reassure himself that all had been done. An
odd gesture for a cyber to make and Nequal noted it. The man was more concerned than he appeared. "Rehousing
the unit had no effect on the decayed intelligence. If anything it showed a marked decline. Three attempts were
made. On the last the unit did nothing but scream."
Alone, distracted, terrified perhaps; torn from the close association with other minds which it had known for
years. A great many years, longer by far than any normal lifetime. And yet why should any cyber scream? Certainly
not from reasons of emotion. But from what else?
"Destroy the bank," ordered Nequal. "Total extinction."
"Master!"
Nequal ignored Yandron's voice, his gesture.
"Continue your investigations," he said to Quendis. "Test the entire installation down to atomic level and conduct
molecular examinations of all units."
A thousand dead brains to be ripped apart and probed with electron microscopes. Tons of metal to be checked
for any wild radioactivity or unsuspected crystallization. Every drop of nutrient fluid to be scanned for random
chemical combinations which could have occurred, despite the monitoring devices.
And still, perhaps, they would find nothing.
As they left the office Yandron said, "Master, it could be that the decay is not from the cause Cyber Quendis
suspects. The aberration could be due to the units using different frames of reference. The intelligences, old as they
are, could have progressed to a higher order of relationship, using mental concepts of a type we cannot understand."
"You are saying that I may have destroyed a superior intelligence," said Nequal. "I had considered the possibility."
"Naturally, Master, but—"
"Why did I order the destruction? The answer should be obvious. If ancient brains could progress to that point
then others, growing old, will reach it also. Therefore, we have lost nothing. If, however, the decay is not of that
nature, then we have avoided the risk of contamination."
"Yes, Master."
Was there a hint of doubt in the carefully modulated voice? Nequal looked keenly at his aide. A man remained at
the apex of the Cyclan only as long as he was efficient enough to do so. Was his aide already searching for signs of
mental weakness? Questioning the destruction only after it had been ordered, so as to build evidence?
 Nequal said, "There is one point which you appear to have forgotten. The affected brains were questioned and
responded only with gibberish. It may be that they were using unfamiliar forms of reference, but of what use is that to
the Cyclan? We deal in a world of men and must work within familiar boundaries."
Men and the problems they could cause; the normal inefficiency which grated on his desire for regulated order
and logical patterns of thought.
He said, "I am returning to my office. Find Cyber Wain and join me there."

***

The simulacrum was in full life when they arrived, the chamber full of color, flaring greens, blues, reds and
yellows; the depiction expanded so as to show a region of space in which worlds now could be revealed in multi-hued
array.
Nequal stood facing it, his thin, aesthetic features painted with shifting color; the brightness accentuating the
skull-like contours of his head, the mask of his face. Without turning he said, "Cyber Wain, report on your progress."
"It is slow, Master."
"Too slow."
"Agreed, but in this case time cannot be accelerated. The affinity-twin developed in the laboratory on Riano is
composed of fifteen molecular units, the reversal of one unit determining whether or not it will be subjective or
dominant. This we know. We also know the nature of the units. What we lack is the knowledge of the correct
sequence in which they must be joined."
"And the number of possible combinations is very high," interjected Yandron. "If it were possible to try one new
combination each second, still it would take four thousand years to cover them all."
"It cannot be done in a second," said Wain. He was shorter than the others, but aside from that could have been
their twin. "It takes a minimum of eight hours to assemble and test a chain."
The figures were numbing. Nequal considered them as he studied the depiction. Allowing for the possibility that
only half the possible sequences needed to be investigated before success was achieved, it would still take close to
sixty million years. For one team, of course; more workers would reduce the figure, but still the amount was
staggering.
He felt again the impatience which gripped him each time he recalled the stupidity of the guards at Riano; the
willful neglect of the cybers in charge of the laboratory concerned. They had paid for their inefficiency but the
damage remained. The secret of the sequence chain had been lost.
Lost, but not destroyed; of that he was certain. And what had been lost could be found again.
He said, "With the decay affecting the older brains of Central Intelligence, the matter must be moved to a higher
order of priority. I have advocated this before, but my predecessor did not agree." One of the factors which had led to
his replacement, but Nequal did not mention that. "The secret must be regained."
Wain made a small, helpless gesture.
"Agreed, Master, but as yet all efforts towards that end have failed. We know that the secret was stolen by
Brasque, who took it to the woman Kalin. We know too that she passed it on before she died."
"To the man Dumarest," said Yandron. "Earl Dumarest. How could one man have eluded us for so long?"
For answer Nequal gestured towards the depiction, the host of glowing worlds.
"One man," he said. "Moving as a molecule would move in a heated gas. One man among billions, moving from
world to world, and he has been warned. At first, when unaware he held the secret he could have been taken, had due
importance been given to the matter. Now, warned, he is on his guard."
And dead cybers proved it. Cybers and agents both; those who had come close, those who had been careless.
They had paid the price for underestimating the man they sought.
"The secret was used on Dradea," said Yandron evenly. "We have proof of that. It seemed that we had him fast
and then he vanished."
"To appear on Paiyar and, later, on Chard." Wain was acid. "Once again we learned of his movements too late. He
left on a trading vessel and now we can do nothing but wait."
"Nothing?"
Wain blinked. Engrossed in his laboratory duties he had lost the razor-keenness of his brain; the one great
attribute of every cyber had become dull through disuse.
"Master?"
"We know where he was last seen," said Nequal. "We know on which ship he left. Yandron, what is your prediction
as to his present whereabouts?"
An exercise which the aide had done before, but always faced with the baffling encumbrance of random motion.
One ship, moving among countless worlds, one man among so many. And Dumarest had been clever. He had not
taken a commercial line which had regular ports of call. A free trader went where profit was to be found.
He said so and Nequal, without turning, gave him no chance to regain his stability.
"No motion is truly random," he said. "Even the shiftings of molecules of gas can be predicted after a fashion.
And here we are dealing with a man. A clever, resourceful man, but a man just the same. And even a free trader
follows a predictable path. The Tophier left with rare and costly oils and perfumes from Chard. Eriule would be the
most probable market. They produce mutated seeds and luxury goods aimed at agricultural cultures. The probability
that the Tophier obtained a cargo of such goods is of a high order. A prediction of 89 per cent. There are three such
worlds to which they could have been taken."
The depiction expanded still more as Nequal touched the control. Now suns could be seen, worlds, satellites;
dangerous proximities of conflicting energies which any ship would wish to avoid. He studied them, building on
known factors, judging, eliminating; selecting the worlds on which the vessel had most probably landed, extrapolating
from available data and predicting where next it would be.
An exercise in sheer intellect aimed at the one, sole object of trapping a man.
Dumarest—who held the secret which, once regained, would give the Cyclan total domination.
An exercise which had been conducted before, but which, as yet, had always failed.
Nequal sharpened the edge of his mind. From the agricultural worlds a trader would, most logically, move on to
Ookan, to Narag or Guir, and then?
A moment as factors were weighed and evaluated. "Tynar," he decided. "We shall find him there."

Chapter Two
It was a harsh world with a ruby sun casting a somber light, the air heavy with the stench of sulfur, ammonia,
methane; the natural exudations augmented by the fumes from the smelters, the acrid gases rising in plumes from the
pits and craters of the mines. An old world, dying, ravaged by exploiters eager for its mineral wealth.
The city hugged the field, a rambling place of raw buildings and great warehouses against which the shacks of
transients clung like fetid barnacles. A nest of lanes gave on to wider thoroughfares, streets flanked with shops, inns,
places of entertainment. Narrow alleys led to secluded courts faced with shuttered mansions.
A normal city for such a world, the early residents withdrawn; hating the brash newness, the greed which had
shattered their peace. From barred windows they watched as the great trucks headed towards the field loaded with
precious metals; the workers thronging the city eager to spend their pay. Noisy men who had brought with them their
own, familiar parasites; gamblers, harlots, the peddlers of dreams, the fighters and toadies, the scum of a hundred
worlds.
Seated in a corner of a tavern close to the field, Dumarest sipped slowly at his wine.
He was a tall man with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, dressed all in neutral gray, the collar and cuffs of his
tunic tight against throat and wrists. He wore pants of the same, plastic material; the legs thrust into knee-boots, the
hilt of a knife riding above the right. Common wear for a traveler, the metal mesh buried beneath the plastic an
elementary precaution.
As was the place he had chosen, the wall which rose at his back.
A woman hesitated before him; aged, dressed in bedraggled finery, face plastered with cosmetics, eyes hard with
experience. They searched the planes and contours of his face, the line of his jaw, the mouth which she sensed could
so easily become cruel. For a moment their eyes met and then, without speaking, she moved away.
Another, younger, confident in her attraction, took her place.
"Hi, mister!" She smiled, resting her hands on the table and leaning forward so as to display her wares. "You
lonely?"
"No."
"Just come in?" She sat and reached for the bottle, the empty glass resting beside it. "On that trader, maybe?"
"Maybe."
"Where you from?"
"Kalid," Dumarest lied. "Did I offer you a drink?"
"You begrudge it?" Her eyes, over the rim of the half-filled glass, were innocently wide. "Hell, man, are you that
strapped? If you are, maybe I can help."
Dumarest lifted his own glass, touching it to his lips, eyes narrowed as he looked past the girl towards the others
in the tavern. A motley collection of spacemen, field workers, pimps and entrepreneurs. None seemed to be paying
him any attention.
 "I can help," repeated the girl. "You've a look about you—you've been in a ring, right?"
"So?"
"I can tell a fighter when I see one. If you're broke I could arrange something. Ten-inch blades, first cut or to the
death. Big money for a fast man if he wants it. I've a friend who could line it up if you're interested."
He asked, knowing the answer, "Is there much of that going on?"
"Fights?" She shrugged. "Plenty, but you'll need a guide to the big money. You don't want to be cheated. Why
don't I call over my friend and let him make the proposition?" Without waiting for an answer she turned, mouth
opening as if to shout a name. It closed as Dumarest leaned forward and closed his fingers about her wrist.
"What the hell!" She stared at the clamping hand. "Mister! You're hurting me!"
"We don't need your friend," he said flatly. "And I don't want company."
"Not even mine?" She smiled as she rubbed her wrist, the marks of his fingers clear against the flesh. A
mechanical grimace, as if she had remembered to play a part.
"You're strong. Damned strong. And fast; I never even saw you move. You'd be a joy to watch in a ring. How it it,
mister? We could make a deal. My cut wouldn't hurt you."
"No," he said dryly. "But it could hurt me." He saw by her expression that she didn't understand. To her the fights
were a spectacle to be enjoyed, something by which to make a profit; but to those engaged it was something far
different. Dumarest leaned back, remembering; the bright lights, the crowd, the stink of oil and sweat and fear. The
smell, too, of blood; and the savage anticipation of those who watched others kill and maim, to cut and bleed and die
for their titillation.
It was always the same. In an arena open to the air, where men fought in the light of the sun; or in some small
back room filled with shadows, the risks were the same. A slip, a momentary inattention, an accident, a broken blade
or a patch of blood; all could bring swift and painful death. Only speed and skill had saved him, that and luck—and
who could tell how long that luck would last? Already, perhaps, it had run out.
"Mister?" He felt the touch of her hand, saw the puzzled expression in her eyes. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No." He moved his hand away from her touch. "But you're wasting your time."
"So what? It's my time." But even as she shrugged, she had turned to look at the others. "Nothing," she said,
reaching for her glass. "Let the others have the pickings—those old crows need it more than I do. Anyway, it makes a
change to talk. What's your name? Where are you from? How long have you been on the move?"
Too many questions from a harlot who should be intent on business; watched, probably, by a ruthless pimp who
would not be gentle. And there were more.
"Did you really come in on that trader? When are you pulling out?"
He said, "Drink your wine."
"You don't want to talk?"
"No."
"Well, it's your business." She refilled her glass and drank half at a gulp. "How about a different kind of a deal
then? You and me—you know?"
"I told you you were wasting your time."
"I've a nice little place close to here. We could get some food and I'd cook you a meal. You'd like that. I'm a good
cook and it wouldn't cost you all that much. We could sit and drink a little and eat and talk, if that's all you want. How
about it, mister? I'm not that bad for a man who wants company."
She was trying too hard, wasting too much time, and it didn't fit the pattern of her kind. There could be others
like her in every tavern, more in the hotels; a host of watching eyes. He felt the prickle of warning which had so often
saved him before, the primitive caution reacting to the possibility of a trap.
It was time to move.
Rising he dropped money on the table; enough to pay for her time, to save her from a beating if she was exactly
what she appeared to be. A cluster of men stood at the bar and he circled them at a safe distance. The door was low,
forcing him to duck as he stepped into the street.
Outside, they were waiting.

***

It was almost dark, the great ball of the sun a sullen glow on the horizon; the street filled with smoky shadows
patched with blobs of luminescence from windows and lanterns set behind tinted panes. In such light details were
lost; but Dumarest could see the hulking patch of darkness to his right, another to his left, a third facing him from
across the street. Loungers, perhaps, casual wanderers or some of the familiar predators of the night; the thieves and
muggers always to be found in such places, pimps offering the bodies of their women.
 But such men would not work in harmony, would not all ease forward at the same time, their pace accelerating as
he moved from the low doorway.
Three of them at least, and others could be within easy distance.
Dumarest stopped, rose, knife in hand; a beam of stray light catching the nine-inch blade, winking on the honed
edge, the needle-sharp point. Even as he drew the knife he had turned, was running back the way he had come, past
the doorway of the tavern towards the man who loped towards him.
From behind came an urgent voice. "Get him!"
The man was tall, lithe, a fighter with accustomed reflexes; hampered now by his clothing, the unexpected speed
of the attack. Even so he was fast. As Dumarest lunged forward he backed, lifting his hand, something whining from
the weapon he carried.
Dumarest felt it rip at his shoulder as he ducked and then he was on the man: knife lifting in a blur, the edge
biting, dragging through the flesh and bone of the wrist so that hand and weapon fell in a fountain of blood. Even as
the man opened his mouth to scream the point was rising, slashing to hit the throat, to sever the arteries feeding the
brain.
"Mineo!"
Dumarest spun at the sound of the voice. The man at his rear was close, the one opposite halting as he raised his
gun. At a distance of forty feet he thought he was safe, taking his time as he aimed. He took too long. Even as he
aligned the barrel Dumarest was moving, his arm lifting; the knife was a shimmer as it lanced through the air to bury
its point in an eye, the brain beneath. Unarmed he leapt to one side, forward as the remaining assailant hesitated,
undecided whether to fight or run. The delay cost him his life. Even as he fired Dumarest was on him; the stiffened
palm of his right hand cutting at the side of the neck, the fingers of his left gripping the hand which held the gun,
crushing flesh against metal. Again he struck, felt the impact, heard the dull snap of bone and turned; poised as a
man came running down the street towards him.
"Earl! What goes on?"
Branchard, the captain of the Tophier, the vessel which had brought Dumarest to Tynar. He pursed his lips as he
saw the dead; watching as Dumarest recovered his knife, wiping it clean on the man it had killed before thrusting it
back into his boot.
"Earl?"
"They were waiting for me. There could be others."
"Then we'd better get out of here." Branchard scooped up a discarded weapon. "Let's go!"
They found a place in a small inn towards the center of the town; a discrete place with a troupe of dancers
moving gracefully to the tap of a drum, gossamer fabrics catching varicolored light so that they seemed to move in a
kaleidoscope of subtle luminescence. The wine was worth less than a tenth of what they paid, but the price was for
entertainment and privacy. In the glow of an emerald lantern, Branchard examined the weapon he had found.
"A dart gun," he commented. "Vibratory missiles which throw the central nervous system all to hell. They can
cripple, but rarely kill. Whoever was after you, Earl, didn't want you dead. Robbers, maybe?"
"Maybe." Dumarest looked at his shoulder. The plastic was torn, the mesh beneath bright. Unable to penetrate,
the missile had left him unharmed.
"But you don't think so." Branchard was shrewd. "You could be right. Three men, armed like they were; it doesn't
make sense. One would have been enough, but I guess they wanted to make sure."
Dumarest said, "I waited. What kept you?"
"I had trouble finding Eglantine."
"And?"
"I found him," said Branchard heavily. "Earl, you're crazy. His ship's a wreck. If you want to commit suicide there
are a hundred more pleasant ways. Listen," he added urgently, "there's no need for going off like that. Stick with the
Tophier. We're doing well, mostly thanks to you, and we can do better. Why waste all you've made on chartering a
vessel which won't be able to hold air for much longer, let alone get where you want it to? Why not use the Tophier!
Hell," he said dryly, "we can use the trade."
"Where are you heading when you leave Tynar?"
Branchard shrugged, "It depends on what we can get as cargo, Earl. Maybe Lochis with metals, or Hemdalt with
stones. Branch, even if we can get nothing but local products. Anywhere which will show a profit. You know that."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "And so do others."
"Those after you?" The captain frowned. "I've not asked, Earl, because it's your business. I figured that if you
wanted me to know you'd have told me. But I can guess. You've got powerful enemies, right?"
Dumarest nodded.
"And I can make a guess that they are fond of wearing scarlet. That's why you had to leave Chard in a hurry.
Well, no matter; as it turned out they did me a favor. Now I want to do you one. To hell with profit. Give the word and
I'll take you anywhere you want to go. I mean it, Earl. Anywhere."
For any captain to make such an offer was rare, for a Free Trader unknown. Dumarest poured Branchard more
wine.
"Thank you, but no."
"Why the hell not?"
For reasons Dumarest didn't want to explain. Already he had stayed with the Tophier too long; but the last port of
call had been bad as regards easy shipping, the one before even worse. Now they had found him: the city was alive
with potential enemies and, once they learned of the cargo the ship would be carrying, any cyber would be able to
predict where it would next land. And that would not be necessary. Already the ship would have been planted with
detectors, arrangements made to negate any plan of escape he might have considered, using the ship as a vehicle.
He said, "If I leave with you we'll be followed. Burned out of space, maybe. You want to risk that?"
Branchard glowered at his wine.
"Well?"
"No, Earl, I'll be honest. The Tophier is all I have. Once it's gone I'll be no better than a stranded traveler. But
would they really do that?"
"They'd do it."
For the sake of the secret he carried. The correct sequence of units which formed the affinity-twin. The means by
which one mind could dominate another, to the extent of literally taking over mind and body. To use a subjective host
to gain a new existence; to see and taste and feel, to enjoy a completely new life. A bribe no old man could refuse, no
aging matron resist.
"All right, Earl." Branchard accepted defeat. "You'll do as you think best, but I still think you're crazy to ride with
Eglantine. What else do you want me to do?"
"Nothing." Dumarest looked towards the stage. The dancers had gone, replaced by three women who sang like
angels; the thin, high notes of their song rising like the sigh of wind, the thrum of harps. "Just be honest. Make a
point of telling people what you're carrying and where you are going. Someone will ask for passage—give it to him. If
anyone asks about me, tell them the truth. I've shipped out, but you don't know where. Tell them about Eglantine if
they press. Remember that you've got nothing to hide, nothing to answer for."
And, if he was lucky, nothing would happen to him or his vessel. He would be watched, followed perhaps;
checked for a while and then forgotten as no longer being of importance. Forgotten—and safe.
Branchard finished his wine.
"So this is it, Earl. Goodbye. I guessed it would have to end. Do I have to tell you that, anytime we meet, you've
always got a friend?"
"No." said Dumarest. "You don't have to tell me that."
"We'd best not leave together, I'll go out the front door and you take the one next to the stage. It leads to a back
alley. Turn left and climb the wall. Go right and you're heading towards the field. Eglantine is expecting you."
Branchard blew out his cheeks. "Look after yourself, Earl."

***

Eglantine was small, fat: his face creased like a prune, his eyes twin chips of agate, his teeth startlingly white. His
ship was like his clothes; patched, worn, soiled with stains.
"Earl Dumarest." He gestured to a chair in the dingy room used as a salon. "Branchard told me about you. You
want to charter the Styast, right?"
"You know it."
"But the terms of charter were a little vague. And, as yet, I've seen no money."
"The terms are what I say." Dumarest was curt. "Ten thousand ermils to the next planetfall."
"Which will be?"
"Where I say after we have left Tynar." Dumarest jingled the money; thick, octagonal coins each set with a
precious gem, accepted tender on any world. "If you've changed your mind say so now. There are other ships."
"But none as cheap," said Eglantine quickly. "And, perhaps, none available. But let us not be hasty. All I know is
that you want to charter my ship. To the next planetfall, you say; but that could be a world on the other side of the
galaxy. Where's the profit in that? A man has to know what he's selling."
"And buying," snapped Dumarest. "From what I hear your vessel is a wreck. Maybe I'm making a mistake."
"Maybe," Eglantine shrugged and spread his ringed hands. "What man can claim that never in his life, has he
made a mistake? And yet why should we quarrel? You need my vessel and I am available. All I ask is for a little
information. What cargo will you be carrying?"
"None."
Eglantine hid his surprise. No cargo, which meant that Dumarest was in a hurry to get away and had no wish to
travel on a normal ship. Charters were never cheap, but had certain advantages; and why should he object when the
money was in plain view? Yet old habits died hard. A man willing to pay so much might be pressed to pay even more.
Then he looked again at the man before him, and changed his mind. In any game of bluff Dumarest would be the
winner. In any confrontation he would never lose. There was that look about him, the hard sureness of a man who
had never known the protection of House, Guild or Organization; who had early learned to rely on no one but
himself.
But still he had to assert his position; as captain he was in command.
"Our destination," he said. "I must know it. Surely you can see that."
"As I said, you will be told it after we leave."
"That will be tomorrow at sunset."
"No," said Dumarest. "It will be now. Is your crew aboard? They should be. It was part of the deal. Now let's get
down to it. Is the ship mine or not? Make up your mind."
Eglantine said, "I expect you would like to examine the crew."
Like the ship and the captain, the crew left much to be desired. An engineer with a blotched and mottled face,
who reeked of cheap wine and had a withered hand. A handler, a boy; star-crazed and willing to work for bed and
board, filling in as steward. A navigator, with rheumed eyes and a peculiar, acrid odor which told of a wasting disease.
And a minstrel.
He looked up from where he sat on his bunk, as Dumarest looked through the door. Like the captain he was fat;
unlike him, he had a certain dignity which made his soiled finery more of a challenge to an adversary than the
outward evidence of laziness. A stringed instrument lay on his lap; a round-bellied thing with a delicate neck and a
handful of strings which he was busy tuning. A gilyre of polished wood and inset fragments of nacre, once an
expensive thing; now, like its owner, the worse for wear.
"Arbush," said Eglantine. "He plays for us."
"And gambles." said the man. He had a deep, pleasant voice. "And sings at times; and tells long, boring tales if it
should please the company. And tells fortunes and reads the lines engraved in palms. Once I saved the captain's life.
Since then he has carried me around."
Charity which Dumarest would never have suspected from the captain. Or perhaps it was not simply that. Like
the boy, the minstrel was cheap labor.
He touched the strings of his instrument, and a chord lifted to rise and echo in the air.
"A song," he said. "Which shall it be? A paen or a dirge? Young love or withered discontent? Something to lift
your heart or to throw a shadow of gloom over the spirits? Name it and it will be yours."
Dumarest caught the edge of bitterness, the hint of mockery. An artist reduced to the status of a beggar. If he
was an artist. If the gilyre was more than just show.
"Later," said Dumarest. Outside, in the passage, he said to Eglantine. "Call the boy."
He came, wary, his eyes wide in his thin face, his attitude betraying the beatings he had suffered; the desperate
need to swallow his pride in order to remain where he wished to be. Dumarest waited until they were alone and then
drew coins from his pocket.
"There is a ship on the field, the Tophier. Find it. Tell the captain that I sent you. He will give you a place on his
vessel."
"You're kicking me out?"
"I'm not taking you with me. This ship isn't fit for a man, let alone a boy. Here." Dumarest gave him the money.
"Buy yourself some food and decent clothing. Buy a knife and learn how to use it. Learn to walk tall."
"But the captain?"
"To hell with him," said Dumarest evenly. "He's using you, you must know that. I'm offering you a chance to find a
decent life. Take it or not—that's up to you. But you don't ride on this vessel."
Nor, if he had the sense, on any other like it; but only time could give him that. Time and the luck which would
enable him to survive. At least he had been given his chance.
He turned as the boy scuttled away and heard the thrum of strings. Arbush, silent, had come close and must have
heard. But his face, creased with the lines of cynicism, held none of the mockery Dumarest had expected to see.
"An unusual gesture," he said above the soft blurring of the strings; a muted succession of rippling chords which
could be used to accompany a song or a conversation. "I do not think our captain will be pleased, yet I think the boy
will live to thank you."
"I didn't do it for thanks."
 "No, but for what? A wish, perhaps, that someone had treated you the same? Or as a recompense for a good deed
received in the past?" The strings murmured louder. "Or were you simply trying to save him from destruction?"
Dumarest said, flatly, "I'm riding on this ship. It's my neck as well as yours. Or would you prefer to leave?"
"To what? A corner in some filthy tavern? My songs bartered for bread? I have known that, and know, too, that
here I am better off. A bed, food, company of a kind. And more. Perhaps the thing for which you are looking. The
thing all men seek. Happiness? Who can tell?"
A romantic, a soiled visionary; or perhaps a creature lost in the mists of deluding drugs. Symbiotes could do that,
giving mystic images in return for food, warmth and safety; repaying their sometimes willing hosts in the only coin
they possessed.
"Eglantine sent me to find you," said Arbush. "He is ready to leave. Shalout itches to set the course. You have met
him?"
"The navigator."
"Exactly. Once he was an expert at his trade, now he is not what he was." Arbush shrugged. "Are any of us? Yet
he can guide us from world to world, given time. Time and coordinates. The first he has; the second you are to give
him."
"Later," said Dumarest. "When we are well into space."
"And so he is to send us into the unknown," mused the minstrel. "Sending the five of us, like a hand, hurtling into
the void. A fist to hammer the face of creation. A poetic concept, as I think you will agree."
"I think that you talk too much and say too little."
"Perhaps." The eyes in their folds of fat moved a little, became a trifle more hard. Anger? If so he mastered it well.
"And perhaps you talk too little and say too much. There is a message in silence. Fear, maybe. Distrust certainly. Yet
you do not appear to be a man ruled by fear. Caution, then? If so, how can I blame you? In this life we all walk on the
edge of extinction."
A philosopher of sorts as well as an artist, the fingers which strummed the gilyre were deft with practiced skill.
Dumarest studied them, noting the tell-tale callouses, the splaying of the tips. The fingers and other things; the set of
the rotund frame, the position of the feet, the tilt of the head. Men were not always what they appeared to be; but, as
far as he could tell, Arbush was not one of them.
And, even if he was, it was too late to alter his own plan.
"And so we leave," said the minstrel softly, the music from the strings rising a little, taking on a somber beat, a
pulsing rhythm. "As legend has it that men of old first left their place of birth. To venture into the empty dark with
nothing but hope as their guide. Shall we find El Dorado? Jackpot? Bonanza? A new Eden? Camelot? Worlds of
mystery and untold wealth lying like jewels among the stars; lost planets or worlds that are nothing more than the
figment of dreams. Is that what you seek?"
The music rose, loud, imperious, blended chords interspersed with vibrant tones; a strange, disturbing melody
carried over the throbbing strum of the accompaniment, a masterly demonstration of skill.
It roared, softened, rose to fade again to a stirring whisper, against which the resonant voice of the minstrel
echoed like an organ.
"On such a trip as this who knows what might befall us? Life? Death? Riches or poverty, space holds them all.
Those who search must surely find. Happiness. Contentment. Paradise itself, perhaps." The strumming grew louder,
harsh chords rising above it, reaching a crescendo, falling with startling abruptness into silence. A silence in which
echoes whispered from the walls, the floor, the roof of the passage.
A whispering vibration against which the organ-like voice, muted now, had the impact of a sharpened spear.
"And, who knows, perhaps even Earth itself !"

Chapter Three
Eloise had taken special care, setting out a tray of tiny cakes, crisp things adorned with abstract designs and
bright with touches of color. Another tray bore goblets of fine crystal placed close to decanters of somber red and
vivid blue wine. The liquids of forgetfulness, thought Adara bleakly. Forgetfulness and a false courage; the poison
which numbed minds and made even the prospect of imminent conversion a bearable concept. Protection against
what was to come. A defense for himself at least, though the woman did not seem to need such aid. He glanced at
where she sat, lounging in the deep chair at the far side of the room; the curtains drawn back from the window at her
side to reveal the city beyond, the spires and pinnacles, the rounded domes, the streets and buildings which stood in
their mathematically precise arrangement, coldly white beneath the pale glow of the stars.
She said, "If the sight bothers you the curtains can be closed."
 "No." He dragged his eyes from the window. "It does not bother me."
"Not the darkness? The cold?"
Shaking his head he looked directly at her, studying her as he had done a thousand times before; more conscious
now than at any time before of the influence she had had on him, the way in which she had altered his perception.
Conscious, too, of her beauty which sat framed in the arms of the chair.
She was tall, thin fabrics covering the long, lithe lines of her figure; the material enhancing the swelling contours
of hip and thigh, the narrowness of her waist, the twin prominences of her breasts. Her neck was slender, her face
strong with finely set bone; the eyes deep, watchful beneath thick and level brows. Tonight she had dressed her hair in
a rising crest which exposed the tiny ears, the gems at their lobes, more gems glittering in the ebon mane. The nails
of her high-arched feet naked in thin sandals were painted a flaring crimson; the color matching that on her fingers,
her lips.
Hard as he searched he could find no trace of the trepidation which surely must possess her, the mounting dread
which threatened to engulf him.
An animal, he decided, and envied her the cool self-possession which clung to her like a cloud. A strong, female
animal who should have borne many children—he was disturbed by the train of thought. In Instone, such things were
not the province of those who lived under the aegis of Camolsaer.
Camolsaer!
It was all around, everywhere, watching, calculating, omniscient—inescapable!
He felt the sudden dryness in his mouth and looked longingly at the wine, yet the formalities had to be observed.
Stiffly he said, "My thanks, Eloise, for your invitation. This is not a good time to be alone."
"Then why suffer it?"
A question which she had asked before, many times; and to which, as now, he could find no answer. Because it
had always been so. Because things did not change. Because instilled pride maintained the composure which was a
part of his heritage. Why were her questions so direct? The answers so difficult to find?
Weakly he said, "You are a stranger. You would not understand."
"A stranger?" The musical resonance of her voice held an acid amusement. "You say that, after so long?"
"You were not born here."
"True, thank God. But does that assume a lack of comprehension?" She rose as he hesitated, the thin fabrics she
wore streaming behind her as she stepped towards him; the scent of her perfume signaled her proximity. "Adara! My
friend!"
Their hands touched, softness against softness, the delicate fingers no harder than his own. Her body too, he
knew, held a more than equal strength. Once it had disturbed him; now there was no time or room for concern. And
yet he was grateful for her presence.
His hand shook a little as he reached for the wine.
"So soon, Adara?"
"You deny me?"
"Nothing—I owe you too much for that. But do you think it wise?"
"You tell me that. You provided it."
"To celebrate."
He lifted the lambent fluid trapped in its container of crystal and looked at the vivid blueness. One glass would
do no harm. Two even and, if things went against him, what did it matter how much he swallowed? And he needed
the strength it could lend.
"To celebrate," he said, mocking her tone. "To show my gratitude? To what? The Goddess of Luck you have so
often mentioned? You see, my dear, how you have corrupted me. In this place there is no such thing as luck."
"Nor guts either, from what I've seen!" Immediately she was contrite. "I'm sorry. You can't help being what you
are and, God knows, I've little cause to berate you. It's just that, at times, I—"
"Will you join me?"
"No." She had sensed the raw emotion within him, the turmoil which could be controlled only by an effort. "Drink
if it pleases you, my friend. Drink and be happy for tomorrow we die."
Only the wine stopped the words; the savage, biting words which sprang from the outraged core of his being. For
her to have so broken all accepted convention, at a time like the present!
The goblet rang a little as he set it down, its rim barely touching that of another, producing a thin, high note of
ringing clarity.
He didn't look at the woman as he stepped towards the window.
Outside the streets were deserted as he had known they would be. Now everyone was inside, warm, seeking what
comfort they could; those with the low numbers having already accepted their fate and engrossed with a final
enjoyment of the flesh, or sitting in solitude doubting their ability to maintain their composure.
But not all of them. Some would be surrounded by friends, the center of attention, drinking with careless
abandon or lost in the euphoria of drugs; the need of careful abstinence thrown aside like an outworn garment.
He said, his forehead tight against the coolness of the pane, "How long?"
"Not very long now." He scented her perfume as she moved towards him, felt the soft weight of her hand on his
shoulder. "Adara—you are not alone."
Words, comforting perhaps, but what did they mean? What else was he now but alone? Who could share his
torment, ease it by taking a part of it from him? Like physical pain, it had to be borne. Like the dreams which had
ruined his sleep, the sickness he had felt when on his way to this very room.
"Adara?"
Irritably he moved away from the hand on his shoulder, stepping back from the window a little, unwilling for her
to see his face. A soft face, older than he remembered; the eyes shadowed pits as they stared at him from the
reflection in the crystal, the muscles lax with lack of self-control. Yet control must be maintained. Tradition and pride
demanded it. Self-respect if nothing else. And still it was hard.
Harder still when he remembered the incident which had happened while on his way to join Eloise.
A small thing, but it had shaken him. He had passed two Monitors in the passage and the sight had turned his
knees to water so that, for a long time, he had leaned against the wall lacking the strength even to stand. An odd thing
to have happened. All the years he had lived, it had never happened before. But then he had never drawn so low a
number before; had never appreciated the full significance of what he had seen.
"Adara!" The musical voice was urgent. "Turn, look at me! Adara!"
As he obeyed the great bell began to toll.

***

It was a sound which filled the city, dominating, Imperious, a deep, solemn throbbing which came from the very
walls, the air itself; causing little harmonics to quiver the panes of the window, to set the goblets trembling so that
they touched and filled the air with singing chimes.
At the third knell he began to tremble; a hateful reaction which constricted his stomach and caused tiny muscles
to jerk along the line of his jaw, the apparatus of his hands. Desperately be hid the discomfiture, keeping his face a
blank mask; aware of the woman, her eyes, his own growing terror. The tolling continued, each knell a claw raking at
his naked brain.
"…six… seven… eight…"
Eloise had regained her chair and sat, watching him with a peculiar intensity. Almost, he thought wildly, as if she
were studying a specimen to determine how efficient its training had been. Relentlessly her voice kept time to the
bell, counting the strokes; merging with the sonorous throbbing, the thin chiming of the goblets which now sang with
a rising note as if the inanimate material could sense and respond to his mounting distress.
"…eleven… twelve… thirteen…"
He felt perspiration dew his forehead, the body beneath his clothing; the trembling now increased so that he had
to lock his fingers to disguise their rebellion. To remain detached. To remain calm. To accept what had to come. The
teachings of a lifetime—why had they failed him now?
"…fifteen… sixteen… sev—"
"Eloise?"
"Sixteen, Adara! Sixteen!"
Her voice was a shout of triumph filling the room with gladness and, he thought, relief.
Relief which in no way could equal his own. "Are you certain?"
"Listen!" Her upheld hand demanded silence, All around, the walls seemed to retain the tolling note of the bell so
that ghost-echoes quivered in the air and tricked the senses. Yet there was no substance to the sound. It was nothing
but a ghost lingering in his own brain, whispering in his ears.
"Sixteen, Adara! You were number eighteen and I was twenty-two. We're safe! Safe!"
His hand trembled as it reached for the wine. Red or blue, did it matter? Yet red was the color of blood, and blue
of hope. Now there was no need of hope. Ruby liquid spattered as he shakily poured it. A man reborn, reprieved. The
wine slid down his throat as if it had been water, his goblet refilled before the woman had lifted her own.
"To life," she said.
"Eloise!"
"To life," she repeated doggedly. "And to hell with conventions which insist that no one must speak of life or
death, or the crazy pattern of the city in which we're stuck. To hell with the city. To hell with Camolsaer!"
 "You're drunk!" he shouted. "Drunk or mad!"
"Not drunk, Adara. And not scared. The bell has tolled, remember? The choice has been made. Those poor,
damned fools who lost have gone to their living hell. Gone, or on their way. So drink, you fool, and enjoy life. Enjoy it
while you can."
She drank, throwing back her head; the slender length of her throat fully exposed, taut, lovely. With an abrupt
gesture she threw aside the empty glass so that it shattered into fragments against the wall and then reached towards
him, hands extended, eyes enormous with emotion.
"Eloise!"
She stepped closer; her mouth wide, sensuous, the lips full and softly moist.
"No!" He backed, cautious, afraid.
"You coward!" Her voice, still musical, now held the chill of contempt. "Afraid to drink too much. Afraid to break
things. Afraid even to make love too often. Terrified even to talk about life and death, and what happens to those who
have lost. Fear. Is that what rules you? Are you so in love with it that you can't remember what it is to be a man?
Have you ever known?"
"Eloise! Please!"
Camolsaer would be watching, noting; measuring the emotional content, the amount drunk, everything. He saw
her hands come towards him, the fingers curved, light reflected from the points of her sharpened nails. They touched
his cheeks and he felt the stab of incipient pain, yet could do nothing to prevent her stripping the flesh with her talons
if she so desired.
And then, abruptly, she dropped her hands.
"Reaction," she said huskily. "It hits people in different ways. Let's get the hell out of here."

***

The city was at gruesome play. A long conga line of near-naked men and women wound down the passages, past
the adornments, beneath the arched roofs and down the ramp into the main assembly hall. There, at the far end, a
man stood between two Monitors. At least he seemed to be standing and then, Adara saw that he was being
supported at each side, his feet hanging inches above the floor.
"Larchen," said a man at his side. "Number four. He tried to put a good face on it, but collapsed and tried to run. A
bad thing to have happened."
"And Thichent?"
"As you'd expect. He drew the prime and knew there could be only one end. He left the party at the first knell; an
example to us all." He smiled at Eloise, bobbing his head. "You look superb, my dear, but then you always do. A little
wine?"
"Aren't you afraid of Camolsaer?"
"After the bell there is always a period of grace. Didn't Adara explain that? Drinks taken now are not counted. A
concession for which we must be grateful. But surely you know this?"
She had known it, realized Adara sickly. It had been himself who had forgotten. Or perhaps not forgotten, but
distrusted. The woman's fault—why had he ever saved her?
Taking the proffered glass she said, quietly, "Choi, you amaze me."
"In what way, Eloise?"
"In your acceptance."
"Of what?" He frowned, genuinely puzzled. "Things are what they are—what they have always been. We are born,
we live, we leave. It is as simple as that."
"Leave?" Her voice was faintly mocking. "Don't you mean that you die?"
Flushing, he said in a high voice, "Now listen, I know that you're a stranger, but that is no way to talk. You've been
here long enough to have learned our customs. We don't—die." He seemed to gag on the word. "We are converted."
"Yes," she said.
"Changed! Improved!" His voice was now almost a scream. "Thichent knew that. He realized and accepted it. He
was proud to be the first. To pay his debt to the city, to us, to Camolsaer."
"Who are you trying to convince?" she said flatly. "Me or yourself ?"
"Adara!"
Adara answered the appeal, taking her by the arm and guiding her away from Choi, the others who had
overheard. Beneath his fingers he felt the quivering of her flesh, the anger which threatened to consume her. A pair of
girls ran towards them, long streamers of bright fabric in their hands, the material breaking beneath his impatient
gesture. Pouting at their spoiled pleasure, they ran towards others more receptive of their attention.
 "Eloise, why be so foolish?"
"You call it that?"
"To upset Choi and the others, yes."
"To upset them?" She shrugged. "To teach them, you mean. To try and reach them. To stop them from being so
blind."
"To spoil their pleasure." His voice was brittle with impatience. "Have you learned nothing? To talk as you did was
stupid."
"Stop it, Adara."
"But—"
"Stop it!" She pulled her arm free and turned to face him. Colored light from drifting globes bathed her face with
shadowed radiance, accentuating the structure of the bone, hardening the contours in their rigid anger. "I won't be
lectured by you or any man in this insane city. Nor any woman. If you want to know why, just look around. Minutes
ago they heard the bell. Now every damned fool acts as if he were at a party."
"It's custom, you know that."
"Madness!"
"No." He reached for her arm and felt a momentary hurt as she avoided his hand. "You are disturbed, but that is
natural. I understand. But it is all over now. There is no need for concern. You, I, both of us are safe."
"For how long?" She gave him no time to answer. "Until the next draw," she said bitterly. "The next selection. How
can you be sure that you won't draw prime? And, if you do, will you walk willingly to your death as that fool Thichent
did?"
"Please, Eloise."
"Death," she repeated savagely. "Death, damn you! Death!"
She saw the sudden pallor of his face, sensed the abrupt hush from those who had overheard; the tension, the
shifting away from where she stood. Afraid, all of them, herself too; but with a fear more corrosive than their own.
They were simply afraid of what she said; she was terrified of what the future could hold.
"Eloise!"
Adara stepped towards her, one hand extended—he, at least, displayed a little courage. But not enough. Not
anywhere near enough. And, now that the bell had tolled and the danger was over, old habits would regain their hold.
Rabbits, all of them, men and women both—and she, dear God, was trapped among them.
"Eloise."
She turned as Adara touched her, running through the assembly; passing startled faces and barely conscious of
the voices, the laughter, the gaiety which ruled beyond her immediate vicinity. A winding stair led to the summit of a
tower and she reached it, pressing open the door; walking to where a high parapet edged the city, the area beyond.
Tiredly she leaned against it, barely aware of the chill which numbed her flesh through the thin clothing, the
harsh pressure against her breasts.
The night was still. Here, in the cup of the valley, was little wind; but higher, where the ringing hills stood like pale
sentinels, their slopes and summits thick with ice, there would be a frigid blast whining from the north, carrying
particles of snow and sleet; a killing wind which robbed body-heat and brought killing hypothermia.
She remembered it, her skin puckering at the memory. A bad time in which she almost died. Should have died,
she thought bleakly. At least, then it would have been over.
"Woman Eloise, it is not wise to stand here dressed as you are."
Engrossed with memory she had heard no sound and, as always, the Monitors were silent on their padded feet.
She turned, looking at the thing. Seven feet tall, a body made of articulated plates, limbs, torso; all in a parody of the
human frame. The face too, cold, hard despite the paint, the eyes elongated curves of crystal. Starlight shone on the
figure in a cold effulgence, accentuating the chill of the night.
"Woman Eloise, you must return below."
The voice was like the body, cold, flat; an emotionless drone.
"No. I—"
"Woman Eloise, you must return."
She could argue, try to run, but the end would be the same. She could walk or be carried like a stubborn child, but
the Monitor would be obeyed.
Always the Monitors were obeyed.
It followed her down the stairs, halting as she entered the assembly room, watching as she thrust her way into the
crowd, to the passages leading to her room. The fragments of the glass she had shattered had vanished; another
goblet replacing the one broken, clean and bright on the tray.
She filled it with lambent blue wine and drank and refilled it with ruby, they carried it over to the window where
she stood looking out over the city, upward to the stars.
A host of suns, the vault of the sky filled with glittering points, sheets of luminescence, patches of nacreous light,
the blur of distant nebulae.
Suns around which circled a multitude of worlds on which men could walk free. Ships traversing the gulfs
between them. The ebb and flow of restless life of which once she had been a part.
The glass lifted in a silent toast, a prayer and then, abruptly, she collapsed in a storm of weeping.

Chapter Four
Branchard had been right—the Styast was a wreck. The plates were worn, the hull leaked air, the control room a
mass of patched and antiquated equipment, the engine room a disgrace.
But it was a ship in space and would have to serve.
Alone in his cabin Dumarest studied a scrap of paper on which were written the spacial coordinates of Tynar.
Others were beneath them, the course they were now following, figures chosen by throwing dice. He threw them
again, noting their value, using the figures shown to write a new set of figures.
A random selection impossible to predict. A means to send the Styast to a point the Cyclan could never
anticipate.
He would throw again and then send the vessel to the nearest, busy world. A place from which he would move on
to hide among the stars.
To hide and to continue his endless search.
Outside the cabin the ship was still. In the engine room Beint, the engineer, would be busy with his wine, slumped
before his panel; the withered hand resting on the console beneath the flickering dials and flashing signal lamps.
Arbush was in the salon, an immobile figure frozen over his gilyre. Eglantine was asleep, a gross mound on his
bunk; unaware of the cautiously opened door, its gentle closing. Shalout was in the steward's quarters, standing like a
statue before the medical cabinet, vials before him, a hypogun in his hand. Like the minstrel he was immobile, caught
in the magic of quick-time; his metabolism slowed to a fraction of normal so that, to him, an hour seemed but
seconds.
A good time to do what had to be done.
In the control room Dumarest looked around. Beneath the screens bright with clustered stars the instruments
clicked and whispered, as they guided the vessel through space. Touching the metal he could feel the faint but
unmistakable vibration of the drive, the Erhaft field which drove them at a velocity against which the speed of light
was a crawl.
The supra radio was where he had expected it to be.
He stooped, fingers turning the clamps, drawing out the instrument to expose the inner circuitry. A tug and a
component was free. Another and the instrument was ruined unless there were replacement parts, and the possibility
of that, on the Styast, was remote.
Back in the corridor Dumarest took a hypogun from his pocket, checked the loading and lifting it, aimed it at his
throat. A touch of the trigger and quick-time was blasted through skin, fat and tissue into his blood. The lights
dimmed a little and small noises became apparent. The thin, high sound of a plucked string, discordant, shrill. A
clinking, the sound of indrawn breath.
Shalout busy with his medications.
He turned as Dumarest approached, sweeping a litter of vials back into their boxes, slamming the door of the
cabinet as if ashamed at having been seen. The acrid odor he carried was accentuated by another, sharp, sweet; the
stench of drugs to combat his infection, a fungoid growth picked up on some too-alien world.
He pursed his lips at the figures Dumarest gave him.
"Are you serious? Do you realize just where these coordinates will take us?"
"Just set course so as to arrive at that point."
"A long journey, Earl. Too long for the Styast to make. We haven't the supplies, even if the vessel would stand it.
The captain—"
"Just do as I say, interrupted Dumarest. "I may give you another set of coordinates later."
Shalout said, shrewdly, "You are taking a random path, is that it? Are you afraid that someone could be following
us? If they are, we won't be able to shake them."
"But you can tell if they are there."
"True," admitted the navigator. "The scanners would pick up the emissions of their drive. But they could have
more efficient detectors than we carry." For a moment he stood, frowning, then shrugged. "Why do I concern myself ?
You have chartered the ship and have the right to dictate where it is to go. But if I could have a hint, a clue; I could,
perhaps, shorten the journey."
Dumarest said, softly, "Do you know the way to Bonanza? To Earth?"
"Earth?" The navigator frowned. "Why should a planet be called that? Earth is dirt, ground, loam. All worlds have
earth." Then his face cleared and, smiling, he said, "You have been listening to Arbush. His greeting song, as he calls
it. A plethora of exotic names and hinted mysteries. Once, I believe, he worked on a tourist vessel and old habits die
hard. Bear with him long enough and you will be tempted to follow him into a region of dreams. Nonsense, of course,
but it beguiles the time."
"And Earth?"
"Does not exist. A myth which has risen from who can guess what reasons? The desire for a paradise, perhaps; a
longing for a world in which there is no pain, no suffering, where all things are possible and all men are heroes.
Another legendary world to add to the rest. You mentioned one, Bonanza. There are others, all equally legendary.
None has substance."
Dumarest knew better, but he didn't press the matter. It was just another hope lost; another dead-end to add to
the others.
He said, "The coordinates?"
"Our course is to be changed." Shalout looked again at the figures. The drugs he had taken had cleared his eyes a
little from their rheum, had given him a false buoyancy. "What would we find if we followed these figures to the end?"
he mused. "Would any of us be alive at the end of the journey? Would we find a world in which thoughts became
things and a dream became reality? Is there such a world? Or would we find ourselves in a region torn and blasted by
opposing forces, our generators ruined, the hull burst open, ourselves turned into radiant energy? Beings still aware,
but freed of the confines of the flesh? An enticing concept, my friend, as I think you will agree."
The more so for a man dying of a foul disease, living on the euphoria of drugs, the charity of a captain.
Dumarest said, patiently, "The coordinates."
"Of course. I have ridden too long with the minstrel. His romancing has affected me; at times I even find myself
using his words. Once, on Zendhal I—but never mind. A man should not dwell in the past. Yet it is true that Arbush
seems to have a wealth of odd scraps of information."
"Of Earth, perhaps?"
Shalout shrugged. "That you must ask him."

***

He sat where Dumarest had last seen him, crouched over the table in the salon, busy with his gilyre. Frowning he
tuned the strings, listened, tuned them again, plucked a rill of chords and impatiently pushed the instrument away.
"Useless," he said as Dumarest joined him. "The notes are too shrill, too high. Quick-time has its blessing, but the
enjoyment of music is not one of them. You wish to play?"
"Later."
"Your fortune, then."
"It has been told before."
"But not by me." Arbush reached out and took Dumarest's right hand, turning it so as to study the palm. For a
long moment he concentrated, the fingertip of his free hand tracing the lines, their conjunctions. "Were you a woman
I would use flattery and the older you were, the more I would use. Promises of loves to come and riches to be gained.
Good health and stirring adventures of the heart. Instead I—"
He broke off, leaning closer, a subtle change coming over him so that the mask of banter turned into a thing more
serious.
"You have killed, Earl, often; that I can see. There is much blood on your hands. Blood and sadness and great loss.
An unhappy childhood, a lonely time; and there are long journeys made under the shadow of extinction."
Traveling Low, doped, frozen, ninety percent dead, lying in caskets meant for the transportation of beasts; risking
the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap transportation.
The converse of High, in which the use of quick-time eased the tedium of the longest journey.
Dumarest said, dryly, "Now tell me something I do not already know."
"The future?" Arbush glanced up, his eyes intent. "There is danger, that is plain. Relentless enemies and—other
things."
"Such as?"
"Death. With you it is very close. A familiar companion. And luck, more than your share. I think it would be wise
to reconsider my invitation to play."
 "Then let us talk." Dumarest pulled his hand free from the other's grip. "Tell me what you know of the Original
People."
A veil fell across Arbush's eyes. "I do not understand."
"You mentioned them. The men of old who left the planet of their birth. You want the pure source?" Dumarest's
voice deepened to hold the rolling echoes of drums. "From terror they fled, to find new places on which to expiate
their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."
"An intriguing concept, Earl, but obviously a barren one. How could all the peoples of the galaxy ever have lived
on one world? Think of the numbers, the differences, it doesn't make sense."
"A world can be populated by a handful of settlers," reminded Dumarest. "And mutations could have caused the
changes."
"True, but—"
"Terra," said Dumarest softly. "Another name for Earth. Tell me about Earth."
"A legendary world."
"So Shalout told me. I think you know better. How did you learn of the name? Why make a point of mentioning
it?"
"For effect." Arbush leaned back, his eyes clear, calm in his composure. "The fabric of a song, no more. A device
to titillate the sense of adventure. I picked up the name—somewhere, I forget just where. The fragment of legend
also. Perhaps at a lecture I attended when young. Something overheard from a private conversation. Sit in any tavern
and your ears will be assailed with rumors." He reached for a deck of cards. "Shall we play?"
"Later."
"I have disappointed you, but that cannot be helped. Ask what I know and the answers are yours. How Beint hurt
his arm, for example. You have seen the engineer's hand. He was careless one night and was attacked in a dark alley
by someone who carried a poisoned blade. The nerves are gone."
"The damage could be repaired."
"True, a regrowth, obtained on any decent world—with money, Earl. Beint does not have the money." Arbush
turned over a card, the jester. Quietly he added, "He would do a lot to get it."
"And Shalout?"
"Beyond hope by now. The fungoid is eating itself into his brain. But he could spend what remains of his life in
luxury—if he had the money."
"And you!"
Arbush turned over another card, the lady. He followed it with the lord. "Men, women and fools," he murmured.
"And which one is you? Not the woman and not, I think, the fool." Riffling the deck he said, blandly, "Shall we play?"

***

The cabin had a door which didn't fit; a lock which now, for some reason, failed to work. The ventilator carried
sounds of metallic impact, an off-center fan or one with a broken blade; sound enough to disguise the whisper of
voices. Dumarest listened, then jumped down from the bunk to the floor. On the cot lay the hypogun he had already
used; his system normal, the effects of quick-time neutralized.
When they made their move, he would be ready for them.
And the move would be made, the message had been plain. Arbush, for reasons of his own had betrayed the
captain, reinforcing Dumarest's own suspicions. A wreck of a ship, a man who obviously wanted to hide, the hints
they could have picked up on Tynar—the Styast had become a trap.
A trap which was about to close.
Dumarest heard the scuff of boots in the passage, a sudden sonorous chord, a muffled curse in Eglantine's voice.
"Tell that damned minstrel to be quiet!"
An order to Shalout, perhaps, but Beint would be the better choice. Hampered by his withered hand, he would be
of less use in a struggle. Not that Eglantine expected one; as far as he knew Dumarest was locked in quick-time, a
helpless prey.
In which case, why move now?
The radio, he decided. Eglantine had tried to use it and found it ruined. It would stay ruined, the components had
been destroyed; no word could be sent ahead as to his coming.
Dumarest eased open the door.
Outside the passage was empty. If Beint had gone to join Arbush in the salon, then Shalout must be towards the
right at the end of the passage leading towards the engine room. And Eglantine?
He caught the scrape of movement, the shift of air; he spun, one hand dropping towards the knife in his boot, the
hand freezing as he saw the captain, the laser he held in one pudgy hand.
"Hold! Move and I fire!"
The gun was steady, the muzzle aimed low to sear legs and groin, the knuckle white over the trigger. A fraction
more pressure and it would vent its searing beam; energy to burn clothes, skin, muscle and bone. To cripple if it did
not kill.
Dumarest said, blankly, "Captain! Is there something wrong?"
"Shalout! To me!"
The knuckle had eased a little, no longer white; the captain more certain of his command of the situation. He
stood in a cabin, the door barely open; the gap just wide enough to show his face, the weapon he held. As the
navigator came running down the passage from the engine room Eglantine said, sharply, "That's close enough. Watch
him. Burn his legs if he tries anything."
Shalout, like the captain, held a laser. He halted, twenty feet from Dumarest.
He said, puzzled, "He's riding Middle like the rest of us."
"Yes." Eglantine opened the door wide and stepped into the passage. "Proof of what I suspected, if I needed
proof at all. Why should an honest man suffer the tedium of a journey when there is no need?"
Dumarest said, "Your drugs are old, Captain. They lack effectiveness. I woke and was riding Middle. I was about
to obtain more quick-time from the cabinet. Now, perhaps, you will tell me what is wrong."
"The radio is ruined. You must have done it. Where are the components?"
"You need guns to ask me that?"
"They could be in his cabin," said Shalout. "Shall I search?"
For a moment Eglantine hesitated, then shook his head. He had the advantage and wanted to retain it. With the
navigator in the cabin he would be left alone with Dumarest. "No. He will tell us where they are." The laser moved a
little, menacing. "You will tell us."
Dumarest said, "Here?"
The passage was narrow, with an armed man at front and rear; he would be caught in the cross fire if he tried to
attack. In the salon, perhaps, he would stand a better chance, even with Beint present. Arbush would, he hoped, be
neutral if not an ally.
As if the man had caught his thoughts the sudden thrum of a gilyre rose from the compartment to send echoes
along the passage; a stirring, demanding sound, hard, imperious.
A voice rode with it, bland, more than a little mocking.
"Are we to be left alone, my friend? Were you sent here to keep us out of the way? Does the Styast now carry two
crews, when it used to carry one? Are secret deals being made and fortunes promised? If the trap has been sprung,
where is the victim?"
Eglantine shouted, "Arbush! Shut your mouth!"
As the gilyre fell silent, Beint loomed at the end of the passage.
"So you've got him," he rumbled. "Good. Bring him in here so we all can listen to what he has to say."
He backed as they passed, his withered left hand rucked into his belt, his right holding a short club of some heavy
wood. It made little slapping sounds as he struck it against his thigh. Arbush sat on the table, the gilyre on his lap,
blunt fingers idly stroking the strings; tapping the wood so as to produce a soft thrumming interspersed with the
whisper of simulated drums.
He said, "Captain, you could be making a mistake."
"No mistake." snapped Eglantine. "The radio proves that. Why should a man want to ruin the instrument?"
"Why did you want to use it?" Dumarest looked at the round face, the splintered glass of the eyes. "What need did
you have for it? And why was I not told? Do you forget that I chartered this ship?"
"I am the captain!"
"And a thief. You took my money and reneged on the deal. Why?"
Eglantine shrugged. He was more relaxed now, the laser hanging loose in his hand, confident of his mastery.
"A man wanting to charter a ship for a single passage. A man without cargo who is willing to pay highly for the
privilege. You could have bought High passage on a score of ships for what you paid. And then your demand we
follow a random course. I asked myself why? Are you interested in the answer?"
"Tell me."
Let the man talk; while he did so he would relax even more. And his words would hold the attention of the others,
reassuring them of their anticipated wealth. And, while he talked, it was possible to plan.
Dumarest moved a little, so as to rest the weight of his hip against the table. Shalout would have to be saved, his
skill would be needed. Beint also; the engines needed constant attention if they were not to drop from phase. Arbush
was an unknown factor; as yet he had shown himself to be a friend, but it would be a mistake to rely on him and he
was expendable.
As was Eglantine.
Any ship was lost without its captain, but emergencies happened and Eglantine was a poor specimen of his kind.
The condition of the Styast proved that. Without him it would be possible to reach their destination, and all
navigators held a basic skill. Shalout could do what had to be done if Eglantine were to die.
And the man had to die.
Dumarest altered his position a little more as the captain talked, proud of himself, his conclusions.
"Ten thousand ermils," he said. "A healthy sum, but a man worth that could be worth much more. And a man
does not run without cause. Then I remembered things I had heard on Tynan. A reward offered—need I say more?"
Dumarest said, "Why not? Are you afraid the others will know as much as you?"
"We share! It is agreed!"
"Share—how much? The little you choose to give them?" Dumarest shrugged, casual as he shifted position once
more; edging along the table so as to narrow the distance between himself and the captain. "Or perhaps they trust
you. Rely on your word—as I did!"
"You—?"
Dumarest moved, muscles exploding in a burst of controlled energy; the knife lifting from his boot as he neared
the captain, thrusting as the gun lifted, catching the laser in his left hand to turn as the dead man fell, the hilt of the
knife prominent over his heart.
"Drop the gun! The club! Do it!"
He fired as they hesitated, wood smoking, the club falling as Beint snatched away his hand.
"Shalout! Don't, you fool!"
The navigator dropped his gun at Arbush's shout. He looked dazed, numbed; eyes wide as he looked at the dead
captain, the pool of blood in which he lay.
"Fast!" said the minstrel. He had not moved from where he sat. "I've never seen a man move so fast. Once you
had the gun, you could have killed us all. Why didn't you?"
"I need you," said Dumarest harshly. "Beint, get to the engines. Shalout, you—"
He broke off as the lights quivered. A shrill hum came from the bulkheads; a thin sound, rising, penetrating,
hurting the ears. Abruptly the ship seemed to twist in on itself; the edges of the compartment turning into curves, the
bulkheads into corrugations.
"Dear God!" screamed Shalout. "We're in a warp!"

Chapter Five
Somewhere a sun had died, matter imploding, condensing; torrents of energy hurled into space, agglomerations
of incredible forces which distorted the very fabric of the continuum. For eons, perhaps, they had drifted; some to be
caught in the gravitational well of other suns, to destroy them in turn or to be absorbed if weak enough. Some had
touched planets and left them charred cinders. Others had merged with alternate patches of drifting energies, to
conglomerate into areas in which normal laws did not apply.
The Styast had touched one.
"A warp!" Shalout screamed again. "We're dead!"
Dumarest stepped forward, lifted his hand, sent the palm hard against the navigator's cheek. Twice more he
struck; stinging slaps which shocked the man from his hysteria.
As the rheumed eyes cleared a little he snapped, "To the controls. Fast!"
He led the way, the ship jerking again as he ran down the passage: the walls seeming to close in, so that he looked
down an edged tunnel which seemed to extend to infinity. He ran on, not looking down at his legs, his feet, the soft
squashiness of the floor. And then it had passed and the passage was normal again; the instruments in the control
room were a flashing, clicking mass of confusion.
The screens showed madness.
The stars were gone, the sheets and curtains of luminescence, the somber patches of dust and the glowing
nimbus of distant nebulae. Now there was a riot of color; swathes of green, red, yellow, savage blue, all twisting in
dimensions impossible to follow, changing even as the eye caught them to adopt new, more baffling configurations.
"We can only barely have touched," said Dumarest.
"Shalout, check to see where the core lies. Change course to avoid it."
The room changed before the other could answer, the walls expanding, filled with eye-bright luminescence; the
instruments changing into cones, cubes, tesseracts of brilliant crystal, rods of lambent hue. The mind and eye baffled
by the impact of wild radiation, trying to make sense from distorted stimuli. Or an actual, physical change in which
familiar items altered to fit new laws of perspective and construction.
No man had ever lived to determine the truth.
Dumarest dropped into the control chair as the room returned to normality. Beside him Shalout muttered as he
checked his instruments, reading dials he no longer trusted, readings which carried little sense.
"There, I think, Earl. No, there!"
"Make up your mind!"
"I can't! The sensors are all gone to hell. Earl!"
Dumarest was not a captain, yet he knew something about ships. He had ridden in too many, worked in more, not
to have learned something of what needed to be done. Seated in the chair, he gripped the controls. To turn the Styast
needed delicate manipulation of the field. Lights blazed on the panel as he adjusted the levers and a dial flashed an
angry red.
"The engines. They're losing phase. Damn Beint for a drunken fool. Arbush, see what you can do!"
The minstrel had followed them. He turned at the command and headed towards the engine room. Dumarest
didn't see him go. Every nerve, every particle of his concentration was aimed at the controls.
Again he adjusted the levers. The screens flared, changed, showed the familiar universe.
"You did it!" Shalout babbled his relief. "Earl, you did it!"
"Maybe." Dumarest wasn't so sure. "We could have barely touched an extension of the warp. We must have, or we
could never have pulled out of it."
And they weren't clear yet. Other ships had suffered narrow escapes, still more were lost after reaching apparent
safety. Dumarest looked at the instruments, the scanners and sensors which should have guided them safely through
space. Would have done, had Eglantine been at his post in order to read their warnings. Yet, perhaps, he could not
wholly be blamed. A warp distorted all space in its immediate region. Instruments would have been delivering false
information, and yet, a trained and skilled man might have been able to avoid the trap.
"Shalout?"
The man remained silent, shaking his head, a thin line of spittle running from the corner of his mouth.
"Shalout, damn you! Give me a course!"
The man changed. His arms vanished, his legs, his head became a truncated pyramid of gleaming facets; his
body a mass of divergent angles glowing with red and blue and emerald. Beyond him the metal of the hull sprouted
frosted icicles, the instruments soft and pouting faces.
Again the screens showed nothing but a Lambent confusion of writhing brilliance.
And then, again, things returned to normal.
"Dear God!" The navigator had found his voice. "We're trapped! We can't escape! We're dead!"
Ship and men, the vessel caught in a maelstrom of irresistible forces, swept like a chip of wood caught in a
tumultuous stream; to be ripped and torn and crushed to individual molecules.
If the force was resisted.
It was natural to resist, to use the relatively minor power of their engines to pull away, to escape if there was a
chance. But the engines of the Styast were almost useless, hovering on the edge of becoming lifeless lumps of metal
and wire; ready to collapse and take with them the Erhaft field which was their life.
Dumarest said, tightly, "Get hold of yourself, Shalout We've still got a chance. See if you can determine the flow
of the warp, its node."
"But—"
"Do it!"
For a moment the man hesitated, a victim of his terror, then he remembered the dead man lying in the salon, the
blood, the knife which had reached his heart. Saw the hard, set line of Dumarest's features, the cruel line of the
mouth.
Death would come, of that he was certain; but death delayed was better than death received at this very moment.
He studied his instruments, checking, noting; hard-won skills diminishing a little of his fear.
"Up and to the left," he said. "If these things can be trusted that is the direction of flow. Not that it means
anything. Who can tell what happens in a warp? But you asked and that's the answer."
"And the node?"
"Anywhere. Directions don't mean anything."
"Try harder."
"Ahead, maybe. How can I tell?"
With instruments which could lie and eyes which couldn't be trusted—no way at all. Yet his instinct remained.
That and luck.
 As the screen flared again with the alien brilliance, Dumarest sent the vessel up and to the left. Towards the line
of flow, riding with it instead of resisting it; sending the ship which was the Styast moving inward closer to the heart
of the warp, the node it must contain.

***

At the sound of the bell Eloise woke to face yet another day. They were all the same, days and nights; segments
of time divided by a bell, different only in the external light. Hours which brightened to fade, to brighten again. A sun
which rose and set; the steady, relentless passage of time. The inescapable end—but it was best not to think of that.
Rising she bathed and dressed, a serviceable garment of dull green, more like a sack than a dress; but in the
gardens, frills had no place.
For a moment she hesitated and then decided to eat alone; the canteen would be full of the usual vacuous faces,
the empty chatter. Here, in her room, at least she could maintain the illusion of privacy.
Of the three choices she chose toast, fruit and a compote of pungent flavor together with a sweet tisane. The
fruit was genuine, the compote a blend of mutated yeasts; the tisane a synthetic combination balanced as to essential
vitamins and trace elements.
A meal containing the three essentials of any diet; bulk, variety and flavor. Camolsaer looked after them well.
A Monitor stood at its usual place, at the entrance to the gardens.
"Woman Eloise, you are three minutes late."
"So what?"
"It is noted. Proceed to bank 73. Remove all dead matter and observe for infection."
Yesterday it had been bank 395 to harvest the fruit, or to overseer, rather; machines did the work. And the day
before that, it had been to replant bank 83. And last week she had worked in the kitchens. And the week before that at
the laundry. Simple tasks all, any of which could have been done by an idiot.
She said, "My application to the nursery. Has it been approved?"
"It has been noted."
"I said approved."
"It has been noted," droned the Monitor again. "You are now six minutes late. Proceed at once to bank 73."
It was a wide, long, shallow tray filled with grit to hold the roots, nutrients to feed the plants. From above fell light
rich in ultra-violet, and from speakers came a jumble of sound, vibrations designed to promote optimum growth.
Eloise walked along the edge, picking wilted leaves, dropped particles; fragments of vegetation from where they
broke the symmetry of the growths. God working in his garden, she thought bitterly. But it was not a real garden; the
work was trivial and she certainly was not God.
A woman lower down moved slowly towards her. As she came into earshot Eloise said, "Doesn't all this get you?"
The woman frowned. "What do you mean?"
"All this." Her gesture took in the tank, the wide expanse of the gardens. "We don't need it. The yeast and algae
vats can supply all we eat. Flavor and shape can be added, so why all this?"
"It's for Camolsaer."
The answer she had expected and wondered why she had bothered. It was always the same. A lifetime of
conditioning couldn't be negated by a few conversations. With an effort, she remembered the woman's name.
"Haven't you ever thought about it, Helen? I mean, all this wasted effort. We aren't really needed here."
"That isn't for us to decide, Eloise." The woman carefully plucked a leaf and dropped it into the bag she carried
for later disposal. "But one thing is clear. I like to eat fruit, nuts and vegetables, so they have to be grown. If they have
to be grown, then someone has to grow them. Who else but ourselves?"
The cold logic of a machine.
Eloise moved along the bank searching, for want of anything better to do, for signs of rust, blight, infection of any
kind. She found none, as she had expected. When next they drew nearer to each other Helen said. "I've made
application for nursery duty. It has been approved."
"When?"
"I start tomorrow. I—"
"When did you make the application?" Eloise was curt, careless of her interruption. Anger thinned her lips at
Helen's answer. "I applied long ago. Before you did. I'm still waiting."
"I'm sorry." Helen looked into her bag. "Perhaps, well, you did act rather oddly after the Knelling. And it could be
that—"
"I'm irrational," snapped Eloise. "I'm emotional. I'm not to be trusted. So your precious Camolsaer is making me
pay for it." A plant fell to ruin beneath the grip of her hand. "Damn it, Helen, what can I do?"
 But she knew the answer to that. To work hard, be humble, be stable; to forget that she had known a life outside
of Instone.
To patiently wait and to die—no—be converted with a smile.
Another plant pulped to ruin, a third, and then the Monitor was at her side; the hateful voice droning above the
susurration from the speakers.
"Woman Eloise, you are disturbed—"
"Yes."
"Your reason?"
"I want something. It has been denied me."
"Your application has been noted, as you were told. Is there something else?"
"Yes, I—" She looked around at the gardens, the massed vegetation, the blank faces of those busy at their tasks.
"I'm an artist. I don't belong here. I want to do something more creative."
"You are relieved, Woman Eloise. Report to the medical center for tests and examination."

***

The doctor was a robot, its attendant a man. He read the printout and thoughtfully pursed his lips.
"There is clear evidence of inner conflict, Eloise. Physically you are in perfect condition, but the mental
symptoms are disturbing. Of course I realize that you are a stranger; but you have been here long enough to have
become assimilated into the culture of Instone. Is there anything I could do to help?"
"I want to be with the children."
"Of course. Natural enough for any woman, and you have a strong survival index which means a highly
developed maternal instinct. If it were possible for you to have a child, it is probable that your inner tensions would
be resolved."
Quickly, too quickly perhaps, she said, "No. I don't want a child. Not here."
"Then that is one conflict which need not concern us."
He had missed her meaning. "What else is left? The monotony of essential employment? Perhaps something
could be done about that. Have you any special preference? The engraving of glass, for example; or, at least, the
fabrication of designs for ornamentation? You did say you were an artist."
"Not that kind."
"Well, then, let us probe a little deeper. Clothing is standard for work, of course; but that worn during leisure
hours is capable of wide variety. Would you be interested in fashion? Or perhaps…"
His voice droned on, but she wasn't listening. Seated in the chair, the attachments of the robot diagnostician
hanging like a skein of hair before the cabinet, she berated herself for having been a fool.
How many times must she remind herself to forswear the luxury of emotion?
A score of times, at least, she thought dully; and now she had done it again. Anger was always futile, a self-
indulgence which achieved nothing aside from the alienation of friends. Outside it was bad enough; here in the city it
was toying with suicide. Did she want to die?
An escape, she thought bleakly, but the final one. And she couldn't be sure that it was an escape at all. It could be
the preliminary to something worse than she had now.
And, while there was life, there was hope.
Where had she heard that? Sitting, her hands lax in her lap, she threw her mind back to the past. A tavern, or a
place like it. A man, a little the worse for drink, who had thrown a handful of coins at her feet. A dying man with a
seared face and lungs which vented blood when he coughed. But stubborn, fighting to the last, refusing to take the
black pill the medics had offered.
"Eloise?" The attendant was looking at her, a frown creasing the smooth skin of his forehead. "Is there anything
wrong?"
"No." With an effort she smiled. "I am sorry, but I was thinking. I have acted very foolishly."
"You realize that?" His relief was obvious. "That is good. Once a problem is accepted and faced, then it can be
resolved. We are all prone to tension, it is a part of the human condition; but such tension can be negated by an
acceptance of reality. Here, in Instone, you are fed, housed and protected. In return, you work at things which have to
be done. A fair exchange, as I think you will agree."
"Yes."
"The very act of living is a demand. A universal concept which cannot be denied. Organisms must die to provide
your body with sustenance and, as you make demands, so demands are made of you. To grow food, to maintain the
city, to cooperate in order to survive."
 Repetition which, even when she had first heard it had created a vague disquiet. Life was more than just living. A
child born should do more than just grow, live, pass on. That was the destiny of animals, not men.
She said, slowly, "Life is a continual act of violence."
"Yes," he admitted. "I suppose you could put it that way. On the animal level certainly; but we are more than
animals."
"Are we?"
A question which disturbed him. Sharply he said, "You doubt it?"
"No." Already she had skimmed too near the edge. Continue and there would be drugs, more tests, observation
and discussion. It was time to end her dangerous play. "I feel better now. Talking to you has done me a great deal of
good. I was upset, disturbed, my thoughts unclear. The Knelling—you know how it is."
"It disturbed you?"
"There were friends, people who were close; it is foolish, I know, but I was afraid."
"And now?"
"Not now." Was anger, fear? Frustration, terror? "I have made mistakes," she admitted. "I regret them. I shall not
bother you again."
"It is no bother, Eloise. I am here to help. Call on me at any time. And now, I suggest that you take up some
therapeutic activity for a while."
"Thank you."
"A moment." He stepped back beyond her range of vision and she heard a soft hum, the murmur of voices.
Returning he said, "Corridor 53. Continue the refurbishing."

***

Adara stretched, feeling the muscles tighten across back and shoulders, dropping his hands in time to catch the
heavy ball thrown at him by one of the others in the ring. Bikel was spiteful, hurling the hard mass of plastic with
savage force, smiling a little as Adara fumbled the catch.
"You're getting old," he said. "Maybe you should give all this up?"
Old, perhaps; but not so old that he couldn't hold his own in the gymnasium. Adara hefted the ball, feinted, sent it
with the full force of his arms and shoulders to where the man stood. He heard the grunt as the hands slipped, the
meaty smack as the ball hit the other's stomach, and felt a warm satisfaction.
"Not bad," said Sagen. The instructor had smooth skin, unbulged by overdeveloped muscle. He lifted his hand as
Bikel poised the ball, the throw. "That's enough for now."
"Let's continue."
"No. Exercise as much as you want, but not with the ball." He had sensed the rising antagonism. "Into the pool
now, all of you."
The water was deep, green, ringed by naked figures. Adara dived, swam underwater until his lungs felt like
bursting, then surfaced with a mist of spray. The exercise had stimulated him and he reveled in the joy of the
moment. A couple to one side dived, swam and rose laughing, the girl lifted on the man's hands; water dripping from
her hair, the up-tilt of her breasts.
Vivien and Dras, selected for breeding, soon to have a child.
The thought ruined his pleasure and he swam to the side, to heave himself up from the pool.
Rhun called to him as he dressed.
"We're having a challenge match tonight, care to join in?"
"I don't think so."
"Two teams at multiple chess. The losers to pay forfeit."
"No." Adara had no interest in the movements of pieces on a board, the pitting of his intellectual skill against that
of others. Still less in the ridiculous penalties demanded of the losers. "Some other time, maybe."
"Think again, Adara. Bring Eloise with you. She could enjoy it."
Mention of the name brought a touch of guilt. He had been avoiding her, he realized; not consciously, but with an
instinctive caution. Impulsively, he strode to a terminal.
"Adara. Where is Eloise?"
Without hesitation came the answer. "In her room."
She was wearing a dress of orange laced with streaks of brown; green paint on lips and nails, her hair a rippling
waterfall over the smooth roundness of her shoulders. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.
"Adara! How did you know I was thinking about you?"
"Were you?"
 "Of course, my friend. Who else in this place is as close? Some wine?"
A decanter stood on a low table, next to the deep chair which had been turned so as to face the window. The
curtains were withdrawn, the darkening blue of the sky already showing the cold points of stars. She had, he guessed,
been sitting, brooding; and he felt a momentary shame.
"Eloise, I'm sorry."
"For what, being careful?" Shrugging she lifted a glass half full of wine. Green wine, he noted, chosen, perhaps, to
match her lips. "I'm dangerous, Adara. Bad company. Others know it, so why not you?"
"No!"
"Yes," she corrected. "At times I go too far. Today, I was sent to the medics."
"And?"
"Nothing. I realized that I was wrong and said so. Camolsaer gave me a job refurbishing a corridor."
To revive old paint with new. To set fresh pigment on faded designs; work which required no skill, but did need
concentration.
She said, "There was a place on my home world where they did things like that. Set people to make mats or
weave tapestries on a loom. Insane people. Adara, am I insane?"
"No!" His protest was almost a shout. "No," he said again, more quietly. "You are not insane and never think that
you are. Your values are different from ours and that is all."
"All?" She shrugged. "What else is insanity but a different set of values? An inability to accept what the majority
regard as the norm? Tell me, my friend, when I use the words 'breaking point,' do you know what I mean?"
"The point at which any material, under stress, can no longer resist the pressure."
"Or the pull of opposing forces."
"Yes. You are precise, my dear."
"I'm a fool." She poured him wine and handed him the glass, refilling her own and gulping it down. As she again
tilted the decanter she said, "I'm drinking too much, but what the hell? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."
"Your analogy escapes me."
"As do so many other things."
He said, to change the subject, "I saw Vivien and Dras in the pool. They're going to have a child."
"I know."
"And Rhun asked me to bring you to the chess match. He made a point of it."
"So?"
"You still have friends, Eloise. You're not alone."
"That is a matter of opinion." Immediately she softened. "I'm sorry, Adara, I know you and the others mean well,
but—why the hell can't you understand?"
A question he had asked himself many times in the years he had known her. He had tried and, at times, imagined
that he had succeeded. Then, as now, she would change into something almost alien.
He reached towards her where she stood, turned away from him, her face towards the window, Her hair was soft
with a delicate sheen: yielding tactile pleasure to his questing hand, his stroking fingers.
"Adara!"
His hand fell from the tresses, a coldness at his heart, but she hadn't rejected him.
It was something else.
High in the sky something glowed; a cloud of vivid blue, bright against the darkening night. A lambency which
flickered, died, flared again as it swept across the heavens.
"A meteor," he said. "A big one, by the look of it. It should land fairly close."
"A meteor?" Her voice rang high, excited. "Hell, that's no meteor! It's a ship!"

Chapter Six
There were clicks, sighs, the rasp of yielding metal; a host of tiny sounds which had replaced the grating roar, the
crush and fury of destruction. Dumarest heard them all around, a whispering threnody which echoed in his ears;
fading even as he listened, to die with solemn murmurs. The dirge of a dying ship.
He tried to move and felt clamping restrictions. Opening his eyes he stared at the black faces of the screens, the
material scarred and splintered in a cobweb of lines. Weight dragged him sideways and he realized the control room
was tilted; what had been the deck was now a wall to which the chair was fastened.
For the moment it was enough.
He sagged, breathing deeply, conscious of the ache in his chest; ribs bruised or broken by the straps which held
him. His lips and chin were wet and sticky with blood which had come from burst capillaries, the vulnerable cells of
his nose. His head throbbed and he felt as if he had been beaten all over with clubs.
But he was alive.
Incredibly, he was alive!
After a while he moved, one hand lifting to hit the release; the straps opening to spill him onto the side of the hull
which was now the deck. A short fall but one which sent spears of agony through his chest; which caused bright
flashes to fill his vision. The corner of some broken instrument had dug into his temple, and fresh blood ran down his
face to join the rest.
And it was cold. Cold!
The sting of it was like fire, the metal under his hands burning with frigidity. The air itself stung as he breathed it,
the sharpness acting as a spur. Again he moved, turning, rising to his knees, to slip and fall with one hand
outstretched.
It landed on something soft; a ball with contours and convexities. A face.
Shalout was dead.
He lay, a crumpled heap against the instruments which had once been his charge. His mouth was open, saliva
thick on his chin; the eyes open and filled with the consuming terror he had known. The head lolled at a peculiar
angle, the neck broken, death reinforced by the impact which had crushed the lower side of his skull.
Rising, Dumarest caught the tilted shape of the chair to steady himself. Crystal grated beneath his boots as he
made his way to the door, the passage beyond. That too was tilted, frost gleaming on the soiled metal, the vapor of
his breath a plume carried before him.
Stumbling, slipping, he crawled towards the steward's room, to the medical cabinet it contained. By a miracle the
door had not sprung open; instead it was jammed. He tore at it with his bare hands, then, remembering, made his way
to the salon.
Something had ripped open the side admitting frigid air, and a pale luminescence which accentuated the weak
glow of the indestructible emergency bulbs. In it, the body of Eglantine looked like a discarded bundle of rags tossed
into a corner; rags stained with blood and internal liquids among which he found his knife.
Back at the cabinet, he thrust the blade into the crack of the jammed door and heaved. Sweat dewed his face,
metabolic heat combating the cold as he strained against the hilt, fighting the waves of pain which threatened to
engulf him. A snap and the door was open, the knife falling as he searched what it contained. Vials of drugs, a
hypogun, old and with poor calibration; antibiotics, some instruments, plastic sprays, hormone-enriched dressings,
and a small box containing what he wanted.
With numbed fingers he loaded the hypogun and fired it three times, into his neck.
Relief was almost instantaneous. Dumarest straightened, taking a deep breath, careless of the damage shattered
ribs might be doing to internal tissues. It was enough for now that the drugs had killed his pain. With the reflex of old
habit, he picked up the knife and slipped it into his boot.
Then it was time to examine the ship.
The Styast was ruined, that he had known. Somehow the impact of landing had twisted the foremost part in a
ninety degree angle, breaking the structure just beyond the salon to leave the rest upright. At the point of strain the
hull had ripped open to reveal a dully shining wall of ice, a jagged prominence thrusting its way into the vessel, a
heap of splintered fragments almost reaching to the roof at the far side of the break. Brushing them aside, Dumarest
jerked open the door and made his way to the engine room.
Like the rest of the ship, it was a ruin.
Globules of metal made bright sparkles on the floor, the inner components of the generators which had failed
just before impact; released energies fusing the interior and venting it through the ripped casings in showers of
molten rain.
Beint was dead, his face plastered on the panel, his withered hand outflung in a mutely appealing gesture.
Arbush was still alive.
He lay at one side of the room, his bulk trapped beneath a clutter of metal, a beam nipping his rotund bulk. His
eyes were closed, a thin rim of ice crusted on the fabric of his blouse, the jagged edge of torn metal inches from his
face.
As Dumarest touched his cheek he opened his eyes.
"Earl!" he whispered. "Thank God—I thought I was alone."
"Can you move?"
"No. I've tried. The crash knocked me out, I guess, but I wasn't out for long. At least I don't think so."
"Try again."
Arbush tensed, the effort mottling his face; then relaxing he said, "It's no good, Earl. It feels as if my back's
broken. If it is—"
"You'll die easy," promised Dumarest. "But let's make sure."
Rising from where he knelt he threw aside scraps and sheets of metal, pipes and the essentials of the life-support
apparatus, the bulk of a ventilator. The beam was a main stanchion, thick and heavy, creasing the body where it held
the minstrel. Dumarest gripped it at the upper end and strained.
"Move!" he panted. "Use your arms to crawl, if that's all you can do."
The weight was too much. He felt the room begin to spin as he struggled against the inert mass, a roaring begin
to fill his ears. In his mouth there was the taste of blood.
Like a crippled spider, Arbush inched himself over the floor.
"Hold it, Earl," he gasped. "Let it go now and it'll snap my spine."
"Hurry!"
Dumarest grunted as he felt the weight begin to slip from his hands. With a final effort he threw it to one side,
away from the crawling figure. With a crash it slammed to the floor.
"Arbush?"
"I'm all right." The man was standing, wincing as he flexed his legs. "The damned thing must have hit a nerve
when it fell. Paralyzed me for a while and then held me fast. It was a bad time, Earl. All I could do was to lie there, not
knowing if anyone else was alive; waiting to starve, to die of thirst and cold." He shivered. "A hell of a way to go."
"There are worse."
"Maybe, but if so, I don't want to hear about them." Arbush pursed his lips as he studied his companion. "You
look in a hell of a state."
Dumarest caught at the console to steady himself. The final effort had robbed him of strength and the plump
figure of the minstrel seemed to swell and shrink before his eyes.
He said, "My ribs could be broken. Get drugs from the medical cabinet and something to bind my chest. You'd
better hurry; we've a lot to do."

***

There was food, some basics which had escaped spilling, and other things. Sitting in the salon they ate; sipping
the sickly compound, heavy with glucose, laced with vitamins and flavored with citrus, a cup of which provided
energy enough for a day. Eglantine's cabin had held succulent dainties; soft meats and spiced fillets of fish,
compounds of nuts and honey, fruits steeped in spirits. They ate regardless of choice, using the food as essential fuel;
a means to combat the cold.
They had chosen the practical clothing they wore, thick layers of assorted garments tightly bound with straps and
thongs.
Raking the final fragment of meat from a tin, Arbush threw it aside and gave a gusting sigh.
"I've eaten worse and I've eaten better, a dozen courses served with wine by a smiling wanton; but never have I
enjoyed a meal more."
Dumarest made no comment. He was stiff, his torso tightly bound with dressings, his blood thick with drugs. He
had washed the blood from his face, neck and hands and treated superficial abrasions; but a little of the ache
remained despite the medications. And nothing could ease the situation.
"We were lucky," said the minstrel somberly. "We had more luck than anyone could deserve. To be trapped in a
warp and escape from it—"
He broke off, shaking his head, thinking; remembering the time of madness when all familiarity had vanished and
nightmare reigned. The chaos as the ship had traveled into the warp, riding a tide of fury to the very node itself;
protected only by the Erhaft field, the whine of the laboring generators.
There was no way to tell how long it had lasted. A second, a year; both could have been the same. And then to be
spat out like a pip between closing fingers; to be thrown into a region of normal space at incredible velocity so that,
abruptly, a world had loomed before them.
He said, again, "We were lucky."
Luck which hadn't lasted. The generators had failed as they neared the ice, the ship falling, to be sent hurtling
down an icy wall, to hit a crevasse; to be ripped and torn apart as, within, soft flesh met unyielding metal.
An impact which Dumarest had been unable to avoid.
He said, dryly, "Maybe the others were the lucky ones."
"No, Earl, you know better than that. For them it is over, true; in the gamble we made they lost as we won. Had
Shalout been at the controls, none would have survived. As I told you, Earl, you have more luck than most. I read it in
your palm."
 "Is that why you sided with me?"
"Did I?" Arbush raised his eyebrows. "Well, maybe I did. A hint to an intelligent man is better than a book to a
fool. And maybe I have old-fashioned ideas about the keeping of bargains. Well, now we have other problems to face.
On the way down, did you see anything? A city?"
"No." There had been no time for that. All Dumarest could remember was the world, the whine of atmosphere,
the shocking advance of the ice, his own struggles with the controls; the final, sickening moment when the field had
collapsed and they had fallen like a stone. "I saw nothing. And we don't even know which part of space this world
could be in. The warp could have thrown us anywhere. Not that it matters. First, we have to survive."
"To escape this damned cold," agreed Arbush. Ho pounded gloved hands together. "Any ideas, Earl?"
"We must wait until dawn and then head towards the sun. Move south and hope to get out of this ice. For that
we'll need food, ropes, and the means to make a fire. Ice axes too."
"What are they?"
"Things like picks with sharpened ends. Or one end sharp and one shaped like an axe. The Styast wouldn't have
carried them; they'll have to be made."
"Tell me what you want and I'll make it," said Arbush. "I worked in metal once, years ago now, but some of the
old skill remains. Anything else?"
"Pitons. Long spikes with eyes at the end to hold a rope. Hammers to bury them in the ice. More spikes to fit on
our boots. Braided wire strong enough to carry seven times our combined weights. Packs in which to carry supplies."
Dumarest rose. "We'd better get on with it."
The ship held all the material they needed. Dumarest stripped wire from the conduits while the minstrel busied
himself with tools and a jury-rigged lastorch. Packs were fashioned from coverings stripped from the bunks, stiffened
with fiber and sewn with wire. By the time they were finished, Arbush had made the ice axes. He held one out for
inspection.
"These do. Earl?"
Rough blades had been welded to lengths of pipe, bound with cable at the ends to provide a grip. Dumarest
hefted one, sent the point slamming into a scrap of metal.
"They'll do. Make a ring at the end so they can be carried on the wrist with a loop."
"I've made four." Arbush gestured towards them, then looked keenly at Dumarest. "You look bad. Those ribs
hurting you?"
Drugs had eased the pain, but there could be internal bleeding which sapped his strength. Dumarest coughed,
touched his lips, looked at a smear of blood on his hand.
"I'll be all right. You?"
"Bruised all to hell," said Arbush. "And my legs still seem numb. I got beaten up once and this feels the same.
Well, I got over it then and I guess I'll get over it now." Pausing he added, quietly, "Do you think we've got a chance,
Earl?"
"There's always a chance."
"Yes; and if there is, you'll take it. That's something else I read in your palm. Guts and luck both. I'm willing to
ride with them." Arbush shivered. "Damn this cold! What we need is a drink. Maybe Beint had a secret bottle stashed
somewhere."
He found it in a loop under the console; a metal flask of brandy disguised as a container of oil. After the first
drink Dumarest replaced the cap.
"We'll need this later," he said. "Now let's get back to work."
At dawn they were ready; packs loaded, pitons heavy in pouches, coils of braided wire, hammers, axes hanging
from roughly fashioned harnesses. Dumarest stood, thinking, mentally rechecking what they carried. A single item
could mean their lives; once they had started, there would be no turning back.
Arbush came bustling from within the body of the wreck. He carried two lasers, and a bag which made small
metallic clinkings.
"Here." He handed one of the guns to Dumarest. "A good thought, Earl. I'd forgotten."
"What's in the bag?"
"Money. Your ten thousand ermils." Arbush handed them over. "Some other things."
"Such as?" He watched as the minstrel tilted the bag. Rings showed, heavy bands set with precious gems,
adornments wrenched from the fingers of the dead captain. A few octagonal coins, some others. The entire portable
wealth of the Styast.
"There's no point in leaving it. Earl. A city can be as deadly as a jungle for a man who can't pay his way."
A hard-learned truth. Dumarest said, "Keep the rings and we'll split the money. Ready now?"
 ***

They climbed from the ship into a scintillating fairyland; the ice glowing with red and orange, green, blue, yellow,
all the colors of the spectrum fired by the light of the sun. It was small, a blue-white orb which seared the vision, a
compact patch of brightness in the sky. It hung low; against it they could only squint behind protectors of tinted
plastic, goggles hastily improvised from the filters of broken scanners.
For a while they studied the terrain, grotesque figures muffled and shapeless; the minstrel's gilyre, miraculously
preserved, hanging by a string from his pack.
"It's cold," said Arbush, gesturing towards the sun. "It looks hot, but it's cold. Radiating high in the ultra-violet and
we must be a long way from it. The entire planet could be ice-bound, Earl."
A possibility, Dumarest had been on stranger worlds; but life existed in the most unexpected places. And if this
planet held wealth of any kind it would have attracted exploiters; men who would build cities, visitors in ships.
If men were close. If the world was in an inhabited region. If the warp hadn't flung them into another space.
He said, "I'll take the lead. We'll be roped together. Keep back, but not too far. If I slip, dig in and take the strain."
"You've done this before," said Arbush. "Traveled over ice, I mean. How bad is it, Earl?"
Bad enough. Dumarest narrowed his eyes against the glare, catching deeper pools of color; shadows which
revealed crevasses, mounds and distant peaks which would have to be climbed. Ahead rolled an undulating surface,
scored and traced with gullys of unknown depth; yet one which could be traversed without too much trouble during
the day.
Relatively easy for men in good condition with proper equipment and clothing. Far from that, in their present
condition.
"Well head towards those peaks," he said, deciding. "Due south as far as I can gather. Aim for the pass between
them. When we reach it, we'll take another sighting. Now, remember, keep the rope taut and stay alert."
There was no wind; for that he was grateful. No cloud and no flurry of frozen particles; but even so the going was
hard. The surface was deceptive, perspective distorted, a multitude of snares hidden by the glare. Twice he stepped
over the unseen edge of a crevasse, relying on the rope which jerked him to a halt and drew him back to safety. The
third time a thin layer shattered beneath his boots and he fell further down than before, feeling the savage jerk at his
harness as the life-line snapped taut.
Arbush's face was anxious as he drew him to safety.
"Your mouth, Earl, it's got blood on it. Do that again and you could shred your lungs. Why not let me take the
lead?"
"You're too heavy." Dumarest wiped at the blood, already frozen. "If you slipped, I couldn't hold you, I'd follow
you down." He looked at the sun. "We moved too soon. Later, if the sun rises higher, we can get a better view."
"Do we wait until then?"
"No. We can't be sure the sun will rise higher than it has. We'll just have to take more care."
He moved on, cautiously, testing every step of the way. The ice was crusted in places with frozen snow, patches
which had hardened to hide what lay beneath. Like snails they crawled around them, crossing them only when there
was no choice, anchoring the rope to axes driven deep as each man traversed the areas in turn.
Later the going improved; the ice which had been scored with cracks as if some mammoth hand had shattered
the surface, growing more solid, less treacherous.
At noon they reached the pass and looked down into nightmare.
"Well never be able to do it." Arbush, breathing heavily, slumped with his back against a hummock. The gilyre,
swinging loose, rapped against the ice and made a soft, thrumming sound. "Earl, we'll have to find some other way.
There has to be simpler route."
There probably was; finding it was something else. Dumarest looked at the sun; it was still low, even at the center
of its swing. Lowering his eyes he took a sight; a jagged peak which rose like a rotten tooth, another beside it which
seemed to bear a crenelated castle. From both summits smoke seemed to drift in thinning plumes, trapped snow
carried by high-altitude winds.
Between where they sat and the distant peaks lay a mass of cracks and fissures, mounds, escarpments, gullys,
shimmering cliffs; the whole area torn and jagged as if a giant fork had stirred the surface. To reach it they would first
have to descend a sheer wall which stretched as far as he could see on either side.
"We'll never do it," said Arbush again. "We've got to drop five hundred feet and then cross that mess out there.
Climbing, descending, up and down—and then what? More ice."
"Well do it," said Dumarest. "We have to. Hold my legs while I take a look."
He eased forward as Arbush gripped his ankles, thrusting the upper part of his body over the edge. The ice was
rough, cracked in places, ledged at spots on the way down. He studied them, impressing their position on his
memory. Back up in his original position he said, "It won't be all that difficult. Pitons will hold the ropes and we can
use the axes."
"Just like that?"
"There's no other way." Dumarest freed the coil of braided wire from his harness. "Join this to yours and make
sure the knot is tight and smooth. It has to pass through the eyelet of a piton. We'll let ourselves down as far as we
can go and then take it in stages."
At the edge Dumarest searched for a firm place and hammered one of the pitons in it, up to the eyelet. Through it
he fed the joined rope, testing the knot with a jerk, making certain that it would slip through. Checking the end
attached to his harness, he threw the remainder over the edge, then, gripping the length below the eyelet, slipped
over the edge of the cliff.
A simple maneuver for a fit man, to let himself down a sheer drop while supporting his own weight on a trailing
rope. But he wasn't fit, the braided wire was thin, cutting into his gloved palms, hard to grip; only the spikes on his
boots enabled him to ease his way down towards a ledge he had spotted.
It lay a little towards the right, too far to reach; a narrow extension from the face, the edges frayed and weak. He
dropped below it, kicked at the face and began to swing like the bob on a pendulum. Another kick, a third and his
boots rasped on the ledge. Before he could swing away he slammed the point of an axe into the ice and hung on,
breathing deeply.
"Earl! Are you all right?" Arbush's face was a blur, his voice a thin echo.
"Yes." Dumarest hammered home another piton. Through it he fed the free end of the rope, then released it from
his harness. "Draw it up and do what I did. Hurry!"
It was easier for the minstrel; his weight taken up by the rope which Dumarest eased through the piton, the metal
taking the strain. Gasping he clutched at holds, looking up then down, his mouth crusted with a rim of ice.
"Seventy feet," he said. "Maybe more. What do we do now?"
Dumarest pulled the rope, freeing it from above. "The same as before. And we do it as many times as we need to,
until we reach the bottom."
"And if there are no ledges?"
"We'll use the axes to make holds, pitons to support our weight."
"And when they run out?"
"Then we start worrying." Dumarest handed the man the length of trailing rope. "Hang on to it. Help me take the
strain."
They reached the bottom of the cliff as shadows thickened in the gullies, and the summits of the peaks flared
with the dying light of the sun. Night caught them in the labyrinth and they found a narrow crevasse into which they
huddled, as they ate rations warmed over a tiny fire.
"How long. Earl?" Arbush leaned forward a little as he sat, his face limned by the dying embers. "How far have we
traveled today? Twenty miles? Ten? How long before we find a city?"
"As long as it takes."
"Until the food runs out. The fuel. Until one of us falls and kills himself. Until the cold gets us both. Well, no one
promised that it would be easy." Arbush stirred, the gilyre falling from where he had placed it, to boom a little as it
fell. "And, at least we can have a song."
It was a plaintive thing; a hopeless yearning carried on the pulse of strings, the whisper of ghost-drums born
beneath the tapping of gloved fingers, the notes blurred and fuzzed yet skillfully blended. It faded to rise in a sudden
crescendo; hard, brittle, this time seeming to shout defiance, the organ-notes of the minstrel's voice rising to send
echoes rolling across the ice. Voice and music ended abruptly on a thin keening, which seemed to hang suspended in
the air.
"Goodnight, Earl."
"Goodnight."
It was a time for sleep and yet Dumarest found it impossible to rest. Overstrained muscles joined with older
injuries, accentuating their aches so that he turned and twisted, dozing to wake and turning to doze again. Drugs
would have brought oblivion, would have at least ended the discomfort; but they, like everything else, were in limited
supply.
Later, when they were essential, they would be used.
But time need not be wasted.
Sitting upright, Dumarest leaned his back against the ice. Facing him Arbush was asleep, his face covered, his
gross frame jerking as if he dreamed. One hand was lying in the long-dead embers of the fire, the other clutched his
gilyre. Above the stars blazed with fading glory, their light diffused by a thin skein of cloud, a gossamer veil carried on
an unseen wind. A wind which could lower, cloud which could thicken; a storm could fill the air with a raging blizzard.
 If so, they were as good as dead.
Was this where it was all going to end? The long search over. The path he had followed since a boy; the hard,
bitter, blood-stained path among the scattered worlds to end here on this unknown planet, beneath a nameless sun?
The stars seemed to swirl, to take on other configurations, to become a mane of silver hair. Derai whom he had
known, who had promised so much, who had left him to dream in endless, subjective sleep. As others had left him;
too many others. Kalin, Lallia, Mayenne—all now dead. Dust and fragments of the past.
The wind gusted lower, sighing, holding the wail of a Ghenka song. The metal plate on which they had built the
fire rasped over the ice as he fell against it. Sleep finally came with a host of memories, faces which loomed close to
fall away, to be replaced by others distorted in the fabric of nightmare.
He woke with a hand clamped hard over his mouth, his nose.
"Earl!" Arbush's voice was a strained whisper. "Earl! Wake up! There's something watching us!"

Chapter Seven
It was past dawn, the sky a blanket of nacreous cloud, the sun a glowing patch of milky brightness. The cloud
had robbed the ice of color; now it stretched in a mass of tormented white and gray, blurring as it met the cloud so
that it was hard to see the horizon.
Dumarest said, "Where?"
"Over there." Arbush pointed to where a ridge stood, about a hundred yards to the east of the crevasse in which
they had slept. "I woke and it was light. You seemed to be resting, so I thought I'd light a fire and warm some food
before waking you. I'd stood up to stretch and I turned and saw it."
"Saw what?"
"I don't know. It was white, roundish, about as tall as a man, maybe a little taller. It moved, which was what
caught my eye; had it remained still it would have been invisible."
Whatever it had been, it wasn't visible now. Which meant nothing. The area was laced with fissures, mounds to
provide cover, a thousand places in which to hide. Even now, it could be moving closer. If so the blind-end, shallow
crevasse in which they stood could turn into a trap.
Dumarest said, "We'd better get moving."
"Now? Without anything to eat?"
"We'll stop later. If something's watching us it may follow. If it does, we could spot it. You only saw the one?"
"Yes."
"And you're sure it was something which moved?"
"I'm sure." Arbush was defensive. "I know what you're thinking, Earl. A man freshly awake, turning; seeing a patch
of moving shadow and mistaking it for something else. But it was there and it was real enough. If I'd been holding the
laser I'd have taken a shot at it."
The blind, thoughtless reaction of a man faced with the unknown.
Dumarest turned, wincing as he headed towards the mouth of the crevasse. The sleep had done little good and
the drugs he had taken earlier had lost their effect. Now his body was a mass of pain, the taste of blood raw in his
throat, hands and legs numbed by the cold. He stamped, beating his hands to restore the circulation. Arbush watched
as he fumbled for ampules and the hypogun from his pack.
"Let me do that, Earl." His gloved hands were clumsy and he cursed as the tiny vials fell to the ice. Stripping off
the coverings, he thrust his bare hands beneath his clothing, holding them close to his loins. Warmed the fingers were
more flexible and he loaded the instrument, firing it as his hands turned blue.
Dumarest caught the hypogun as it fell.
"How about yourself ?"
"I ache," admitted the minstrel. "That beam must have damaged my kidneys." He blinked as Dumarest fixed
painkillers into his blood. "I thought you wanted to conserve that stuff ?"
"I did," said Dumarest. "Until we needed it. That is now."
"Because of what I saw?" Arbush frowned, thinking. "It looked like a man," he said slowly. "But if it had been a
man, surely he would have come closer? Joined us. A beast then, but here, in this wilderness?"
It was possible, a wanderer from some other region, a creature obeying instinctive promptings. Scenting food,
perhaps; attracted by the fire, the music, the song. If so, and if it came close enough to be killed, it would be an asset.
The meat for food, the bones for fuel, the stomach a container in which to boil a stew.
Unless it reached them first in which case it, not they, would eat.
Laser in hand Dumarest led the way from the crevasse, climbing up to the far edge, taking a sight on the peak
which rose like a rotten tooth and heading towards it; his eyes moving from side to side, every sense alert.
The caution slowed them down. Each crack had to be checked, every mound carefully circumnavigated. Behind
him Arbush glanced constantly over his shoulder, several times stumbling to fall, jerking at the rope which joined
them.
At noon they stopped to eat; firing scraps of fuel with a laser, warming cans of meat, a measure of basic,
following it with a gulp of brandy.
Dumarest had chosen a sheltered spot against a crusted hummock; a shallow indentation providing some
protection against the wind which now gusted with irregular force. A chance which had to be taken: but the hummock
was high, the sides sleek, the area before them relatively flat and affording good visibility.
The meal finished he opened three cans of meat and tipped out the contents, to lie in a small heap next to the dead
ashes of the fire.
"Bait." said Arbush, understanding. "Are you going to kill it. Earl?"
"Maybe, but first I want to see what it is."
"An animal, following us; what else is there to know?"
What it was, what it fed on, whether or not it was alone. Answers which Dumarest kept to himself. He said, "We'll
back away from the hummock. You look left, I'll look right. If anything's waiting out there, don't fire until you have to."
Nothing was waiting. Well away from where he had placed the food Dumarest found a mound and dropped
behind it, looking back the way they had come. Minutes passed, the wind blowing, carrying a wisp of snow: frozen
particles which stung the exposed areas of his face. Beside him Arbush moved restlessly, lacking the trained patience
of a hunter: the stolid indifference to hardship which Dumarest had learned when barely old enough to walk.
And, finally, they came.
Arbush sucked in his breath. "God, Earl they're—"
"Be quiet!"
Dumarest had seen them before the other: roundish shapes, dingily white, moving to freeze into invisibility before
moving again. Five of them, which could have been animals shaped something like bears.
But animals would never have moved with such calculated deliberation, would never have merged to break into
positions of advantage; to have stood watch while some of their number scooped up the discarded food, to place it in
what could only be pouches.
"Men!" breathed Arbush. "Earl! They're men!"
Dumarest caught him as he was about to rise, to shout and reveal their position.
"Keep down! Keep quiet!"
"But—"
"They're men," agreed Dumarest. "But what kind? Scavengers? Thieves? Cannibals?"
In this frozen hell anything was possible, and there were many cultures which regarded a stranger as a source of
food. Conveniently packaged protein—the need to survive made its own rules.
"They must have seen us crash," whispered Arbush. "Stumbled upon us while they were searching for the ship.
But they must have a place to live. Earl. Caves, maybe, anything. We've got money and could bribe them to help us, to
guide us to a city."
His yearning was an echo. In his tones. Dumarest heard it, recognized it; yet recognized too the danger Arbush
had overlooked. A bargain needed two to make it; what was to stop the strangers from taking all they owned and
giving nothing in return?
Yet, without them, what chance did they have to survive?
Dumarest said, "This is what well do. You stand and wave. Don't move; wait for them to come towards you. When
they are fairly close, step out to confront them. I'll cover you. If they make any attempt to attack we'll shoot them
down."
"Kill them, Earl!"
"Kill all but one. We'll need information." Harshly he added, "And we could use their clothes."
Crouched on the ice, hands extended, hands tight around the laser, finger clamped on the trigger, Dumarest
stared over the barrel at the distant shapes. Beside him Arbush rose, shouting, waving.
"Hi, there! I'm here! Over here!"
The little group froze, then scattered; running, dispersing, blending into the ice. For long minutes there was
nothing and then they reappeared, closer now, tiny plumes of vapor streaming from their muffling cowls.
Again Arbush shouted. "Please help me. I need help. My friend is badly hurt."
Not a lie, and they would know that he wasn't alone. Dumarest fought the desire to cough, feeling the warm liquid
in his throat, the taste of blood in his mouth. He felt a growing lassitude, the edges of his vision becoming rimmed
with black. He had lain immobile for too long. Internal blood loss and the cold was taking its effect; the hypothermia
could be as fatal as a knife in the heart.
Determinedly he blinked, shaking his head, narrowing his eyes as he stared over the barrel of the laser at the
advancing group. They were cautious, as wary as beasts as they approached; looking to either side and up towards
the sky.
Up?
He turned as the group dissolved, racing back and away; he saw the nacreous glare of the sky, the man-like
things silhouetted against it, one of which was diving like an arrow towards where he lay.
"Earl!" Arbush yelled as Dumarest rolled, slamming the weight of his body against the minstrel's legs, knocking
him down and to one side, to sprawl against the ice. "Earl, what—"
Steam exploded from where he had stood, a gushing spout of scalding water mixed with fragments of shattered
ice; the heat and noise of the explosion added to the concussion of the shock-wave.
Vapor wreathed them, settled, froze in a disguising blanket of frost. Through it Dumarest saw the thing which had
attacked them and its two companions pass on; more explosions rising above the ice from the missiles they fired as,
wheeling, they turned to vanish into the sky towards the south.
"Armored men," said Arbush wonderingly. "Fitted with flying packs and carrying guns. A hunting party Earl?
Mistaking us for those others we saw? But they were men. Who would hunt down men from the sky?"
"I don't know." Dumarest rose, conscious of his fatigue, his weakness. "But they've stopped our chances of getting
help from those we saw. They must think we lured them into a snare."
"Some could be dead," said Arbush. "Shall we look?"
"No. There could be others. The way they must be feeling, they'll kill us on sight and I wouldn't blame them."
Dumarest looked toward the south. "Those flyers were dropping, maybe heading towards a landing place. There must
be a city there, somewhere. A camp at least. We have to find it."
"And soon." Arbush began to shiver, his face blotched, unhealthy; the tip of his nose deathly white. Frostbite
which would spread to his toes, his hands. "Earl, it will have to be soon."

***

Adara said, patiently, "Eloise, why be so stubborn? Why can't you be reasonable?"
"Which means what?" she flared. "Be reasonable—do it my way. At times, Adara, you make me sick!"
"That isn't fair!"
"But true. You saw the ship. You said yourself that it would land close, and what have you done about it? Nothing.
What has anyone else done? The same. Well, I've waited long enough."
Too long, she thought. Years too long; but up until now there had been no chance, and she'd had no choice but to
wait. Now things were different. A ship had landed and it was close—and no one seemed to care!
"Eloise!" He stepped towards her, his hands rising to grip her shoulders; the action betraying his concern, his
need. "You can't go out there, you know that. Even if you could, what do you hope to find? Don't you remember how
it was before? You were lucky then. It was only by an accident that you were found. I—"
"You had guts then," she said coldly. "You saw what happened and did something about it. Well, now it's my turn."
Defeated, he let his hands fall from her furred shoulders. She was wearing thick garments of synthetic material, a
cap of fur on her head, thick boots on her legs. Outdoor garb for those who chose to indulge in long walks outside the
city. Beyond the transparent doors of the vestibule in which they stood, he could see others similarly dressed. Not
many, for few chose to expose themselves to the rigors of the cold; but enough to make touches of color against the
starkness of the ringing hills, the paths crisp with frost.
He said, "You don't even know which way to go. You don't know how far. It will be dark before you reach the hills,
and then what? You couldn't go on even if the Monitors would let you."
"But you—"
"That was different You were close—and I had permission."
"Of course." She was acid. "You would have had to have that."
"Naturally." He was unaffected by her gibe, not recognizing the insult. "How else to gain the aid of the Monitors?
You don't think for a moment you could scale the hills alone, do you? Eloise why can't you be willing to—"
"Be reasonable?"
"—face the facts. At least check with Camolsaer."
The obvious which she had forgotten or, if not forgotten, had not yet done; perhaps reluctant to face the truth.
She looked at Adara with sudden suspicion. He, knowing of her interest, must have already checked. Why hadn't he
told her what he had learned? And then, looking into his face, his eyes, she guessed the answer. He, least of all, would
want to be the bringer of bad news.
 With abrupt decision she walked to the nearest terminal.
"Eloise. What news about the ship?"
"Which ship?"
"The one which crashed." With an effort she mastered her impatience; with Camolsaer it was essential to be
precise. "Two days ago, at evening, an object which could have been a vessel crossed the sky close to Instone. It
seemed to be in trouble. Did it land?"
"An impact was noted."
"Where?"
"At a point about fifty miles to the north and east. The exact location is—"
"Never mind." The figures would mean nothing to her. "Tell me what was found."
"No investigation has been made."
"What? A ship crashed and you didn't even make an investigation?"
"The object could have been a vessel in distress, or it could not. No signals were received, therefore the
conclusion is that it was not a vessel. In any case, it is not within the boundaries of Instone."
"Just like that," she said bitterly. "It doesn't fall into your nice, neat pattern and so it doesn't concern you. What
about the crew?"
"If the object was not a vessel there would have been no crew."
The thing was playing with her, she was certain of it. Nothing could be that stupid. Furiously she glared at the
facing of the terminal, the plate beneath her hand, the scanners which looked too much like eyes. Blank, empty eyes
in a blank, emotionless face. The visage of a Monitor. A machine.
Tightly she said, "Assume that the object noted was a vessel in distress. Assume that it carried a crew, that it
crashed, that it was unable to radio for help. What would be the chances of survival?"
"For the crew, none."
"Elucidate."
"The impact noted was of a high order of magnitude. The chance that any living thing survived is remote. If they
had, the hostile environment would have precluded extended survival. Also, there have been signs of Krim activity.
Monitor patrols have dispersed several groups and destroyed several individuals. If nothing else, they would have
terminated the existence of any who may have survived the crash."
And there it was, she thought bleakly. The answer which Adara had been reluctant to give. All neatly wrapped up,
tied with a red ribbon and dropped on her plate like an unwelcome gift. One he could accept, but she could not.
As she turned from the terminal he said, "You see, Eloise? There is no hope."
"Because Camolsaer says so?" She stared at him, skin, bone, flesh and blood; something on which to vent her
anger, the rage born of frustration, of disappointment. "It could be wrong."
"No! Camolsaer is never wrong!"
"How can you be sure? It has taken a handful of data and from it drawn a conclusion. Something, it could have
been a ship, landed hard on the ice. Therefore, nothing in it could have lived. Therefore, if anything had lived, the cold
would kill it. Therefore, if it had lived and the cold didn't kill it, the Krim would. Is that what you call being right?"
"Facts, Eloise."
"We don't know the facts," she stormed. "Why haven't Monitors gone to investigate? All right, so it's beyond the
city; but men could be out there, still living, waiting, hoping, fighting to stay alive."
"If so, they will find us."
"More logic?" She was wasting her time and knew it.
Neither Adara, nor any of them, would think of doubting Camolsaer. God had spoken—so let it be. A comforting,
safe and convenient philosophy. Flatly she said, "I spoke of men, Adara. I don't think you know what a man is. I don't
think anyone here does. Men don't give up. They fight to the last. Injuries, cold, enemies; they face and beat them all.
If they didn't they wouldn't be men."
"Supermen, surely?"
"Men!" she said savagely. "Dear God—send me a man!"
"Eloise!"
She turned from him, ignoring his hurt, the bruised look in his eyes. Once a woman had warned her against doing
what she had just done. Never to throw doubt on a man's masculinity. Never to demean him, to hurt his pride. Her
face had carried scars to emphasize the lesson.
"Eloise!"
"Leave me for now, Adara. Please."
Later, perhaps, she would make amends; but now, alone, she stepped towards the doors, the cold air outside, the
scatter of people, the tall figures of Monitors shining in the fading light.
 Soon it would be dark. Another night of cold and wind, the stars hidden by clouds, the air heavy with the threat
of snow; a blizzard which would sweep across the ice. Camolsaer had been right. Nothing human could live in such
conditions. She had been a fool to hope.

Chapter Eight
The cave was little more than a shallow fissure in a wall of ice, the sides closing to meet above, the walls and
floor rough with jagged projections. A small space into which they could barely squeeze, could only crouch. But it had
saved their lives.
The cave and the wind which carried the snow away from the opening; the blinding mass of whiteness filled the
air, accentuating the darkness of the night. The wind which caught at the crude wick thrust into a can of nutrient
paste and sent shadows dancing from the guttering flame.
Dumarest shielded it with his hands.
Facing him Arbush stirred, wincing, forcing himself to stay awake. His face was blotched with white patches, feet
and hands devoid of feeling. Ice rimmed the edge of his hood and his eyes were bloodshot.
"Tomorrow. Earl," he said. "You're sure?"
"You saw what I did."
"Which was nothing. A column of air which quivered towards the south."
"Rising air," said Dumarest. "Warm air. It has to be the city."
The haven for which they had searched for how long? Too long; longer and they would both be dead. The food
was gone, the fuel; the drugs remained, only enough to kill their pain for a final effort. Looking at the minstrel
Dumarest knew that he saw a depiction of himself; face drawn, frostbitten, the eyes bloodshot, raw with squinting
against the wind, the glare of the ice. But, if anything, he looked worse; the dried blood on his chin caked and dried,
replenished when he coughed.
Blood from torn and ruptured lungs. Only the drugs enabled him to keep going. Drugs and the will to survive.
A scrap of metal rested between them, the plate on which they had built their fires while the fuel had lasted. Next
to it lay one of the lasers. Dumarest picked it up, aimed it at the metal and triggered the weapon. A small patch
glowed red, another, half a dozen more; the transmuted energy of the weapon giving a faint semblance of comfort.
"Don't use all the charge," warned Arbush. "We might need it later."
"We still have the other gun."
"Of course. You would think of that. You've thought of everything. If it hadn't been for you—" Arbush broke off,
shaking his head. "How about the rest of that brandy?"
He needed it, they both did; fuel to give them energy. To save it for later would be to save it too long. Arbush
shared it, looking into the empty can which served as a container, the five ounces of spirit it contained.
"Odd, Earl, how at times like this you remember things. I took my first drink when I was twelve. It was at the
festival and I sneaked a cup of wine. There was a girl, I thought she was an angel, but it must have been the wine.
Twelve," he said broodingly. "A long time ago now. Too long."
Dumarest sipped at his brandy, nursing it, savoring it as it trickled down his throat. With care, it would last until
dawn.
"What made you start playing?"
"That?" Arbush glanced at the gilyre, now coated with ice, the strings crusted with snow. "I don't know, really.
There was a minstrel at our village, a transient, and he took a shine to me. I followed him when he left and he taught
me to play. I was good at it, even then, and there were advantages. A good tune, a song, and the girls fell into my
arms. I was young then, of course, not so fat as I am now; but it wouldn't have mattered. Sometimes, even now—" He
shook his head, sighing. "Well, all that's in the past."
"And the Styast?" Dumarest wasn't really interested but they had to stay awake. To fall silent would be to yield to
the fumes of the brandy, the lethargy which would bring the sleep preceding death. "How did you tie up with
Eglantine?"
"That pig!" Arbush made a spitting sound. "A mistake, Earl. I rode on one ship too many and found I was trapped.
Debts which couldn't be paid and a rut into which I fell. The wrong part of space for a minstrel to earn a living, even
if he is young and good to look at. I am neither." Shrewdly he added, "As a traveler you should know the danger of
taking passage on the wrong ship, of landing in the wrong world."
Planets without industry, backward worlds on which it was impossible to earn the price of a passage out; places
on which the unwary could be stranded, often to starve to death. Handlers with warped minds who withheld the
numbing drugs, and watched as those who had traveled Low screamed their lungs raw with the agony of
resurrection. Small-minded, frustrated men trapped in the metal shells they rode between the stars, envious of those
with wider horizons.
"Yes," said Dumarest bleakly. "I know."
"What makes a man do it?" mused Arbush softly. "To leave home and family and push into the unknown. I had
friends, prospects; yet I left them all to follow a man who could make music with the touch of his fingers. Had I
stayed there would have been wealth, girls to enjoy, ease and comfort to the end of my days. I must have been mad.
All of us who drift like dust between the stars, all must be mad."
Beyond the mouth of the cave the wind gusted, sighing as if in agreement; the crude candle guttering, shadows
casting thick patches on the minstrel's face, making him look suddenly old.
"Perhaps we are looking for something," said Dumarest.
"Perhaps." Arbush nodded his agreement. "Wealth, adventure, the love of women—who can tell? I wanted all
those things and more. Fame, renown, the galaxy at my feet. Instead I found toil and tribulation, a stinking berth in a
rotting ship. And you, Earl? What are you seeking?"
"A planet. A world called Earth."
"Earth?" Arbush sipped at his brandy. "Surely you are joking. Earth is a legend."
"No."
"But—"
"It is real," said Dumarest flatly. "It exists. I know. I was born there."
To run half-naked and half-starved, to catch his food with the aid of a sling, a thrown stone, a knife; small beasts
which lurked among rocks which he had to catch or starve. A hard, bitter time in which hunger ruled, in which
gentleness had taken no part.
He sipped at his brandy.
"Tell me about it," said Arbush quietly. "If we live, it could supply the material for a song."
"An old world," said Dumarest. "The surface scarred and torn by ancient wars. There is a great silver moon and
the skies are blue when not fleeced with cloud. The sun is yellow, the seas a dark green when not gray I left it as a
boy, stowing away on a ship. The captain was more kind than I deserved. He should have evicted me; instead, he let
me work my passage. I have been traveling ever since."
"But if you left it, Earl, you must know where it is. Surely you could take passage on a ship going that way?"
"Which way?" Dumarest was curt. "I told you that I was young and, perhaps filled with that madness you spoke
of. The past was behind me, I wanted only to look ahead. For a while I rode with the captain and then he died, and I
was on my own."
A bad time in which he had learned the hard way; work at anything which came to hand, fighting in the rings
when there was no work, taking cuts, the scars of which he would always carry, killing when he'd had no choice. And
moving, always moving, traveling from world to world; ever deeper into the galaxy, towards the center where the suns
were close and planets thick. Into a region where the very name of Earth was a legend, its position unknown.
"No almanac lists the coordinates," he said. "No navigational chart shows any world by that name. You, everyone,
thinks it is only a world of legend. Yet I know that it is real and, being real, it is to be found. One day I shall find it."
With the aid of clues picked up over the years; fragments of data which could, eventually, be assembled into a
whole. A second name, Terra; the sun around which it circled, a G-type star; the names given to constellations seen
from its northern hemisphere; the sector of space in which it must lie.
He said again, "One day I will find it."
Arbush sipped at his brandy then said, quietly, "Yes, Earl. I think that you will."

***

Dawn broke with clear skies, the storm over; the snow which had been carried on the wind now lying in a soft
blanket of deceptive smoothness through which they floundered, fighting every inch of the way.
With snowshoes it would have been simple, progress fast and relatively undemanding; but they had no
snowshoes and nothing from which they could be made. Blue, shivering, Arbush collapsed to roll and stare blankly at
the sky.
"Earl, I'm not going to make it Maybe you'd better press on alone."
"No."
"I'm beat. My hands are frozen, my feet. I've lost all feeling in my fingers." He tried to smile, a death-like grimace
which cracked the rim of ice on his lips. "What good's a minstrel who can't pluck a string? Leave me, Earl; but, before
you go—"
"I'll kill you when I have to, not before." Dumarest was harsh. "Get up, you fat fool!"
 "I can't!"
"You can! You will!"
Arbush closed his eyes, his head lolling from side to side, too exhausted to argue.
Dumarest stared down at him, fighting the dizziness which made snow and sky wheel in nauseating circles; the
weakness of legs and body which threatened to send him to the ground. It was tempting to rest for a while; to sit and
lie and cease all effort. To close his eyes and yield to the fatigue which dulled his brain. To sleep never to waken. To
find the endless, eternal peace of death.
"You've got to help me. I'm in pain. I need your help to use the rest of the drugs." It was like talking to the dead.
"Get up on your feet, man. I can't make it alone. I need your help. Get up, damn you. You owe it to me."
Arbush whispered, "Sorry, Earl. Sorry. I—"
"Talk," sneered Dumarest. "The madness you spoke about. You wanted adventure, you said. Or did you take a
woman who wasn't yours and had to run? Was that your courage? No wonder you stayed on the Styast. Who else
would have you? A fat lying, dirty coward, full of bad music and pitiful songs. You should have died when we landed.
Shalout would have had more guts than you. Even Beint, with only one hand, would have put up a better fight. You
scum! You filth! Get up and act like a man!"
Anger was a good anodyne for despair, but the attempt to arouse it met with the same result as the appeal.
Only the spur of physical pain was left.
Dumarest knelt, gasping, feeling the blood in his throat and his mouth. He coughed and spat a ruby stream, dark,
filled with bubbles. Resting his fingers on the cold flesh of the minstrel's face, he pressed the tips against the closed
eyes. Gently, too much would blind, not enough have no effect.
Arbush moaned, writhing, one arm lifting to weakly knock the hand aside.
Dumarest coughed again and beat his hands together, steadily, relentlessly; feeling the numbed flesh begin to
tingle. Warmed he sent his right hand over the fat body, feeling the swell of the rotund belly, the thickness of the
thighs, the tender flesh between.
Gripping, he squeezed.
Arbush screamed like a stricken beast.
"Earl! For God's sake!"
"Up!" snarled Dumarest. "Get on your feet!"
He fumbled for the last of the drugs as the minstrel heaved himself from the snow, used them, threw the hypogun
to one side.
Pointing to a ridge which cut the sky ahead he said, "There. We must reach it before we stop. Now move!"
They made the ridge, another beyond it, a third over which they heaved themselves to rest; gasping, looking back
over their trail. It wound like the path of a drunken snake; twice the length necessary had they been fit, able to
surmount the mounds and hummocks around which it wended. Something moved at the far end.
"They're after us," wheezed Arbush. "Those men we saw before. Following us and waiting until we drop."
Scavengers, or simply men wanting revenge for those killed by the flying, armored figures. Dumarest looked at
the sky; as yet it was clear, but should the flyers come they would present easy targets.
He said, "Let's get moving. The city should lie beyond that rim."
"We could signal, maybe," panted Arbush as he beat his way through the snow. "Use the lasers, tie something on
an axe to use as a flag, anything."
"Maybe."
"Why not, Earl? They could come out and get us. Damn it, we need some help."
Food, warmth, medical attention, all could be waiting. A spur which kept Arbush moving, arms and legs working
as if parts of a machine, his mind lost in an enticing dream.
"Steam baths," he whispered. "Hot showers. Oils applied by lovely girls. Meats, hot, with crisp skins and filled with
succulent juices. Mulled wine, spiced so as to tingle the tongue; fires, ovens, heat to take the chill from flesh and bone.
Once I was on a hot world, Sere; a place of jungle and desert, the sun like a furnace in the sky. I hated it then, but I
would give half of what remains of my life to be there now."
His voice broke, took on the thin, keening of a song; a dirge which held the wail of distraught women, the cry of
a bereft child.
It ended when they saw the city.
"Earl!"Arbush turned, snapped from his delirium; his mottled face was haggard, defeated. "How the hell are we
going to reach it?"

***
 It lay in the cup of a valley, a gem held in an upturned palm; towers, spires and rounded domes, the flat expanse
of walls, the spread of terraces covered with transparent material which glowed in the sun.
A paradise in the wilderness, enchanted, enticing—unobtainable.
Crouched on the rim Dumarest studied it, fighting the blurring of his eyes; the wavering of planes and lines
which, at times, gave the impression of looking through water.
It could almost have been a mirage.
Almost, but no mirage he had ever seen had rested in the cup of a valley; and the flyers he had seen had been
real enough. No mirage had fired the missile which had almost killed him. And those flyers must have come from this
city.
He studied it, ignoring Arbush's babble; the low mutter of his voice as, once again, he yielded to the fogs which
misted his brain. Around the place lay a broad circle of flat ground now covered with a dust of snow; more snow
heaped in high dunes at the half-mile expanse of smooth terrain. Once reached, it would be easy to cross. Reaching it
was something else. The valley was deep; the rim on which he crouched a quarter mile above the heaped snow at its
foot. A smooth, sheer drop, as if something had cut away the rock and ice in a mathematical pattern. A bowl, wider at
the rim than at the foot, the surface roughly concave; the curve flattening as it descended. To either side it was the
same.
Blinking he withdrew from the edge, gripped the minstrel's shoulder, shook him, sent the flat of his gloved hand
across the mottled cheek.
"We're here," he snapped. "We've arrived. All we have to do is to climb down a slope."
"All?" Arbush sucked in his breath, his eyes bloodshot, but clear. "I was dreaming, Earl. I thought I had wings. We
need wings. How else are we to get down?"
"The same way as we did before. Pitons and ropes. We'll take it in short, easy stages."
Stages which had to be short, but which would never be easy. Before it had been hard, now it would be almost
impossible.
Dumarest fumbled at his pack, his pouches. Four pitons, two axes, rope and a hammer. Arbush had the same,
aside from the pitons of which he had six.
Ten pitons, eighty feet at a time, but the drops would be too long and still they would not have reached the
bottom. He looked at the axes, the rings at their ends. They would help, but it still wasn't enough. Back at the rim he
searched the lower expanse. The wall, appearing smooth, was not. A thin fissure ran in a diagonal, from a point a
hundred feet down to another twice as far. And they had the lasers, one charged, the other almost exhausted.
"We'll start from here. Two pitons buried deep. Feed the rope through one and bind it on the other, so it will take
the strain as you let me down. When it reaches the middle, lash it tight. I'll make a hold and signal. When I do, feed
through the rest of the rope, knock free the extra piton and follow me down as you did before."
"Earl—"
"There's a fissure down there in which we can rest." Dumarest picked up one of the hammers. "Let's get at it." It
was too hard, his body too weak. Before he had struck a half-dozen blows, he knew it was impossible. Dropping the
hammer he drew the near-depleted laser, aimed it, sent the beam to melt a hole into which he rammed the piton.
Three blows and it was secure. The other quickly followed.
Quickly, because there was no time to dwell on the difficulty of the task. No time to allow the final surge of
energy to subside.
Two stages and they reached the fissure to lie gasping, to crawl down its length; to face again the impossible task
of crawling like flies down a wall of ice.
Dumarest threw aside the exhausted laser, used the other, finished the job with blows of the hammer; each stroke
sent waves of nausea through his mind, filling his vision with darts of color.
On the third stage down, he knew they would never make it.
He hung on the end of the rope, Arbush above lashed to a piton; a bulky figure like a grotesque spider caught in a
frayed web. His voice was thin, strained, "Earl!"
Dumarest moved, looking upwards, the turn of his head taking an age, the effort to shift mountains.
"Earl! God, man, the rope!"
It was stretching, overstrained; the cold making metal and plastic brittle, wires yielding within their sheaths. Old
material, bought cheap, made to last long beyond its time. Breaking even as he watched.
Looking down he saw the mounded drift of snow, the out-curve of the wall. Falling he would hit it, be thrown
from it, to plummet well away from its foot. Away from the snow, the only thing which could break his fall.
"Earl!"
He jerked, dropped, hovered for a moment and then dropped again, strands breaking, others stretching to break
in turn; the entire rope giving with a suddenness which sent him falling.
 Falling to the wall, the ground, the frozen hardness which would pulp his flesh and shatter his bones.

Chapter Nine
There were small sounds, clickings; and for a moment he thought he was back in the Styast, strapped to the
control chair, reliving a segment of the past. Then he felt deft touches, the pull of gentle suction, something eased
from around his temples.
"All right," said a voice. "You can open your eyes now."
Dumarest looked at a fog of nacreous brightness, a mist in which objects took shape and substance; solidifying
into a ceiling, lights, oddly shaped machines, the face of a man.
"I am Dras. What is your name?" He smiled at the response. "Good. As Camolsaer predicted, you have recovered
with total awareness of personal identity."
"Camolsaer?"
"You can sit up now." Dras ignored the question. "That's right. If you feel a little nausea it will pass. Now just
relax, while I make a few extra tests."
He was sitting on a long, wide couch covered with a dull green material, placed close to a machine which
sprouted suction-tipped wires. A diagnostic machine which must have been monitoring his condition. As the man
bustled around him, instruments making soft impacts on his skin, Dumarest examined his body.
He was nude, wasted, muscles clearly ridged against the bone. The thin lines of old scars showed on his torso,
together with others more recently made.
"You were in a bad way when the Monitors brought you in," said the man as he checked his findings. "Extensive
frostbite, several ribs broken, your lungs terribly lacerated. There was also a high degree of debilitation, together with
large areas of bruising and multiple points of internal hemorrhage." He added, casually, "You were also in a state of
terminal shock."
"My companion?"
"Is well. His injuries were not as extensive as yours. He was released a month ago."
A month? Dumarest looked again at his body. A long passage traveling Low would have produced a similar result;
body-fat used to maintain life, tissue wasted, muscles beginning to shrink.
He said, "How long have I been here?"
"A long time. First, we had to put you into an amniotic tank and by-pass your normal organic functions with a life
support apparatus. The lungs, of course, had to be re-grown from available tissue. Later, after the grafting, electrical
stimulation was applied to maintain the efficiency of the muscles. Healing was completed with the use of slow-time."
"How long?"
"A month, subjective. You were kept unconscious by direct electrical stimulation of the sleep center of the brain."
Dras gestured to where a thin band of metal, fitted with inner pads and electrodes, stood beside the couch on an
instrument table. "Camolsaer decided that longer would be inadvisable."
Camolsaer had been right. Slow-time accelerated the metabolism, as quick-time slowed it. The body lived faster
than normal—the danger was that energy was used faster than it could be replaced, even with the aid of intravenous
feeding. No wonder he was wasted.
Dras said, eagerly, "Are you interested in medical matters? If so, I have full charts and details of your original
condition, together with the treatment followed and steps taken. Camolsaer, naturally, directed the pattern to be
followed; but, I must admit, I found it most stimulating."
A doctor starved of customers; a frustrated surgeon who had relished the opportunity to test his skill. Dumarest
swung his legs over the edge of the couch. "Am I free to go now?"
"Yes," said Dras reluctantly. "I would like your later cooperation in conducting a series of tests of my own, but
that is up to you."
"My clothes?"
They were in a cabinet; pants, boots and tunic all bright and smooth, the material refurbished. Even the knife had
been polished and honed. One of the pockets was heavy with the weight of coins.
"Your companion selected them from among those you wore," explained Dras. "The knife, I understand, is a
symbol of rank. The laser, of course, could not be allowed."
"By whom?"
"Camolsaer." Dras sounded surprised at the question, a man who, having breathed all his life, should suddenly be
asked why he breathed. A mystery, one to be added to the rest; but if the minstrel had been released a month ago he
could have the answers.
 "Arbush," said Dumarest. "My companion. Where can I find him?"
"A moment." Dras crossed to where a machine protruded from a wall. A ledge three feet above the floor, a metal
plate above it, a grill; lenses glowed as he rested his hand on the ledge. "Dras. Where is Arbush?"
The answer came immediately, the voice flat as it droned from the grill.
"Corridor 137. Point 37."
"Outside," said Dras turning. "He's waiting outside."

***

Arbush had changed, fat dissolved from his body to reveal the firm outline of bone, the bulk of muscle; but he
was still big, still round.
"Earl!" His hand lifted, extended, the fingers touching, gripping a shoulder. "Man, it's good to see you!"
Dumarest returned the gesture. "You're looking well."
"Better than the last time you saw me, eh?" Arbush smiled. He was wearing a coverall of dull brown, the sleeves
flecked with minute patches of yellow as if some thick liquid had splashed and dried. "I was as near dead as I ever
want to be. When the rope broke and you fell and I—" He broke off, shuddering. "A bad time, Earl."
Lashed to a piton, hanging helplessly from a rod thrust into a sheer wall; without a rope, a companion, any means
of escape. Left to swing, to wait, to freeze and die. To envy, perhaps, the one who had fallen.
Dumarest said, "What happened?"
"A miracle. They must have seen us from the city. Camolsaer sent out Monitors and one arrived, just in time to
catch you as you fell. It wasn't gentle; there wasn't time for that. It just grabbed you and I guess it must have knocked
you out. At least you hung limp as it carried you away. Then two others came for me."
"Monitors?"
"Those things like armored men that we saw flying. One of them shot at us. They aren't men, Earl. And they don't
usually fly. They wear attachments for that."
"And Camolsaer?"
"They didn't tell you?" Arbush shrugged. "Well, they didn't tell me either. I guess they're so used to it that they
take it for granted. Like having to explain gravitation; no one ever does, you just know it's there. Camolsaer runs the
city."
"A man?"
"No, a machine. At least I guess it is. I've never seen it." Arbush glanced along the corridor. "Tell you what, let's
get something to drink. Good stuff, Earl; as fine a wine as I've tasted anywhere. And you don't have to pay for it."
Dumarest said, dryly, "That's convenient."
"You don't have to pay for anything. Think of it. Earl. Clothes, food, wine, entertainment, all free. Every damned
thing you want, you can get by asking for it. Just by asking. I've got a better room than you could get in any top-class
hotel. Clothes which would cost a fortune, on any planet. All the things I dreamt about on the ice; hot baths, succulent
meats, everything, all on tap."
"Including those willing, wanton girls?"
"Those too." Arbush was bland. "There's one in particular who is very interested in you, Earl. She's bent my ear
for hours on end, wanting to know about the warp, the ship, how you managed to keep us alive." He sobered a little.
"Earl, out there on the ice, you said some pretty hard things. Did them too."
"So?"
"I just wanted to let you know I don't hold it against you. It had to be done. At the time I felt like murder; but,
well, let's forget it, eh?"
"I'd forgotten."
"Good; well, let me show you around a little. It's not such a big place, but built like a gem. Everything a man could
need. A paradise, Earl. A literal paradise."
One with a serpent. As they neared the end of the corridor a tall, metallic shape stepped towards them, halting to
block their path.
"Man Arbush, you left your work without permission."
"I wanted to meet a friend."
"It is noted."
"A special occasion. I didn't think anyone would mind."
"You have also failed to cleanse yourself. That too was noted."
"I was in a hurry." Arbush glanced at the yellow flecks on his arms. "Anyway I moved my quota."
The Monitor turned a little. "Man Dumarest, you will report for duty at sector 92 at the third bell. Appropriate
clothing will be supplied. You will establish your residence in room 731. During your period of work, you will not
carry the symbol of your rank."
The knife about which Arbush had obviously lied, a pretense which he must have thought important.
Dumarest said, "That is not possible. Never is a person of my station devoid of the insignia of his rank."
"You will not carry it to your place of work." The flat drone precluded all possibility of argument, of appeal.
Arbush grunted as the Monitor moved away. "The fly in the ointment, Earl. Those damn things act as police. You do
as they say—or else."
"Or else, what?"
They make you. They can do it, too. I had a little trouble on my third day—some character in the gymnasium said
something I didn't like. I was about to flatten him when a Monitor grabbed me. I was like a child.
"The knife," said Dumarest. "Why—"
"But you can get along," said Arbush quickly, a little too loud. "All you have to do is cooperate. I'm slow in
learning, but I'm catching on. Just do your work, obey the rules and then sit back and enjoy yourself. And you keep
fit, too. Look at me." He patted his waist. "In a few days, Earl, you'll be as good as new."
Perhaps, with training, exercise and a high protein diet it could be done. Would be done, no matter how long it
took. As questions would be answered, mysteries explained.
Dumarest looked at the ceiling, the edges of the walls. Bright sparkles could have been inset decoration, or the
glitter of minute lenses. Electronic eyes and ears, gathering and relaying information. But could an entire city be
constantly monitored? And, if it was, who collected and collated the information?
Who, or what, and, above all, why?

***

The room was as Arbush had said, a nest of luxury by any standard; the carpets soft, the draperies rich, the
furnishings of the highest quality. Alone Dumarest moved from one chamber to the other; the well-equipped
bathroom, the bedroom with its wide couch, the coverings of fine material, light as gossamer, bright with abstract
designs. Back in the living room, he opened the curtains and stared thoughtfully outside. The room was high, the view
superb, the air clear and giving perfect vision.
He looked at the distant wall of ice, the level ground at its foot, the precise arrangement of the buildings. A city
built like a gem. A complete, self-contained unit set in the wilderness.
Why?
And why had Arbush thought it necessary that he retain the knife?
An instinctive caution on first wakening, perhaps? The minstrel was shrewd, experienced in the devious ways of
divergent cultures; it would have been natural for him to seek an advantage. To retain access to a weapon. Had
softness later changed him?
Dumarest remembered the conversation over the wine, the enthusiasm which had accompanied every step of the
tour which Arbush had conducted. To him, the city had fulfilled an ancient yearning.
"Instone," he murmured. "Instone."
"The name of the city," said a voice behind him. "Do you find it such a wonderful sound?"
She had entered silently and stood, tall and splendid in a gown of gold-laced crimson; golden sparkles on the veil
of gossamer which wreathed her hair.
"Your door was open," she said. "I took it as an invitation."
A lie, the door had not been open: but it could not be locked. Custom made that unnecessary; a room was a
private place not to be entered without invitation. A custom she had broken and, in so doing, had revealed herself.
"You're Eloise," he said.
"And you are Earl Dumarest." She came towards him hands extended, palms outward, fingers upright. As he
placed the flat of his own palms against hers she said, "Welcome to Instone. Did Arbush tell you about me?"
"Your name, nothing else."
"I'm glad of that. It gives us something to talk about, a chance to get to know each other. Are you going to offer
me something to drink?"
"I have nothing to offer."
"A deficit quickly remedied." She crossed the room to where a ledge protruded from the wall, a hatch above it.
"This isn't a terminal, you'll find those in the corridors and assembly rooms; but this is how you get food and drink if
you want to remain alone." Placing the flat of her palm on the ledge she said, "Eloise. Room 731. Red wine and two
glasses."
She drank quickly as he sipped his own, and he guessed that she had already had enough. There was a sparkle to
her eyes, a flush to her cheeks, a restless impatience which consumed her.
"Do you always identify yourself when ordering?"
"Always."
He remembered Dras; the same placing of the palm, the announcing of a name. A check on palm print and
identity. A means to tally what was asked for, and the information demanded.
"Earl, we have a lot in common. Like you, I'm a stranger here. I wasn't born in the city. Tell me, what did it feel
like to be falling?"
"You saw?"
"I was on the upper platform. I had a feeling, an instinct, call it what you like. I was searching the barrier and saw
you. There are instruments," she said, anticipating his doubt, "Telescopes. Luck guided me to look at that spot, where
you were. I watched as you were rescued. Tell me, what did it feel like when you fell?"
A rush of air, the numbing certainty of imminent death and then the shock, as something impacted his chest, the
instant oblivion.
He said, "How did you get here?"
"An accident." She poured herself more wine, frowned at his barely touched glass. "I'm a dancer. On Lamack, I
joined up with an entrepreneur who formed a small troupe and brought us here to Camollard. There's a city, Breen,
and we made out for a while. Then he had a bright idea. There were rumors of a city far to the north and he guessed
that, in such a place, we would be popular. He bought a flyer and we started toward it. A storm rose and we got lost.
Finally, we crashed."
"Here?"
"A mile away, on the ice. I was lucky. Adara, a friend, you'll meet him later, saw what had happened. He
persuaded Camolsaer to send out Monitors and he went with them. It took half a day to find me. The others were all
dead." Pausing she added, "That was five years ago."
"Camollard," he said thoughtfully. "The name of this world. Do you have the coordinates?"
An unexpected question which caused her to frown. Then, face clearing, she smiled. "Of course, the warp; you
don't know where you are. I haven't the coordinates, but Camollard is close to the Elmirha Dust. You can see it from
the southern hemisphere."
A half million light years from Tynar—the warp had thrown them far.
"Are there ships?"
"Not many, and those that call land at Breen. It's a small place on the equator. There's a mine working a seam of
thorenite, but mostly they hunt. Furs and the fruit of doltchel. A small plant growing in sheltered nooks. It's a
narcotic."
A bleak world with but a single town, a single space field. Such worlds were common.
She said, "You aren't drinking, Earl. Have I offended you?"
Caution, she decided, as he shook his head. Such a man would always be cautious. Careful of each step he took
until he was sure of where he was going, and then nothing would stop him. A man who had come in answer to her
prayer. A strong man, hard, ruthless; she could tell it by the set of his mouth, the line of his jaw. Her eyes dropped to
the knife in his boot. A knife was nothing, a strip of edged and pointed steel; substitutes could be made from a broken
bottle, a host of items—by itself a blade was harmless, certainly against the Monitors which was possibly why
Camolsaer had allowed it. Allowed it—unaware that it wasn't the knife which was dangerous, but the man.
Her man, she had known it from the first. One way or another, he would be hers.
He said, "How do you get from here to Breen?"
"You don't."
"Can't?"
"Both. There is no contact with any other city. No ships, no flyers, nothing. Instone is isolated; a vague rumor
which no one will ever take the trouble to investigate. Even if you could climb the wall, there would still be the Krim
to contend with. Savage animals who roam the ice."
"We saw them—they were men."
"Or things which looked like men," she corrected. "When they get too close, Camolsaer sends the Monitors out
against them. If you tried to escape it would send them against you."
"Escape?"
"Escape, Earl. Haven't you grasped it yet? This isn't just a city, it's a jail. A prison in which we're all under
sentence of death. And you, Earl; you'll be one of the first to go!"

Chapter Ten
 The work was a mindless routine, taking packets from a machine to where others would feed them into different
machines. Made work, unessential, something to occupy the time of humans while machines ran the city. Machines
and Camolsaer, who controlled them.
At the bell Dumarest returned to his room, changed, and continued his inspection of the city. It had lasted more
than a week; a close scrutiny of every available chamber and compartment, each corridor and passage on the entire
complex.
If Instone was a prison, he was determined to find a way out. And it was a prison; in that the woman, though
hysterical, had been right. Without roads, contact with other places, a means to cross the ice, it could be nothing else.
"Earl!" A man called to him as he entered the gymnasium. "Care to wrestle?"
"Later perhaps."
"I was telling Sagen about that throw you showed me." The man was insistent. "He's willing to bet a turn of duty
that you couldn't best him within five minutes."
A bet he would surely lose. The men were soft, untoughened by hard labor, afraid to hurt or to receive pain.
Dumarest stripped off his tunic and moved to the center of the area. Sagen, grimly determined, took up his stance.
A bad position, the hands too widely separated, the feet too close. A feint and he would be off-balance, an easy
prey, the bout over within seconds. But Dumarest had no intention of winning. It was time he made a friend, and this
was a good opportunity.
He moved in, carelessly, open to be seized. Sagen took the proffered opportunity, hands gripping, closing; body
turning as he attempted the throw. Dumarest resisted, converted the direction of applied force to his own advantage,
attacked in turn. Sagen staggered, barely recovered and moved cautiously, eyes reflecting the knowledge of his near-
defeat. He came in again, and this time Dumarest did not resist.
The man who had called to him grunted his annoyance as Dumarest's shoulders hit the floor.
"You win, Sagen. Earl wasn't as good as I thought."
A conviction the instructor didn't share. Later, over a cup of tisane, he said, "You let me win, Earl. Why?"
"You're the instructor. You have to be the best."
"I'm not and you know it." Sagen frowned into his cup. "You could take my place at any time. Camolsaer would
approve it."
"Perhaps." Dumarest wasn't so sure. "You're doing a good job, Sagen. I wouldn't have the patience. There's
something you can tell me, though. I've been taking a look around the city. What lies below the lower region?"
"The power plant, waste converters and artesian wells." Sagen didn't hesitate over the answer. "There are shafts
delving into the crust to heat and thaw the permafrost."
"Anyone working down there?"
"Only machines. Machines and the Monitors, of course."
"And Camolsaer?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"Guess?"
"I'm not certain. No one ever goes into the lower regions. I suppose, after conversion, you'd get a chance; but not
before."
Conversion, the word used instead of death, but conversion into what? Eloise would tell him, but Dumarest knew
better than to take what she said at face value.
He said, "Tell me about Camolsaer."
"Camolsaer?" Sagen seemed baffled. "It—well—it runs the city."
"I know that; but the name, where did that come from?"
"A contraction. Computer Analogue Maintenance Of Life Support And Environmental Resources." Something
Eloise hadn't known; Arbush too indifferent to discover. "It controls things. It feeds us, clothes us, keeps us warm. It—
it's Camolsaer."
God spelled with a different name, at least as far as the inhabitants of Instone were concerned. A mysterious,
invisible, unknown entity which had governed their lives from the moment of birth. And before. Only with the
permission of Camolsaer could children be bred—the special diet devoid of sterility drugs obtained.
A lifetime of conditioning, in which absolute reliance was placed on the voice coming from the terminals.
Absolute dependency achieved by fact and custom.
Finishing his tisane Sagen said, "You're new here, Earl, and I guess it's natural for you to be curious; but anything
you want to know can be learned from Camolsaer. Just ask at one of the terminals. There's plenty of them around."
"Thank you," said Dumarest. "I will."
"I'll be getting back to the gymnasium." Sagen rose to his feet. "It's always pretty busy at a time like this. Young
bucks wanting to learn tricks and build up some muscle. Whenever a Knelling's due it's the same. Don't forget, now;
just ask what you want to know. You can even get a prediction on—" He broke off, looking at Dumarest's expression.
"Something wrong?"
"No. Did you say you can get a prediction?"
"That's right." The instructor lifted a careless hand. "See you around."
Alone, Dumarest sat and sipped slowly at his tisane. Any man or machine in possession of all the facts could
make a simple prediction; but the word had unpleasant associations. Predictions were the area in which cybers
excelled. Was Instone an extension of the Cyclan? An experiment started and later abandoned?
A girl, young, laughing, walked past him on her way to a terminal, there to ask a question about the whereabouts
of her lover. Dumarest ignored her as he ignored the others in the chamber, the brightly dressed men and women,
some of whom looked at him with interest. To them he was a novelty, something strange, intriguing.
Arbush came towards him, his gilyre strung over his shoulders, two girls hanging on his arms.
"Earl, a message. Eloise expects you at her room tonight." He moved on, a contented man; accepting the surface
of things and not bothering about their cause. Indifferent to the clues at hand.
The name, the city, the thing which ran it.
Instone—Installation One.
A scientific project built as a complete unit and set in the midst of a hostile waste, to ensure isolation. And, if it
was the first, there could be others placed on remote worlds circling lonely suns.
Perhaps the Cyclan had built it, perhaps not; many worlds bore the traces of early settlers eager to construct
civilizations to their own pattern, to create Utopias which would solve all the ills which plagued Mankind. And, on the
face of it, Instone was a Utopia; classless, with an even distribution of available goods, no law but the ubiquitous
Monitors, no rule but the dictates of Camolsaer. But to exist for any length of time a Utopia had to be static, and the
Cyclan would know that. A thing which went against their creed of progressive domination. A testing ground then, for
some long-range purpose? A breeding chamber. A culture which could be directed and controlled by the remorseless
pressures of necessity and logic.
A mystery, and one he couldn't answer; but if the Cyclan had built it he had fallen right into their hands.

***

Eloise had never seemed more beautiful. Watching her from where he sat beneath the window, Adara felt again
the jealous hurt which had now become all too familiar. She no longer needed him. Now she had found another on
whom to lean.
He looked on as she handed Dumarest a goblet of wine. Tonight she wore diaphanous veils, her feet bare, ankles
adorned with bands holding tiny bells. More bands graced her wrists, small sounds tinkling as she moved. Her hair
was loose, a rippling waterfall which caught the light and reflected it as if it had been oil. Her breasts, half-bared, were
dusted with motes of gold.
Dumarest noticed his attention.
He said, quietly, "Your friend is jealous. You should not ignore him."
"Adara?" She smiled, white teeth flashing between scarlet lips. "He's a friend."
A friend and more, a lover certainly; and such a man could be dangerous. Dumarest examined him from behind
the cover of his wine. A body which was too soft, a face too worn. A man old before his time, lines creasing his
cheeks; his eyes shadowed by sleepless rest, haunted. He drank too deep and too often, like a man seeking an
anodyne for an inner pain.
Drink enough and heated emotions would suggest an answer to his problem.
"Forget him, Earl. Drink your wine. Arbush, give us a tune."
The minstrel grinned and slapped the rump of one of his attendant girls.
"My instrument, girl. Hurry!"
The air throbbed as he touched the strings, musing with the skill of long practice, building anticipation as he
strummed a succession of chords.
"What shall it be? A love song? No, we have too much love. A wistful air of a young girl betrayed by her lover?
No, here that particular type of hell does not exist. One of unrequited passion, perhaps? Of adventure? Of bold men
venturing into the spaces between the stars?" The strumming grew deep, strong; the pulse of an engine, the empty
gulfs, a beat like that of a pounding heart.
"No." Eloise stood in the center of the room; the others pressed back against the wall, some sitting, others
squatted on the carpet. Ten of them; those whom Dumarest had met, friends of Adara and the woman, Arbush's girls.
"Follow me, minstrel." Lifting her arms her fingers began to touch; thin, high ringings coming from the tiny
cymbals she had slipped on her fingers and thumbs. "We are in a tavern," she whispered. "A hot and smoky place,
heavy with the scent of wine. You know such places and know what is played there. Play, minstrel. Play as I dance."
The thrumming of the strings settled, became a repetitious background against which the tap of whispering
drums echoed; chords rising to match the swaying undulations of the woman, accompanying the thin ringings of the
cymbals, the bells at wrists and ankles.
It was a dance as old as time, performed with consummate skill; flesh and bone moving in suggestive abandon,
naked feet with crimson nails caressing the carpet, the waterfall of hair a shimmering cloud of erotic beauty.
The lights seemed to fade, the walls to fall away, the watchers to turn into a circle of watching eyes, hands
moving, fingers tapping as they followed the rhythm; bodies responding to the invitation explicit in every gesture, the
thrust and sway of hips, waist, breasts, thighs. So women had danced in primordial times, offering themselves to a
surrogate of the Earth God; a ritual designed to make the ground fertile, the harvest good. Now aimed at one man
alone.
Adara sensed it and gulped down his wine. Arbush knew it and smiled as his spatulate fingers danced over the
strings; the tips hitting the sounding board, returning to alter the note, moving with a fluid grace. Dumarest felt it and
wondered what lay behind the bribe, the offer of her flesh.
She wanted something—that had been obvious from the beginning. She had met him too often by apparent
chance for it to have been an accident. And there had been hints, barely concealed; suggestions half made, as if she
were waiting for him to discover something.
The dance ended and she came to sit on the floor at his feet. Arbush began to play again, this time accompanying
himself with a song; a ballad more fitted to a spaceman's dive than to any decent company, but no one seemed to
find it offensive. The girls who had accompanied him danced in turn; neat, precise little movements, smooth enough
but awkward when compared to the previous display.
"We need more wine," Eloise decided. "Adara, order more wine."
He rose to his feet and came towards her and Dumarest saw that, despite what he had drunk, he was coldly sober.
"Eloise, is that wise? Already you have had more than enough."
"Are you telling me what to do?" He winced at the coldness of her voice.
"No, but—"
"Then order it! Damn you, order it or do I have to do it myself ?"
"Eloise, you're mad. Ever since Earl came, you've been acting strange. Don't you realize what you're doing?"
"I'm living!" she flared. "Don't you understand? Living! For the first time in years I've met a real man, and to hell
with you and everything else. Get me some more wine!"
A man rose and quietly left the room. Another followed, one of Arbush's girls. Rats, she thought bleakly, getting
out while the going was good; not wanting to be contaminated with Eloise's presence, associated with her disregard.
Two women remained. One of them said, "Earl, I can be found in room 532."
"Get out!" snapped Eloise. "Do your hunting somewhere else."
"If you've any sense, Earl, you'll join me." Without further comment she left, her companion close behind.
Arbush plucked at a string. "The end of the party," he said regretfully. "And I was just beginning to enjoy it. That
dance took me back. There was a girl who danced as you did. A vision of delight, who took all I had and left me for
another with more. Well, such is life. A man can only be thankful for such pleasures, transient though they may be."
"A harlot," she sneered. "Is that what you think I am?"
Again he plucked the string and, as the singing note died, said quietly, "I did not say that you were—but if you are
not, then you are unique among all the dancers I have ever known."
"You fat bastard!" She rose, fingers like claws. "I'll have your eyes for that! Earl, do you believe what he says?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters! Dear God, it matters! I love you! Can't you understand? I love you!"

***

It had come, as he had known it would. Adara looked at his hands and found, to his surprise, that they did not
tremble. The inner hurt was gone also, as if emotion had been raised to too high a pitch, to burn itself out and leave
only ashes. Would the Knelling be like this? Would he, once his number had been tolled, feel the same cold, detached
resignation?
He stared in surprise at the glass of wine thrust into his hand, the man who had placed it there.
"Sit down," said Dumarest. "Sit and drink your wine."
A kindness, the consideration of the victor for the vanquished; would he have been capable of such a gesture?
Adara sat and drank and said, "Earl, I think there is something you should know."
 "Adara! You—"
"Be quiet!" snapped Dumarest, not looking at the woman. To Adara he said, "Why were you so insistent that
Eloise should not order more wine?"
"It is noted. Everything you order is noted. If anyone is considered to be guilty of too great an excess, it tells
against them."
"And?"
"I can answer that." Eloise stepped forward with a delicate chiming of bells. "Drink too much, use too many
drugs, eat like a pig, have too much sex, pick a fight or fail to cooperate—it all tells against you. Do it too often and
you'll draw a low number at the Knelling. You know what the Knelling is? Hasn't anyone told you yet? It's when the
unfit are culled. The unfit according to Camolsaer, of course; that damned god in a box who rules this jail. And it is a
jail, Earl; surely you have discovered that for yourself by now. A prison from which there is only one way out." Her
lifted hand made a cutting gesture at her throat. "Curtains. Finish. Food for the worms."
Arbush said, dryly, "A pleasant prospect. Is there anything else?"
"When you get too old. When you fall too sick. When you become too anti-social, whatever that means in this
godforsaken place. When you don't fit the nice, neat, tidy pattern laid down by God knows who." She glared at him.
"You won't last long. You like wine too much, have too many girls. You dodge work and go your own way. And you're
too fat."
"I like my comforts."
"Sure, and you'll pay for them. With your life."
As she would also, of that she was certain. Again, she had allowed emotion to ruin the carefully maintained
appearance of calm. But now, at least, there was a hope.
"Earl, please, you've got to get me away from here."
"Got to? Why?"
"Because I love you." It wasn't reason enough; she had given him words, nothing else, and how many other
women had told him the same? Too many others. Enough for him to have learned that what is said and what is meant
are not the same thing. She added, "And, because in a way, I saved your life. If I hadn't been watching and spotted
you against the barrier, the Monitors could never have reached you in time."
"Is that true, Adara?"
"Yes, Earl. I was with her at the time. I—she reported it to Camolsaer and insisted that aid be sent."
"Insisted?" If Dumarest had noticed the slip, he gave no indication of it. "Can anyone insist?"
"No, but you can make a point on the basis of logic. Camolsaer stated that, as you had come from the ice, you
had to be Krim and therefore destroyed. I pointed out that the Krim are animals and animals do not use ropes to
descend a cliff. Therefore, you had to be men and should be rescued."
Rescued and healed; but where was the logic in that if he was fated to be selected for death?
"We've got to escape, Earl." Eloise was insistent. "You've got to find a way." And then, as he remained silent, she
added, "Are you wondering why Camolsaer saved you? I'll tell you—for raw materials. The fabric of your brain can be
used to build more Monitors. That's what conversion means. Your body reduced to basic elements to be used as
fertilizer; your brain trimmed and fitted into a machine. The fools here think they move on up to a higher level of
existence, but they're wrong. The ego doesn't remain, it can't. Would you ever take a Monitor for a man?"
"Eloise!"
"Shut up, Adara! I've told you this before and I thought you believed me. But you're weak. You know what must
happen and yet do nothing about it. Remember the last Knelling? I saw your face and knew what you felt, but
afterwards? You did nothing. You just slipped back into the routine. Acting a part, pretending to be a good little boy so
as not to be punished. And yet you have the gall to call yourself a man."
"That's enough!" Dumarest stepped between them as Adara rose, his face flushed at the insult. "Eloise, Adara is
your friend. You should remember that."
"Earl!"
"A friend," he repeated coldly. "Not a toy to be thrown aside at a whim."
A rebuke which she deserved and, looking at him, she guessed why Dumarest had made it. Adara was a resident
of the city, a source of information and a potential enemy. A rejected lover who could ruin any plan they chose to
make. Elementary caution dictated that he be treated with consideration. Why hadn't she thought of that?
Brooding over his gilyre Arbush said, "I think we are becoming excited without need. Eloise has drunk too much
wine. You have done nothing to offend Camolsaer, Earl. You are not old or fat or greedy. You are not, as I am,
tempted by the hires of the flesh. There is no reason why you should be chosen." He plucked a string. "I think that the
woman is more concerned for herself than for you."
"Yes," she admitted. "I am concerned for myself. And so would you be, in my place. But you're wrong about Earl
not being in danger. Among these people he is a wolf among sheep. A source of contamination. How long will it be
before he gains a following? A man who could survive as he has done will never willingly submit to the Knell. He will
fight and, if nothing else, set an example of resistance. If I can see it, then so must Camolsaer."
"True." Arbush thoughtfully plucked another string. "Earl is a most unusual man."
"And because of that most likely to be chosen." said Adara. "Eloise is right in what she says. There is every—" He
broke off, turning, his face suddenly haggard as a Monitor strode into the room. "What do you want?"
The thing ignored him, coming to a halt before the little group; the head moving from side to side, a ruby glow
behind the elongated planes of crystal which were its eyes. The paint on its metal mask was a parody of a human
visage.
"Man Dumarest, you will take this." It extended an arm, a slip of card held in the hand; an appendage larger than
normal, made of overlapping plates, the ends of the fingers tipped with a gray plastic. "Man Adara. Man Arbush."
Two other slips. "Woman Eloise."
The fourth and last. As the Monitor left the room she looked at it; her laughter hard, brittle, taut with incipient
hysteria.
"Number nine. The last time it was number twenty-two. Adara?"
"Thirteen."
"I'm number seven," said Arbush. "How about you, Earl?"
Dumarest looked at the slip. It held an abstract design over which was printed a bold figure one.
"The prime!" Eloise. sucked in her breath. "I told you, Earl. You'll be the first to go!"

Chapter Eleven
For a long moment there was silence and then Arbush rose, crossed to the serving hatch and, placing his hand
flat on the plate said, loudly, "Arbush. Wine to room 638. Four decanters."
He carried them, two in each hand, back to where they sat; Dumarest thoughtful, the woman excited, Adara
slumped in resigned despair.
"Drink," he said. "It is an unusual occasion. Not every day does a man receive official notification of his
impending demise." The wine made liquid gurglings as he poured. Handing each a glass, he raised his own. "A toast.
To optimism!"
Dumarest sipped at his wine, knowing that the toast was badly chosen. They needed more than optimism. He
said, "How long?"
"Until the Knelling?" Eloise bit at her lower lip, the bruised flesh a vivid scarlet against the pallor of her cheeks.
"Three days. The first is a period of calm, the last a time of waiting. In between, those with high numbers do their
best to remain safe; those with low try to alter the odds."
She saw his frown and hastened to explain.
"Everyone gets a number, but no one knows for sure how many are to be Knelled. It could be a couple of dozen,
in which case those with numbers above, say, twenty stand a chance. If five are culled before the critical period, the
bell will only toll nineteen times." She added, bleakly, "But no one knows for certain how many Camolsaer will take.
And you, the prime, will have no chance at all."
Not unless the full number should be killed before the last day. And even then, there was no assurance of safety.
Dumarest leaned back, eyes shadowed with thought, assessing the problem, its cause.
The city was a closed unit; each birth meant that there had to be a matching death. The time in which aggression
was allowed a crude device, to ensure the survival of the fittest. Crude because it would never be allowed to work to
its logical end. He could kill a hundred men and still be taken; a man too dangerous to be allowed to survive. Only the
pretense was provided, the illusion which gave birth to a modicum of strength. He remembered the gymnasium,
Sagen's comment. Young men training in order to defend themselves. Older men stiffening muscles, ready for the
anticipated encounters.
"Do the Monitors interfere?"
"Not during the actual time of combat," said Adara quickly. "But you must realize that many people form
protective groupings. Most stay in their rooms."
"The doors?"
"Blocked." Adara glanced towards the couch in the bedroom, the furnishings. "On the final day there is, of course,
no combat. Then people get together to wait or to enjoy themselves in various ways. To drink, take drugs, make love."
He glanced at the woman. "Other things."
"A pity." Absently, Arbush picked up his gilyre and ran the tips of his fingers over the strings. "A life so pleasant,
so full of ease, to be so quickly ended. If I were allowed to die a natural death, I would stay here to the end of my
days. Even as it is, there is a chance. A score of men to die. More if necessary, and once again to relax and take what
is offered." He lifted one broad hand and clenched the spatulate fingers. "Earl, shall we show Camolsaer how it should
be done?"
"You're a fool!" snapped Eloise. "Do you think they will wait to be butchered? And after, even if you did survive,
what of the next time?"
Dumarest said, ignoring the interjection, "Adara, are weapons provided?"
"No."
"Are they allowed?"
"Only if self-provided." He glanced at the knife showing above Dumarest's boot. "You will have an advantage.
None could stand against you—if they allowed you to get within reach."
Had he been allowed to retain the weapon as an example? Or had it been a test, to see what the introduction of a
new element would do to the carefully nurtured residents of the city? Something in the nature of a virus to test the
resistance of the culture it contained.
A question which now could be safely ignored. He watched as the minstrel gave Adara more wine. The man
seemed numbed, drinking like an automaton, unnerved by the shocks he had received. A fatal attitude which would
make him willingly accept what was to come, welcoming it, perhaps, as an anodyne to his loss.
"Earl." Eloise moved, crouching at his feet, her arms wrapped around his legs. "We haven't much time, darling.
What are you going to do?"
"What can he do?" Adara blinked, the wine he had taken finally having its effect. "What can anyone do? We are
here and that's all there is to it. When the Knell sounds and the Monitors come, all we can do is to submit gracefully."
"You—not I!"
"Eloise! Please, I need you."
A cry from the heart, a man faced with the sure knowledge of oblivion and not knowing which way to turn. A
child reaching out for a familiar comfort.
Dumarest said, "Go with him, Eloise. Take him to his room. Put him to bed."
"Earl! You ask me to do that!"
"That and more if necessary," he said harshly. "He saved your life, remember? You owe it to him to provide what
comfort you can."
"But, Earl, I love you."
"And what does that mean?" He met her eyes, saw the bruised hurt they contained, the bafflement. "Does it mean
that, because you say it, I must love you in return? That I have to make an enemy of a man who has done me no
harm? Damn it, woman, grow up!"
She stiffened, face reflecting her anger, her hurt pride; and then, glancing at Adara where he sat, she softened and
rose.
"You're right, Earl. Adara has been good to me. But I meant what I said. I love you. I shall always love you. I don't
want you ever to forget that."

***

The room was a clot of shadows; pale starlight, coming from the window in the other chamber, doing little more
than haze the darkness; making the bed a darker mound among others, the door itself a pale oblong in which
something stood.
Dumarest rolled, one hand slipping the knife from his boot; rising poised to strike.
"Please!" The voice was a high, breathless whisper. "Earl, is that you? Please say something if you're awake."
It was the woman from the party, the one who had invited him to her room. She stepped back as he drew near,
her eyes wide, terrified as they looked at the knife. She gulped as he slid it back into his boot.
"You—I thought you were going to kill me!"
"Is it allowed?"
"Not yet. Not until dawn. But you wouldn't kill me, Earl, would you. Not when there are other things to do. So
much more pleasant things."
She had retreated at his advance to stand before the window, pale starlight on her hair, the blonde tresses
shimmering as if dusted with silver. A tall, proud, sensuous animal; he remembered how her eyes had clung to him,
the naked invitation she had offered.
"What do you want?"
"You, Earl. You can stay with me in my room until the Knelling. You are the prime and deserve the best. I shall
give it to you. Anything you want will be yours. All I can offer will ease those last hours until the bell."
Her face held an expression he had seen before. The feral anticipation of sensuous delight; the titivation of
yielding to the demands of a man who would no longer have cause to restrain his appetite. Such creatures were to be
found at every arena, harpies feeding on overstimulated emotion; willing to be degraded, humiliated, eager to pander
to every bestial desire.
"Earl?"
He said, coldly, "I'll take you to your room. If I see you again I'll kill you. You had better believe that."
"You filth!" Anger thinned her lips, tightened the skin of her face so that it looked like scraped bone in the cold
light of the stars. "You—"
"Get out! Now!"
A woman scorned, the second in a few hours; but where she could be ignored, Eloise could not. Outside in the
corridor Dumarest tensed, listening. He heard the soft pad of running feet, a cry, the sound of a scuffle. Turning a
corner he caught a glimpse of a running shape; another lying on the floor, groaning, blood making a pool beneath the
shoulders.
The woman had lied. The first day had passed, already the violence had begun.
As he stepped towards the groaning man, a Monitor stepped before him.
"Man Dumarest, this is not your concern."
"The man is hurt."
"The man is dying. He will be attended to." Other Monitors joined the first, stooping to pick up the injured man.
Dumarest followed them to where a passage slanted towards the lower levels. It opened on a chamber containing a
closed door. As he watched it swung wide, to reveal a corridor bright with a pale blue luminescence. Before he could
enter, the door slammed in his face. One of the ubiquitous Monitors appeared at its side. "Man Dumarest, this area is
forbidden. Return to the level above."
Up past the assembly rooms now deserted, the pool filled with idle water, the gymnasium empty of exercising
men.
Dumarest reached a door, knocked, waited, knocked again.
"Who is it?"
"Arbush, open up!"
The minstrel was cautious. From behind the closed panel came the sound of scraping, then the door cracked
open to reveal an eye.
"Earl!" He swung open the door. "Eloise lied to us," he complained. "She said there would be a day of calm. Calm,
hell! A bunch of young thugs tried to jump me. I got one and the others ran. What happened to you?"
"I've been resting. Asleep."
"Thinking?" Arbush was shrewd. "Earl, did you—"
"Bring your gilyre," interrupted Dumarest. "I think Eloise would like to hear you play."
Like the minstrel she had blocked her door, opening it only when she was certain of who stood outside. Adara
was with her, his face pale, his eyes haunted with inner trepidation. A decanter of wine, untouched, stood on a small
table at his side.
"Earl!" He rose, hands extended, the palms outward to be touched. "It's good of you to call. This is a bad time to
be alone."
"I thought you'd like some music," said Dumarest. "Arbush, play something loud and cheerful. Very loud and very
cheerful."
"Something like this, Earl?" The minstrel's fingers danced on the strings, notes rising, high, shrill, seeming to hang
and quiver in the air; resonance building so that the glasses on the tray rang in sympathy.
"A neat tune, is it not?" Arbush winked as he played. "I composed it during a time on Helada when I was invited
to stay as a guest at the court of King Swendle. There was a girl, a veritable flower, but the old man was jealous and
had set electronic guards. Even so, we managed to talk and arrange an assignation. I learned later that his electrician
had been whipped for his failure to maintain his equipment." His voice lowered, became urgent. "Talk, Earl. While I
play, nothing can overhear us." Dumarest wasted no time.
"Adara. When you went out to rescue Eloise, how did you travel? Did you walk or fly?"
"Fly, but why do you ask? What—"
"Never mind the questions. You flew. With the same attachments as the Monitors use?"
"Yes."
"Where did you get them?"
"The Monitors provided the unit. They got it from a store close to the northern exit."
"And the weapons they use against the Krim? The missile launchers. The same place?"
 "I'm not sure. I—" Adara frowned, then his face cleared. "Yes. I remember now. The Monitors armed themselves
before we set out They took the weapons from the same store."
Eloise whispered, her breath warm against his cheek, "Earl! Do you have a plan?"
A bare idea formed while he had lain resting, thinkings correlating every scrap of information he had gained
about the city and its occupants.
"A chance," he admitted, "but the only one we've got. We can't cross the ice on foot. Even if we could cross the
ground beyond the city, we could never scale the barrier. And if we could do that we'd never make it to Breen. There
could be tunnels running from the lower levels, in fact there have to be; but we'd still have to dig our way to the
surface. Flying is the only way out."
"Simple," she said, disappointed. "All we have to do is to get the units and go. But what about the Monitors?
Camolsaer? As soon as we touch the store, it would know about it."
"Perhaps."
"It can't be done, Earl." Adara shook his head. "The Monitors would order us away."
"What if they do? Do you have to obey?" Dumarest saw the man blink, as if at an unheard of concept. "Listen,
Adara, unquestioning obedience is the badge of slavery. If ever you get away from here, you'll have to learn how to
be free. You may as well start now. I suppose you do want to get away?"
Adara hesitated, looking at Eloise.
"I'm going," she said firmly. "I don't care what you do, Adara, but I'm going. If you want to stay here and listen to
that damned bell knell away your life, you're welcome."
"It isn't death," he said weakly. "It's—"
"Conversion. I know. If you want it you can have it. Me, I'd rather take my chances on a different kind of hell.
What do you want us to do, Earl?"
"Get tools from the workshops. Levers, hammers, wedges; anything to force open that store. Can you do it?"
"No." Adara was positive. "The Monitors would stop us."
"Normally, yes," agreed Dumarest. "But times aren't normal. Men are out in the corridors hunting each other
down. At any other time the Monitors would stop it, but not now. This is the one chance we have of breaking free. If
you take the tools and anything tries to stop you—well, don't be stopped. It's your life, remember. Eloise, you've
worked in the gardens, can you get chemicals?"
"Such as?"
"Artificial fertilizers."
"No. The stuff comes through pipes in monitored amounts."
A pity; with fertilizer and sugar he could have made a crude but powerful bomb. But there were other ways.
Keeping his voice below the singing thrum of the strings he said, "This is what you must do. Get tools and take them
to the store. When the moment comes, wrench it open and take out flying units and weapons."
"And?" Eloise met his eyes. "Don't try to con me, Earl," she said. "It isn't as simple as that. If it was, you wouldn't
need help. What else must we do?"
"Create a diversion. More than one if possible. Start some fires, well away from the store."
"Fires?" Adara looked blank. "How? What with?"
"I know how," said Eloise. "I was in a house once—well, never mind. But I can start a fire. How about him?" She
jerked her head at the minstrel. "What will he be doing?"
"Helping me."
"And you?"
"Me?" Dumarest shrugged. "I'm going to stop the bell."

***

Corridor 137 was deserted, the door to the room in which Dumarest had woken locked. He knocked, waited,
knocked again; then slipped the knife from his boot and thrust it into the crack. A heave and the door opened with a
brittle snap of metal. Dras was nowhere to be seen. He appeared from an inner compartment as Dumarest tore at the
casing of the diagnostic machine.
"What are you doing?" He stared, voice rising into a scream. "How dare you touch that machine. Help! Monitors!
To—"
He sagged as Arbush slammed a fist against his jaw, the minstrel catching him as he fell. Without a word, he
heaved the body back into the inner room and rested the unconscious man on a couch.
"I was sorry to do that," he murmured as he returned to where Dumarest was working. "In a way he saved our
lives. Well, it can't be helped." He sucked at a split knuckle. "Need any help, Earl?"
 Dumarest shook his head. The inside of the machine lay bare; a mass of electronic wizardry into which he
probed with questing fingers. As he'd guessed there was a communication unit installed into the machine, a radio-link
with Camolsaer. He adjusted it, altering the circuits, seeing tiny sparks flare between poorly made connections.
Satisfied, he stepped back into the corridor.
"Get back to the others," he told Arbush. "Help them. But not yet. First, we have work to do."
Part of it was done; the readjusted machine was now broadcasting a band of white noise, a stream of static
which, he hoped, would disturb the close contact each Monitor had with the others and Camolsaer. A distraction to
add to the others, but this one with a more definite purpose. "Now!"
Dumarest ran down the corridor, Arbush close behind him, a glinting instrument in his hand. A heavy testing
device he had taken from the instrument table in the ward. As a Monitor came into sight Dumarest slowed, half-
turned, went down as Arbush viciously smashed the tool against his head. It was skillfully done. The blow was struck
at the last moment, tearing the flesh at the side of the neck, the lobe of the ear. A minor wound which provided
plenty of blood.
As the Monitor advanced with two others, the minstrel turned and ran back the way he had come. Dumarest
didn't move.
He lay, eyes closed, breathing shallowly; a man unconscious from a blow which had apparently crushed the back
of his skull. He felt hands grip him, lift him; a soft humming as the Monitors carried him away from where he had
fallen. Through slitted eyes he saw the overhead lights pass, the corridor narrow, the roof descend as his bearers
moved to a lower level. Camolsaer would have known of what had happened in the ward; but the radio disturbance
would prevent communication with the Monitors who carried him and they, obeying previous commands, would take
him where he wanted to go.
Into the sealed, lower regions of the city. Into the heart of Camolsaer itself. He closed his eyes as the Monitors
halted, sagging limp in their grasp; hearing the soft sigh of an opening door, feeling the touch of cold air. When next
he looked he saw a pale blue luminescence which came from the walls, roof and floor; a shadowless glow he had seen
before. A dozen yards and he was dropped on a bench. As he heard the pad of retreating feet, he turned his head and
looked around.
He was in a small room, the sides lined with triple tiers of bunks. Two were occupied, one with a man, the other
with a woman; both unconscious, neither dead. The woman stirred as he touched her, moaning, one hand lifting as if
to protect herself. One side of her temple was bruised, the broken skin oozing blood. The man had been struck with
something long and hard, the white of splintered bone showing at the angle of his jaw. When touched, he didn't
move.
Victims of the pre-knelling, collected for later conversion as he had been himself. Dumarest tried to remember if
the man was the one he had seen struck down, but couldn't be sure. There would be other rooms, or maybe the man
had already been processed.
But he was not here to save the fallen.
The room had no door; only an arched opening which led to the wide passage outside. Dumarest stepped
towards it, halting as he reached the opening. A Monitor stood outside.
It was very still; pale blue light bathing the metal of which it was constructed, blending with that of the wall so
that the Monitor was almost invisible. Only the eyes, glowing ruby, could be clearly seen. The eyes and the paint
which daubed the mask.
Red paint, yellow, fashioned to form a clown-like visage; the parody of mouth and nose. A pathetic attempt to
regain lost humanity; proof positive of the residual awareness of the fragmented brain which had once known a
different life.
Motionless, Dumarest studied it. The shape was obvious; trial and error over countless years had evolved the
human frame into the most highly efficient general-purpose construction there was. To deviate from it would be to
lose efficiency. And yet to slavishly copy it held complications.
Metal, weight for weight, was not as strong as living bone. Muscle was more compact, more versatile than any
combination of wires and electro-magnets, pulleys and constructive devices. The thing was larger than a man, which
meant that it had to be heavier. More weight meant less agility. Balance, once lost, would not be easily regained.
Like a fighter poised in a ring Dumarest studied his opponent, searching for points of maximum strength, places
of maximum weakness.
The head, despite the paint and lensed eyes, would not hold the brain. That would be in the chest cavity, together
with communication devices. The power supply would be in the stomach, lowering the center of gravity; a part of it
probably in the thighs to make room for the life-support apparatus which nurtured the brain. The pads at the tips of
the fingers would be sensors. The feet, also padded, would be to cushion the impact of walking, as well as to provide
good traction.
 The eyes then. Blinded the thing would be relatively unharmed, but sightless would be an easy victim. A mistake
which Dumarest recognized, just in time. This was not a creature of flesh and blood. The eyes were crystal panes, not
yielding tissue. A thrown knife might splinter one, never two; without the jarring impact of pain, the damage would be
minor.
"Man Dumarest." The Monitor took one step away from the far side of the passage. "You will return to your
bench and wait."
"Go to hell!"
"Your response is meaningless. Return to your bench and wait."
The flat tones had not altered, probably could not alter; but the response had carried a message all the same.
Whatever humanity the thing retained was proof against insult; or perhaps it was unable to recognize or deal with
flagrant disobedience.
Dumarest said, "What is your name?"
"Name?"
"What were you called when you were alive?"
"Alive?"
"When you wore flesh like mine. When you had a face instead of a metal mask. Tell me, what was your name?"
A gamble. Questions calculated to confuse and, for a moment, he thought that he had won. The Monitor swayed
a little, one hand rising to touch the painted mask; then, abruptly, it seemed to stiffen.
Then, like a blur, it attacked.

Chapter Twelve
It was fast, too fast; mass once set into motion could not be easily controlled. Dumarest spun to one side,
avoiding the reaching hand, feeling the impact numb his left shoulder. The blow threw him back against the tier of
bunks, his right hand falling to touch flesh, the shape of the woman. He ducked as the Monitor turned, arms
extended, hands like flails. From the grill of the mask came a flat droning.
"You will obey. You will return to your bench and wait. You will obey."
"Your name!" said Dumarest. "What is your name?" A weakness, discovered almost by accident; a thing which
seemed to disturb the Monitor. Or perhaps it was his own disobedience, something outside of the thing's experience.
It would catch him, crush him perhaps; force him to the bench there to wait for others to come, to take him, to render
him apart.
He stooped as the thing advanced, throwing his weight against one of the thighs, feeling the solid impact of metal
against flesh and bone. A sweeping hand touched the back of his skull and filled his sight with flaring colors. Dodging
behind the Monitor Dumarest raised his foot and kicked, slamming the sole of his boot into the back. A plate dented a
little; otherwise he might as well have kicked a stone wall.
Heavy, too heavy to be easily thrown off-balance; and yet there had to be a way. Dodging, weaving, feeling the
waft of air across his face from the flailing hands, Dumarest edged towards the opening; ducked away from it as the
Monitor raced to stand guard, felt again the face of the woman beneath his hand.
She wore a loose garment, a braided jacket open at the front to reveal the swell of naked breasts. Dumarest
gripped it, tore it from her shoulders, moved tensely to where the Monitor stood.
"Your name," he said again. "What was your name? Were you a man? A woman? Did you know love and hate?
Can you remember what it was to feel? The touch of wind on your cheeks, the pressure of lips given in a kiss? Who
were you?"
"You will return to your bench and wait. You will obey. You will—"
Dumarest threw the jacket.
It flew high, swirling, falling between the uplifted hands to settle on the painted mask, the glowing eyes. As it left
his hand Dumarest threw himself towards the Monitor, blinded now beneath the muffling garment. His left hand hit
the floor, the arm serving as a pivot around which swept his body; the full weight of his mass directed at the knee of
the Monitor, his boot slamming into the joint.
Metal yielded, plates driven inward to ruin the inner mechanism, the limb distorted into a crooked angle. As the
thing tore the muffling fabric from its lenses Dumarest rolled, sprang to his feet and, stooping, gripped the ankle of
the damaged leg. Straightening he pulled upwards and outwards, twisting; using the limb as a lever to overthrow the
heavy mass. As the Monitor crashed to the floor, he turned and ran.
He was barely in time. As he ran past a connecting passage he saw the bulk of Monitors striding towards him, aid
summoned by the one he had felled. An opening stood to his right; he dived through it, crossed the compartment
beyond and headed for another passage. It opened on a wide chamber filled with benches, the shadowless glow
bright with the searing beams of lastorches. Monitors, lenses masked, stooped over mechanisms lying on the
benches; metal plates, limbs, the various parts of others of their kind looking like the fragments of discarded, ancient
amour.
An assembly belt over which they worked, apparently heedless of the figure which moved cautiously along the
wall.
A pile of fabricated metal lay on a low trolley. Dumarest reached it, crouched behind it, eyes searching the area
for a weapon. Against metal his knife was useless, but the torches made a good substitute. He inched forward to
where one lay on the edge of a bench and with a sudden rush touched it, snatching it up and racing to where a
continuous belt rose from an opening in the floor. A conveyor fitted with platforms on which a man, or Monitor, could
stand. It rose to turn at a point ten feet above the floor, descending to a lower level. Dumarest sprang to a platform
and, as it carried him down a featureless shaft, examined the torch he had stolen.
It was unfamiliar, but bore certain characteristics; the inbuilt power source which made it portable, the controls
which activated and focused the beam. He adjusted it to minimum diameter and maximum length, obtaining a shaft
of searing destruction a foot long which would slice through the toughest alloys as if they had been butter.
On the next level, a Monitor was waiting.
Dumarest gave it no time to speak or act, jumping from the platform before it had dropped level with the floor;
the beam of the torch became a lance which blasted the eyes, the painted face, falling to shear through a reaching
arm, a supporting ankle. As the thing fell he was running again, face dewed with sweat despite the chill of the air,
heart pounding in the desperate need for haste.
Already the Monitors must be alerted. The passages filled with the things, as they closed in on where he would be
found; moving into position on the basis of some mathematically precise pattern. The one fact which gave him a
chance.
Machines were not men. Even with their residual brains, the Monitors would be directed by Camolsaer and a
machine would work on the basis of strict logic. In order to survive Dumarest had to outguess it; use his intuition and
natural speed to dodge, to gain time.
To destroy, to distract, to disorganize.
A panel opened to reveal massed wires which he cut with a single stroke of the torch. Wires which could and
would be repaired, but which now were useless to carry information from the watching, electronic eyes. A heavy door
slammed behind him, which he welded fast in the face of advancing Monitors. More wires. A heavy conduit which
flared with released energy; molten droplets spattering his tunic, burning his face, his hair. A cleated ramp down
which he ran, to halt before a blank wall.
Behind him came the pad of advancing feet.
Dumarest turned, eyes searching the place where he stood. A dead end; but that in itself was illogical. No human
would construct such a place and, if not a human, then certainly not a machine. Therefore, the wall could not be
blank. It had to be a door, now sealed; a protective device for what lay beyond.
Metal flared as he applied the torch, droplets oozing, dripping like thick treacle, the beam bursting through into
the space beyond. Dumarest moved it in a tight circle, carefully, resisting the impulse to hurry, to waste effort and
power. Behind him the sound of advancing feet grew louder; the Monitors must be at the head of the ramp, already
coming towards him.
"Man Dumarest. You will cease what you are doing. You will obey."
The ends of the circle had almost joined, a bare portion remaining, as Dumarest felt the touch of a metal hand,
the grip of the fingers on his shoulder. He spun, snarling; the beam of the torch slashing at the torso, steadying to
burn into the metal, through it, into the controlling brain beneath.
From the grill came a vibrant drone, a mechanical scream; and the hand at his shoulder closed, tightening,
pulping the flesh, grinding against the bone. Dumarest swung up the torch, severing the hand, throwing his weight
against the dead Monitor. As it fell to block the advance of another Monitor he turned, lifting his foot and slamming
his heel against the disk of metal he had cut from the door. The remaining portion snapped with a metallic ringing.
Throwing the torch before him he dived headfirst through the opening, plastic smoking as he touched the red hot
edges, pain searing his legs, his arms.
Beyond lay a short passage, another door which was descending from a slot above. Dumarest snatched up the
torch and threw himself at the narrowing gap; hitting the floor, sliding, feeling weight hit his legs as he jerked them
clear. A blast of the torch and the panel was welded fast. Turning, he looked at Camolsaer.

***
 It stood in the center of a vast chamber, a smoothly rising mass of dull metal ringed with terminals; a main
console which bore glowing lenses, a chair fashioned of dark metal set before it as if for some high dignitary.
Around it, flanking the walls, broken only by the spaces of closed doors and arched openings, stood a mass of
small screens, each alive with glowing color. Monitors to check the upper installations, the terminals of the eyes
which kept constant watch.
Dumarest saw some of them limned with flame, others dark with roiling smoke; Monitors busy with
extinguishers, men and women running in panic, an enclosure in which children huddled, safely protected by watchful
guardians.
Screens which had been installed when? Watched by whom? Certainly not Camolsaer; the machine would have
direct input, and no fabrication would have considered it necessary to construct a chair fashioned for a human shape.
And the thing at which he looked, the smoothly rising metal, the perfectly machined visible parts, could not be
the whole construct. That would be far below, carefully designed, served by mechanisms for maintenance and
control.
Dumarest walked towards it, carefully studying the floor. It was smooth, set with a tessellated design of red and
black, polished to a dull sheen. A ring of benches stood ten feet from the wall, broken into equal segments. Beyond
them, barely visible, set behind the chair, showed the outlines of a trap door. A means of access to the regions below.
Natural enough if men had built this place; technicians would have to be allowed admission to the regions which held
the bulk of the machine.
Dumarest stood on it, moving his feet from edge to edge, feeling the surface yield a little. He pressed harder and
the spot beneath his boot sank; the far end of the trap rising to reveal a narrow stair, a dimly lit opening from which
came a gust of frigid air.
Ten feet down the stair widened into a platform; more stairs continuing the descent. To the side nearest the chair
stood the humped bulk of a complex lattice, from which came a numbing chill. Other machinery could be seen
further down; electronic apparatus of unfamiliar pattern, snaking conduits supported on rigid frames.
There would be more lattices lower down, crystals set in containers of liquid helium; the memory banks and
directive apparatus of the gigantic whole.
Dumarest placed one foot on the head of the stair then paused, shivering.
Men had built this place. The Cyclan perhaps, a nagging doubt; but if men had made it, then it could be used.
And there were things he needed to know.
Sitting in the chair, he rested the flat of his palm on the plate inset into one of the arms.
"Dumarest. Who built you?"
A fraction of a pause and then a cold, flat, emotionless voice.
"The Larchi. A band of men who held the belief that technology could solve all human problems."
"Not the Cyclan?"
"An unfamiliar term."
"Search your banks. Find relative associations." Dumarest described a cyber in detail, the organization to which
he belonged. "Could they be the Larchi?"
"No."
Dumarest relaxed a little, yet he had to be sure.
"Are you in contact with anyone on or off this planet?"
"No."
"Is anyone in contact with you?"
"No."
A pounding came from the door by which he had entered. Turning, he saw the panel bulge from the impact of
heavy blows. The Monitors, frustrated for a while by the welds, but they wouldn't be frustrated for long.
He said, quickly, "Withdraw all Monitors from the immediate vicinity."
"That directive cannot be obeyed."
"Tell them to cease all activity."
A moment, and then the pounding stopped. At least he had gained a little time. Glancing again at the screens, he
saw that more now showed fire and smoke. Arbush and the others were doing a good job.
"The upper installations of the city are in danger. Send all available help to confine the destruction."
"Sufficient help has been provided."
"Send more."
"Sufficient has been provided."
It was like arguing with an echo. Dumarest looked at the door, sensing the Monitors beyond, the others who
would be waiting. If he was to escape there was little time and yet, he felt there was more he could do. A trick,
perhaps? He remembered something a computer man had once told him. Machines are idiots; by a simple paradox
they can be totally incapacitated. And Camolsaer was no more than a machine.
He said, "The next thing I say to you will be the truth." A pause, then he added. "Everything you have learned or
heard is a lie."
If the truth, then the penultimate sentence had to be a lie. But if it was a lie, then the ultimate sentence could not
be the truth.
A paradox which would not have occupied the attention of a man for longer than he cared; but for a machine
based on the iron rules of logic it presented a problem which had to be solved.
And while the thing was occupied, he would add to the confusion.
Torch in hand he ran down the stairs, slamming the trap shut behind him. Welded, it would stay firm. Breath
vaporing from the cold, Dumarest ran down the stairs to the platform, eyes searching for points of greatest potential
damage. That conduit, cut, would drop to touch that machine and reduce it to molten ruin. A hole burned in the
container would release the coolant and perhaps destroy some of the memory banks. A strut burned free would sag
and weaken the balance of a support, which might yield a fraction to ruin the arrangement of a monitoring device.
And, above all, he had to find a way out.

***

The noise was nothing he had ever heard before; the panic totally outside his experience. Adara stood, dazed,
frightened at what they had done, the chaos all around.
"Here!" Eloise thrust a bundle of burning rag into his hands. "Set some more fires. Hurry!"
She was a woman possessed, hair bound with a strip of golden braid, her face smudged with soot and ashes. In
the daubed mask her eyes burned with a savage intensity, a horrible gloating which he had never seen before. A
woman taking her revenge on the place which had held her for so long.
The city which had saved her life.
But she was beyond thinking of that. Remembering all the good things of the past. The wine and talk and loving
which had come to fill his days. Now all that was over, as was the calm routine he had known; the smooth tide of life
broken only by the Knelling. And, without her, he would have accepted even that. Met it with tranquility, accepting
conversion as the due price to be paid for a lifetime of cosseted ease.
"Hurry, you fool!" She screamed at him as he stood, the burning rag in his hands, a distant expression on his face.
"More fires! Burn every room you can reach! Send this damned prison to ashes!"
A wish which she knew would never be realized. The fires were too small for that, more smoke than flame; the
fabrics smoldering, treated fibers resisting the heat. And the fire she had started with bared wires and a scrap of cloth
hadn't done what she'd hoped. The Monitors had been too quick, too fast with their extinguishers. If it hadn't been for
the panic, they wouldn't have stood a chance.
That had saved them. Men and women, terrified, running without aim or purpose, thinking only to escape the
unknown. The people had blocked the Monitors, provided cover under which they had worked, setting fire after fire;
moving from room to room, spreading smoke and flame even into the assembly rooms, some of the work areas.
"Eloise!" Arbush came bustling towards her. A man blocked his path and he slammed him aside with the heel of
his hand. "More distraction to the south. The Monitors are still guarding the store."
"You're sure?"
"I've seen them." The minstrel glared at Adara. "What's the matter with him? Doped?"
"Dazed. We're destroying his world." Eloise snatched the rag from his hands before he could be burned.
Deliberately, she slapped his face. "Adara! Listen to me. You work with us or we'll leave you behind. You understand?
Well leave you to the Knelling. Now get some more rag and set some more fires."
A room stood to his left, the door open, the chamber deserted. From the bed he stripped the covers, wadded
them into a rough cylinder, and ignited the end from the smoldering embers she had knocked to the floor. Back in the
room he fired the bed, the curtains; retreating from the wisps of flame, the rising smoke. In the corridor, a Monitor
was waiting.
"Man Adara. You will drop what you are holding."
A padded foot trod out the flames.
"Man Adara, explain."
"I saw fire," he babbled. "I thought—that is I tried—I mean—" He broke off, helpless to lie, to break the
conditioning of a lifetime. Numbly he waited for the Monitor to seize him, to carry him to a deserved punishment.
"Run!" Flame rose before the painted mask, the glowing lenses. Arbush had thrown burning fabric over the head.
"Run, you fool!"
 Run to where? The Monitor had known him, how could there be escape? He felt a hand clamp his wrist; a face,
eyes slitted, teeth bared thrust close to his own.
"Listen," snapped Arbush. "We're fighting for our lives, understand? You've already done enough to be torn apart
on some worlds I could name. No matter what you do now, it can't be worse. And remember Earl. He's relying on us.
Now, damn you, get to work before I break your stupid neck!"
A hard man, as Eloise was a hard woman. Animals the both of them, but neither as hard as Dumarest. In the
societies from which they came, how could he hope to survive? Adara felt the constriction of his stomach; the
familiar, pre-Knelling trepidation, and forcibly squared his shoulders. The minstrel was right. He was committed. Now
he had no choice but to continue.
And, oddly, it became easy.
It was almost a game; the defiance of the Monitors, the spreading of the fire. He felt a strange superiority over
the others who ran, screamed and stood waiting for guidance. They didn't know what was happening to them their
safe, ordered world had fallen apart.
"The tools!" Arbush was at his side. "Don't forget the tools."
"The fires?"
"Eloise can continue with those. She's enjoying it." The minstrel grinned. "Feeling better now? I thought so.
There's a relief in knowing you've taken the final step and there's no going back." His hand reached out, gripped,
pulled Adara into a room. "Be silent!"
They waited as a Monitor passed, foam spurting from the extinguisher in its hands.
"Slow," said Arbush. "Earl was right. The Monitors aren't used to anything like this and don't know how to handle
it."
"Would you?"
"Sure. I'd open the windows and dump the burning fabrics outside. The walls are of stone and can't be burned.
The wind would clear the smoke and once that's gone the people would regain their calm. They shouldn't be here,
anyway. If those Monitors had sense, they'd have herded them into one of the large rooms long ago. Now, let's get
those tools."
They were hidden under the coverlet in Adara's room, where they had taken them before starting the fires. Two
hammers, a pointed bar flat at one end, a wrench used for loosening the caps of small containers of pigment. Arbush
pursed his lips as he examined them.
"The bar's too short, we won't get much leverage; and the hammers are too light. The wrench is useless." He
hefted it in his hand. "Damn it. Was there nothing else?"
"You were with me," reminded Adara. "You saw what there was."
"Maybe we tried the wrong place. Is there any room fitted out to do heavy repairs?"
"No. All that's done below."
"Acid?" Arbush shook his head. "No. Too dangerous. Camolsaer would never supply it. What then? What the hell
can we use?" He beat his hands together in agonized frustration. "Damn it! I wish Earl was here!"

Chapter Thirteen
He was in a shaft three feet square, inching upwards with painful deliberation. Below him lay the bulk of
Camolsaer, apparatus turned into cooling slag; containers ruptured, crystals shattered, severed cables still alive with
sparkling energy. A conduit had led him to the foot of the shaft, a ventilator which narrowed as he climbed; blocked
with grills which he had burned away while the lastorch held power, discarding it to use his knife when it had failed.
Now, supported only by the traction of his boots and hands, he climbed up to where a patch of light shone in the
darkness.
Noise came through it; shouts, screams, the scent of burning, wisps of acrid smoke which caught at his lungs.
Higher and he saw the grill, crossed bars set in a sturdy frame. He locked his fingers between them, moved his feet up
behind him opposite to the grill, his body bent, cramped in the narrow space. He turned, the nape of his neck against
the bars, the upper reaches of his shoulders and, with the full strength of his body, thrust his legs against the far wall.
For a moment the grill resisted and then, with a tearing of metal, it yielded; allowing his head and shoulders to
pass through, hands to free themselves to grip the edges of the opening before the weight of his legs and hips could
pull him back down the shaft.
A jerk and he was falling to the floor of a corridor, ten feet below.
A woman screamed at the sight of him, turning to bump into a man, the pair of them running down the passage
in sudden panic. To one side a body lay in a pool of blood; the head crushed, splinters of glass from a shattered bottle
lying in a carmine pool. The victim of someone who hoped to escape the Knelling, lying ignored, the desired
constituents of his body going to waste. A sure sign of the disorganization of the Monitors, the disruption he had
caused.
The pair had run from where smoke billowed at the mouth of a chamber. Dumarest headed towards it, saw a
Monitor standing helplessly before a fuming mass of vegetation, caught a glimpse of a wild figure setting more tanks
aflame.
"Eloise!"
"Earl!" She came running towards him, almost unrecognizable; her gown torn, face, arms and hands dark with
soot, hair frizzled from too-near flame. "Earl! Thank God you made it!" Her arms wrapped around him, tight,
demanding; the pressure of her body equaling that of her lips.
"Eloise." With an effort he pushed her away. "Where are the others?"
"In Adara's room, I guess." She stared at him, her eyes wide. "My God, you look a mess. Your clothes! Your face!"
Her hand lifted to touch the spots of burn, the seared patches of skin. "Earl?"
"I'm all right." He coughed as smoke caught at his lungs. "Did they get the flying units?"
"I don't know. I've been busy." She gestured at the havoc she had caused. "I guess we've won. The Monitors don't
seem to care."
For now, but not for long. They were self-motivated units capable of independent decisions; disorganized now
only because of the lack of direct orders from Camolsaer. And even that wouldn't last. Already repair units must be at
work on the machine.
"Look at them, Earl. Those damned machines don't know which way to turn. And look at the fires. I started them.
I did it. This is the finest day of my life."
"It'll be the last, if you don't hurry."
"Fire," she said dreamily. "The poor man's friend. I heard someone say that once and didn't know what he was
talking about. I know now. It's something I'll remember. Just a spark and everyone's equal. More than equal. A poor
man has nothing to lose, nothing to go up in flames."
She was transported, almost in ecstasy, something cruel and primitive in her nature responding to the
destruction. Coldly Dumarest slapped her cheek, streaks appearing on the sooted flesh. "Earl! You—"
"You're forgetting what this is all about." He gestured at the flames. "We've no time to waste while you gloat. We
need food, clothes; a lot of things."
"Clothes?"
"You think you can travel like that?" He looked at her torn gown, the naked flesh it revealed. "The cold would kill
you within minutes. And you could use a bath."
"Earl?"
"A cold bath," he snapped. "Maybe it will shock some sanity into you. Now let's get moving."
On the way he stopped at a terminal, resting his hand on the plate.
"Dumarest. What is the external weather?"
"Cold. Some wind. Snow expected."
"How soon?"
"Before dark."
"Direction of wind?"
"From the south."
Bad news; worse was the fact that Camolsaer still seemed to be functioning. At least it was answering questions
in a precise manner. Dumarest tested it further.
"There is a dead man close to this terminal."
"Dead… dead… dead…"
"Fires are spreading. Compartment 34 is flooded. A Monitor has been crushed in room 812."
A buzz came from the grill—the section of the mechanical brain dealing with variable factors was obviously
inoperative.
Dumarest said, "Where is Dras?"
Again the buzz. Satisfied, he turned from the installation.
"What was that all about?" Eloise was puzzled. "I can understand you wanting to know about the weather, but
why all the rest?"
"A test. The weather report must be on a different circuit. The main thing is that Camolsaer no longer knows
what is going on in the city."
"You wrecked it, Earl."
"Not wrecked, it was too big for that; but I managed to damage it a little. Let's hope the damage will last long
enough."
"Long enough?"
"For us to leave the city."

***

Arbush had been busy. He was surrounded by a mass of clothing; soft furs, garments of warm fabric, boots, hats,
an assortment which Adara had gathered from a dozen rooms. Now the man stood at the ledge before the serving
hatch.
"Eloise!" He turned as she entered the room, his face brightening, some of the shadows lifting from his eyes. "My
dear, I thought you were hurt I wanted to look for you but—"
"I wouldn't let him," interrupted Arbush. "Not until we had everything ready. It's good to see you, Earl. Success?"
"Of a kind." Dumarest looked at the clothes, then pushed the woman towards the bathroom. "Strip and get
washed. Dirt is a poor insulator against the cold."
"You'll join me, Earl?"
He ignored the invitation, turning to stare at the minstrel where he sat, his face hard.
"Why didn't you get the units?"
"We tried, Earl. Three times. Once we managed to get a wedge started against the lock, but a Monitor arrived and
brushed us away. I tried to distract it with fire, but it was no good. The damned thing was still there when we left."
Arbush shrugged, glancing at Adara. "So I thought it best to do what we could."
"I failed," said Adara. "I did my best, but it wasn't good enough. Arbush is being kind."
"What are you doing?"
"Ordering food." The minstrel waved to where bundles stood close to the door. "Meats, pastes, oils, food and
things to provide fuel. Some wine; they didn't have brandy."
"The means to start a fire?"
Arbush lifted a can tied to a thong, smoke oozing from ragged holes punched in the metal.
"Burning rag," he explained. "Give it a swing and it will flare to life. A thing I learned on Falfard."
As Dumarest had learned it long ago; a primitive method of transporting fire, simple, cheap, effective.
"We'd better carry one each," he said. "And ropes? Did you make some rope?"
Arbush had been thorough. Strips of fabric had been plaited into tough cords, the cords again plaited to form
lengths of rope. Dumarest tested one, frowning. They were too short to give real aid if they had to climb, but they
would serve to join one to the other. An essential piece of equipment in case of emergency. And a length of rope had
many uses.
Adara said, wonderingly, "Earl, all these preparations. I thought we were going to fly over the ice, not walk."
"We may have to do both."
"But the units—"
"We haven't got them yet." Dumarest softened his tone a little; the man couldn't help being what he was. "We've
traveled over the ice, you haven't. The units could fail, anything; and only a fool doesn't plan for an emergency.
Eloise!"
"Coming, Earl!"
She was naked, unabashed, her skin dusted with powder, fresh paint on her lips and nails; the upper lids of her
eyes thick with a blue shadow flecked with silver. More silver bound her hair.
Arbush sucked in his breath. "My lady, you are beautiful!"
She smiled at the compliment, her eyes on Dumarest.
"You wanted me, darling?"
"Get dressed." He was curt, seeing the look in Adara's eyes, knowing the danger of a man who could have lost the
wish and will to live. "Adara, help her. Plenty of layers, topped with the thickest furs you can find. Never mind about
appearance. Just cover her up so as to keep her warm. Yourself also. We must all get ready."
When finished they looked grotesque; shapes padded and tied almost beyond recognition, faces narrowed
beneath enclosing hoods.
Sweating, Arbush distributed the bundles; tying his own, with the neck of the gilyre protruding, to his belt. They
were ready to go, but one thing remained to be done.
"Adara, listen to me." Dumarest faced the man, holding his eyes. "There's one thing you've got to remember. You
can't lose. Always bear that in mind. If you haven't realized it yet, you're as good as dead. No matter what you do now
you can't make things worse. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Earl. Arbush has already explained all that."
 "I'm not asking if you know it. I want to know if you accept it. In here." Dumarest rested a finger over the man's
heart. "In your guts. You've got to want to survive."
The instinct which in him was so strong, in others so unaccountably weak. He had seen it on a dozen worlds; men
sentenced to execution, waiting patiently while watched by a handful of guards. They could have attacked, snatched
weapons, died doing it, perhaps; but at least they would have tried. And they would have lost nothing.
"Adara?"
"Yes, Earl. I understand."
Dumarest wasn't so sure. The eyes were still dull, the face lax, resigned. A man moving because of external
influences, not because of internal decision. A weakness which could cost them all their lives.
And then, seeing the shift of his eyes as the woman moved, Dumarest knew both the reason and the answer.
"You love her," he said quietly. "You cannot imagine life without her. And you think you have lost her. You haven't.
Once we reach safety, she will be yours. I promise that I will not take her with me. She will be yours."
A lie, perhaps; no one could demand that another subjugate personal desires, but at least a part of it was the
truth. He repeated it, watching Adara's eyes.
"I shall not take her with me. If you live, you will have all you think necessary for happiness."
Adara brightened, a man in love eager to hear reassurance. "You promise, Earl? You will not take her from me?"
"I promise."
It had to be enough, there was no time for more; already they had lingered too long.

***

The air at the north gate was clear; the area deserted, aside from a Monitor which stood close to the store which
was their target. Too close to suit Dumarest's plan. He walked towards it, hands behind him, the hammers gripped in
his fingers, halting well beyond reach of the arms.
"Move!" he snapped. "You're wanted on the upper levels."
"Man Dumarest, you will leave this place." The head turned, glowing lenses registering the presence of the
others. "None of you should be here. You will leave immediately."
"No." Dumarest edged forward, moving sidewise, occupying the thing's attention, "You will obey. Go at once to
the upper level."
Behind the Monitor he caught sight of movement. Arbush creeping close, one end of the length of rope in his
hands; the other held by Adara, the strand taut between them. The Monitor had turned, but was still too close to the
store, the locked door they had to force open. Barely three feet of space between its shoulder and the wall—it had to
be enough.
"Now!"
Eloise screamed; a high, nerve-stopping sound, shocking in its raw implication of agony. The Monitor glanced
towards her, taking one step in her direction and, as the gap widened, Arbush moved.
He lunged like a furred ball, the rope in his hands; thrusting his bulk between the Monitor and the wall, past the
tall, metallic figure. As the rope tightened Dumarest sprang, taking three steps forward; lifting his feet as he flung
himself at the Monitor, his boots slamming with the full weight of his body against the upper torso. Thrown back by
the impact the thing hit the rope, blow and drag working in opposite directions, levers which sent it off-balance to
crash to the ground.
Then Dumarest was on it, hammers lifting, falling; smashing the lenses, the elbows, the joints of the legs.
"Quick!" Eloise was at the door, a wedge rammed into the point above the lock. "Hurry, Earl!"
He was already at work, the hammer a blur as he slammed it down, a tool too light for the job; its lack of mass
having to be compensated by the muscles of his arms, back and shoulders. Above the sound of the blows, he heard
the minstrel's snarl.
"Another of the damned things. Remember, Adara; hold the rope tight, catch its legs and pull."
A plan hastily improvised, depending on shrewd teamwork, the will to survive.
A crash and another Monitor was down; Arbush yelling as he wielded the other hammer, aiming for the electronic
eyes.
"Earl!"
"The bar." He threw the hammer into her hands and snatched the strip of metal. The flattened end slipped into
the gap he had made with the wedge, now knocked free. Gripping the far end, he heaved.
"Arbush!" The bar was too short, his strength insufficient. "To me! Eloise, take the rope and work with Adara.
Move!"
Dumarest sucked in his breath as the minstrel joined him, plump hands locking over his own.
 "On the word. Get ready. Now!"
Again he heaved, legs straddled, back arched, blood darkening his fingernails. Arbush added his strength,
pushing, breath rasping, boots clamped against the floor. The bar yielded a little.
"Earl!"
Eloise, her voice high, rising above the drone of an approaching Monitor; but there was no time to look.
"Damn it!" gasped Arbush. "So near—"
He lunged forward as something broke with a rip of metal; his weight hit Dumarest, sending him staggering back,
the bar still in his hand. Beyond the rounded figure he could see the woman and Adara, the rope between them
looped around the legs of a Monitor; another was advancing, hands extended.
The bar left his hand, hurtling across the fifty feet of space between them to slam its length against the painted
face, the glowing eyes.
"The units!" The door of the store was open wide, Arbush delving inside where compact mechanisms hung on
brackets; smoothly rounded and shaped metal fitted with an elaborate harness. "We've got them—but there's no
time."
Dumarest thrust him aside. In a row, held in clips, stood a line of squat cylinders fitted with grips, a movable
projection. He snatched one, saw the orifice at one end, the sights on the barrel and found the release. A weapon
which, of necessity, would be rendered harmless before being stored. Unloaded, perhaps, certainly uncocked. He
dragged at the projection, felt it slide, heard a soft click.
"Down!" he shouted. "All of you, down!"
He hit the floor as they obeyed, cradling the weapon, aiming it at the Monitor who had fallen and was now
regaining its feet; closing his finger on the trigger as the sights came into line. A thread of fire spat from the muzzle
reaching towards the torso, to dissolve in a gush of flame, a roaring explosion.
A second shot and the other Monitor joined the first, lying in broken wreckage; shattered plates blasted open to
reveal inner mechanisms, the freed liquids of a crystal container, the pulped mass of the residual brain.
"God!" Eloise rose, hands clamped to her ears, a bit of blood showing at one nostril. "That was close, Earl. You
damned near burst my eardrums."
"You'll live. Get into one of the units."
"What?" She had forgotten the hands at her ears. Dropping them, she came towards him. Irritably Dumarest
gestured her aside.
"Don't stand in the line of fire. It won't take long for more Monitors to get here. Now get into one of those flying
units. Adara! You know how they are used. Instruct us."
Basically they were simple; a power-pack activating anti-gravity plates, straps which went over the shoulders,
around the torso, up between the thighs. The lift was from the base of the pack, controlled by a simple switch.
Direction was governed by movements of the body.
"First you lift," said Adara. "When you get high enough, you throw your head and upper body forward. There are
automatic compensating plates so that you don't fall. If you can manage to remain straight, with your head in the
direction you want to go, you'll get maximum velocity."
"And if you want to twist, face back in the direction from which you came?"
"You can do it, Earl. You'll have to adjust the lift, of course; otherwise you'll keep rising." Adara made a helpless
gesture. "Mostly it's a matter of practice."
Which the Monitors had and they did not. And there was no time to do more than test, to see if the units held
power.
Already the Monitors were arriving, tall shapes glinting as they strode down the corridors leading to the gate.
From the store Dumarest handed each one a gun, tucking another beneath his harness. Adara looked blankly at the
one in his hands.
"What do I do with it, Earl?"
"You cock it, so. Then you point it at what you want to hit and squeeze that trigger. Now outside, all of you!"
The last to go, he paused at the door; turning, the weapon leveled in his hands. The Monitors were close;
fragments whined, striking the wall to one side, smoke and flame tainting the air as he blasted them to ruin. Again he
fired, sending missiles into the open store, filling it with destruction; explosions occurred as the contents erupted in a
burst of energy which sent metal running in a molten tide.
The other units ruined, the weapons; time gained as they got away.
Outside the cold struck like a knife, numbing exposed cheeks, hands and fingers. Dumarest donned thick gloves
and hit the control, rising with the others, passing them, slowing as he made an adjustment.
"Arbush, stay close!"
The minstrel was high and drifting to one side. With a jerk he twisted in mid-air, legs lifting as he leveled out in an
upward-sloping glide. Eloise, with her dancer's agility, had quickly mastered the elementary system of control. She
reached for the plump shape, caught at a strap and brought him into line. Adara was far to the south.
"Catch him!" Dumarest caught up with the others and gripped the woman's arm, nodding towards Adara. "Keep
up with him. Hold his hand, but don't let him get away. We have to stay together."
She twisted, smiling.
"Let him go, Earl. We don't need him."
"He needs us."
"I didn't mean forget him. We just don't need what he can teach us. These things are easy to handle."
For her, perhaps, but not for the minstrel. He darted from side to side; over-compensating, dipping to rise, to
twist. Dumarest passed over him, gripped his other arm.
"We'll hold him between us, Eloise. Now let's get Adara."
He had slowed and was waiting. Together, like a flock of ungainly birds, hands clasped for mutual aid, they rose
up and flew away from the city.
Eloise laughed as she saw it shrink, to dwindle and lose itself in the wilderness.
"The end, Earl. Five years of hell and now I'm free. Free. And I owe it all to you."
"We're not clear yet, Eloise."
"We will be," she said confidently. "And when we are, I'll show you what gratitude really means. What a woman in
love can do for her man. When we're alone I'll—"
A gust of wind drowned the rest of her words and Dumarest was glad of it. Adara would be listening, but more
important was the woman's attitude of mind. While she dreamed of the future, she would tend to ignore the dangers
of the present.
Releasing his grip Dumarest turned and looked towards the rear, seeing nothing. As he resumed his former
position Arbush muttered, "Earl, it's damned cold."
It was freezing. The wind was against them, a frigid blast which robbed their bodies of heat. Flying took little
physical effort and they were inviting hypothermia, despite the muffling garments.
"Well land after a while," said Dumarest. "Walk on for a time and warm ourselves up."
"When?"
"Soon." It would have to be soon. Adara was hunched, trembling; Eloise now silent, her face a deathly white.
Softened by the city, they were ill-suited to rigor. "In an hour."
An hour of flight; then twenty minutes in which they stumbled over the ice, beating numbed hands, generating
heat by the activity of their bodies; then into the air again always into the wind, always heading towards the south.
And, at dusk, came the snow.

Chapter Fourteen
Arbush chuckled, rubbing his hands over the smoking glow of burning rag smeared with oil, the light dancing on
his face, the thrown-back hood.
"Remember the last time we camped like this, Earl? Hurt, you nearly dead, down to the last drop of brandy? We
found a cave then and had a candle of sorts. Now we've got luxury."
Eloise said, "You must be joking."
"No, I mean it. A dry cave, no wind to speak of, food, a fire, some wine, good clothes; what else do you need?"
"A song."
"Sleep. We've had a hard day." Dumarest glanced to where Adara lay slumped on the floor. He was breathing
deeply, his eyelids jerking as if he dreamed. Lifting his boot Dumarest poised the heel over the fire, then changed his
mind. The glow was small, the mouth of the cave blocked with the units and packs; the light would not show outside.
And it would be a convenience if they had to move fast, a comfort for anyone if they woke.
Eloise, perhaps. Adara. The man had remained silent as they ate, nursing his food, his wine; a man lost in the
maze of unpleasant thoughts. Brooding over what he had heard, or anticipating what was to come, the new life he
would have to lead. Well, he would learn to survive or he would succumb.
And there were other things to worry about. The flying units—Dumarest had no idea how long they would last.
With the wind against them, they had made small progress and the units could fail. A fact which he had recognized,
but had been forced to accept. As he had been forced to lose the opportunity of questioning Camolsaer, which he
would have liked.
To ask if it had known the whereabouts of Earth.
It could, possibly, have known. Those who had built it long ago might have fed the knowledge to its banks. A few
more minutes and the answer could have been his. But those few minutes might have cost him his life. Monitors had
been in the lower region. Special units which had ignored the imposed directive, if the directive had been imposed at
all. Machine or not, Camolsaer would have obeyed the dictates of survival.
He jerked, suddenly aware that he had dozed; aware too of something beside him, of the warm pressure of lips
on his cheek.
"Earl! Earl, my darling! Earl!"
Eloise, awake, her breath warm. A whisper which he matched.
"What do you want?"
"You, my darling. You. Earl, how long must I wait?"
Her cheeks were flushed, the skin febrile, the eyes liquid with passion.
"Earl, I love you. You know that."
"So?"
"I need you." She saw the glance of his eyes and thrust her face before his own. "The others? What the hell does
it matter? Anyway they are asleep. Even if they weren't, I wouldn't care."
"Maybe not," he said gently. "But I would."
"Why? Are you ashamed? No, you've never been ashamed of anything. Shy then? No, not that. Then what, Earl?
Don't you want me?"
"What I want isn't too important. Not just now. The thing is we're a group and we have to help each other to
survive. This is no way to do it."
"Because of Adara? Are you afraid of him, Earl?"
"And if I said that I was?"
"You'd be lying." Her voice strengthened a little. "You're not afraid of anything that walks or talks or lives, on any
world anywhere. You don't know the meaning of fear. You can't. You're that kind of a man."
"If you think that then you're a fool," he said harshly. "You're not talking about bravery, but stupidity. There are a
lot of things I'm afraid of. One of them is flying close to a man with a grudge against me and a deranged mind. A
man with a gun, which he might decide to use at any moment without warning."
"Then take it from him."
"And demean his pride?" He added, as she made no answer. "A man doesn't need a gun to kill, Eloise. And his
target needn't be myself."
"You're thinking of me," she said quickly. "That means you care for me. Then why not leave him, Earl? Get rid of
the danger? Kill him if you have to. You could do it."
"Yes," he admitted. "I could do it if I had to. And if he was hurt, dying and in pain I would. But tell me, Eloise, just
what has he done to you that you want to see him dead?"
"Done? Why nothing, Earl. He—"
"Saved your life." Dumarest glanced to where he lay. Quietly he added, "When you think about it, Eloise, it seems
a poor reward."

***

Adara had been dreaming; a nightmare in which he ran from something terrible, straining every muscle and yet
making no progress. And faces had watched him as he ran, laughing faces which had turned and kissed, to face him
again with cynical amusement.
Eloise, whom he had lost.
Dumarest, who had won her affection.
He stirred and opened his eyes. The fire was a bare glow in the darkness, an ember which threw a low, ruddy
light in which shapes rested, shadows thick around and between. Two of them seemed to be lying close together, too
close; and with sudden jealousy he added fuel to the ember, blowing it to life, turning to verify his suspicions.
He had been mistaken. Dumarest was alone; the impression that another lay at his side was a trick of the light.
And yet surely there had been the murmur of voices, the rustle of movement? Or had that been, like the smiles and
kisses, a part of his dream?
Tiredly he looked around. Arbush was a mound, his face a blur. Eloise was another, her back towards him, a
tangle of hair falling over her hood. He looked again at Dumarest; the stranger who had come to ruin his life, the
violent man whom the woman had chosen.
Violence, why did she love it so much?
And, if she did, and he should prove to be the more violent of both men, would she again turn to him with love in
her eyes?
 If he should kill Dumarest?
He felt himself tense at the alien concept and fought the ingrained conditioning of the past. Old habits had been
replaced by new, and the man himself had told him that he had nothing to lose. To kill then, to strike and prove
himself the master; to take the fruits of victory, the love he had known.
And the man himself had provided the means. He turned and reached for one of the weapons; lifting it to stare
along the barrel at the hard face, hard even in sleep. A simple pressure and it would be done. But he had seen the
thing work, the destruction it caused. To fire it in this confined space would be to kill them all.
Carefully he placed it aside and again studied the sleeping man.
The eyes, perhaps; his fingers gouging, blinding, gaining time in which to kill at his leisure. He sweated at the
thought of it; how could he ever rob another of his vision? The throat then; his fingers tightening, stopping the breath.
Or the gun, not fired, but used as a club. His hand crept towards it.
"Try it," said Arbush quietly, "and you'll be dead before you know it."
"You know?"
"I saw."
"But the gun? I—"
"You hadn't cocked it. If you had, the noise would have woken Earl at once." The minstrel rose from where he lay,
hunching as he warmed his hands at the fire. "He looks asleep, and he is, but only as an animal sleeps. One move
towards him, a touch, and he will waken ready to kill. I recognize the signs."
"Does he always sleep like that?"
"Not always, he's a man, not a beast; but he's learned to survive. And you worry him. Did you know that the
woman wanted to leave you behind?"
"No! She couldn't. She—"
"She's in love with Earl. A woman in love is rarely sane and never to be blamed. A man either. Earl knows that,
which is why you are here."
"He promised me that he wouldn't take her." Adara looked from one to the other. "He swore to me that he would
leave her."
"And he will. Earl isn't looking for a woman. He is searching for something more important than that."
"Earth, she told me."
"Earth." Arbush sighed. "A dream, perhaps, but one which rules his life. Which gives him the reason for living,
perhaps; we should all have a reason for that. Once I thought I had it, but for me the dream didn't last I had the gift of
music and the ability to make a song. Small things some would say; to me they were the gate to adventure, the means
to achieve paradise. In a way I found it. For a few weeks it was real. In the city was everything I had ever longed for. I
tasted it, reveled in it; now it is gone. But, my friend, such is life."
"Endless disappointment?"
"In a way, as women are. Each offers untold joys and each, somehow, fails to deliver what we expect. And always
there are surprises. The plain one who is passed by at a glance can, when passion rules her, dominate the universe of
a man's being. The one who is lovely to look at can be as cold as the ice around us. And, after all, what is a woman?
Surely she is something which can be shared? Once you had her, now she yearns for another, but have you lost all?
Once Earl has gone, what then? She will still remain."
Adara said, slowly, "I wanted to kill him."
"You are not the first."
"I wanted to take his life because of Eloise." Adara shook his head, baffled. Too much had happened too fast. "Tell
me, am I mad?"
"You are tired," said the minstrel. "And maybe a little feverish. At such times, thoughts are rarely clear. What you
need is some wine." He reached for the bottle which he had warmed against his bulk. "Drink, my friend, and relax. All
will be well."

***

They left at dawn, rising into air which was clear and crisp; the snow which had fallen during the night a soft
blanket of whiteness over the rough terrain. The wind had changed, now blowing from the north in a steady stream; a
shift to their advantage. As was the practice they had now gained. No longer was it necessary to lock their hands.
An added advantage for Dumarest who often rose high above the others, to turn and search the empty wastes
behind; to dive, gaining speed as he caught up.
"You're worried." Eloise glided to his side, one hand reaching out to grip his arm, a lever to draw her close. "You
keep looking back. Why, Earl?"
 "A precaution."
"You think we could be followed?" It was something she had never considered. "But how, Earl, and why? The
Monitors wouldn't move without orders from Camolsaer and you wrecked it."
"I damaged it," be corrected. "And it was minor damage, at best."
Destruction easily repaired and the machine could have rerouted information channels; cut the destroyed
mechanisms from its operational circuits.
She said, "I know more about it than you do, Earl. I lived with it longer. Camolsaer takes no interest in anything
beyond the city. We are well beyond it and so it will ignore us. The Monitors too."
"Perhaps. I hope so."
"But you aren't sure?" She twisted her head and looked back, seeing nothing but the endless expanse of ice and
snow over which they flew. "You're thinking of it as a man," she decided. "A living thing wanting revenge, but we're
talking about a machine. At first, maybe, it would have tried to get us; but not now. We're too far away."
A comfort he couldn't share. To survive, the city had to remain in isolation; the reason the Monitors hunted any
Krim who came too near. They had made slow progress yesterday and had rested during the night. Monitors were not
hampered by the limitations of flesh.
"Earl," she said abruptly. "About last night. What you said. I guess I was wrong."
"About what?"
"You know." She pointed to where Adara flew, a little to the front. "But I didn't mean what you thought I did. I was
just worried about you, that's all."
"Not him?"
"Not then. I didn't think. But this morning he was acting strange. He kept looking at me and didn't smile and
barely ate. Could he be sick, Earl?"
"Maybe. Go over to him and keep him company. Try and cheer him up." Dumarest glanced back and down, as the
minstrel called to him. "Don't get too far ahead."
Arbush was in trouble. He writhed in his harness, sweating as he manipulated his body, plump hands at the
switch.
"The damned thing's failing, Earl. I've got it on full lift, but I can't keep up."
Dumarest looked down. The terrain had leveled, broken ground lying ahead, the blanket of snow thinning; it was
broken by ice-capped teeth, bare rock showing like gray scabs. A bad place to land.
"Drop," he ordered. "Get down fast and wait. We'll join you."
"Earl?"
"Down and fast!" If the unit were to suddenly fail, the man would drop like a stone. Dumarest hit the switch and
felt the sluggish response. Advancing to the others he wheeled, slashed a hand across his throat and pointed
downwards.
Adara was little help.
"I don't know how long the units are supposed to last, Earl," he admitted. "I've never even thought about it. I just
assumed they were inexhaustible. Is there anything you can do?"
Dumarest examined the mechanism. The unit was sealed, three small holes set into the inner surface; a
recharging point, perhaps. He could discover no way by which to gain access to the power pack inside.
"Arbush is heavy," he said. "He's got more weight than any of us, so would have used up more power. We'll have
to equalize. Eloise, switch units."
"Earl?"
"You're the lightest Do it." He frowned as, reluctantly, she made the exchange. "We must dump some weight. The
wine can go. Most of the fuel. Nearly all of the food. The gilyre—"
"No, Earl!" Arbush was defiant. "Not that. I'd starve first."
"How about the guns?" said Eloise. "Do we need all of them?"
"Dump yours," said Dumarest. "And you too, Adara."
"No, I'd rather not." He stood, face bleak but determined. "Logically, Arbush should get rid of his. It will
compensate for the gilyre."
And he needed to retain his own, as a symbol of his pride; the outward sign of his equality with Dumarest.
"Let him keep it, Earl," said Eloise, understanding. "How about clothes? Have we come far enough south to shed a
few?"
"No." The wind could change again, and without food they would need the protection of the furs. And they hadn't
traveled as far as she thought. "Later, maybe, but not yet. Now let's get moving. Keep close and don't ride too high."
"Does it matter?" Arbush shrugged. "A fall from a hundred feet or a thousand, what is the difference?"
"There must be a safety factor. A reserve of lift, once the power dies. If we're too high we could land, yes, but we
would be stuck where we hit. Traveling low, well have a chance to squeeze a little more from the units, couple them
up, maybe." Dumarest adjusted his harness. "Let's get going."
Up into the air again, keeping close, conscious now of the factor of time and distance covered as never before;
passing over the flat terrain, the broken ground, rising a little to escape the turbulent air gusting up from ravaged
peaks.
A journey without a break; dead weight took power to lift, power which could carry them on their way. Eloise
lagged behind a little and Dumarest slowed to maintain the grouping. Arbush forged ahead beating his hands, the
gilyre strung from his belt A gust of wind caught him from one side and he turned, tumbling like a leaf before
regaining his equilibrium. Adara fell back and Dumarest turned towards him; seeing the pale face, the burning eyes,
the gun held in the gloved hands.
Seeing also the glinting shapes which fell from the sky.

Chapter Fifteen
They came like arrows shaped like armored men; three of them, diving from where they had ridden high in the
air, almost invisible against the sky. Monitors fitted with units more powerful than their own, armed with weapons
more destructive. Flame and smoke rose from the ice, leaving wide craters gaping in the roar of explosions.
"Arbush! Eloise! Down! Find a crevasse and hide!"
Unarmed, they were useless. Dumarest twisted, throwing his body back, face turned upwards; the weapon in his
hands firing, aimed by instinct. The foremost Monitor burst in a rain of metallic fragments.
"Adara! Quick! Damn you, man! Open fire!"
He was too slow, forgetting to cock the weapon, fumbling as he jerked at the protrusion. Dumarest snarled, firing
again; hitting the switch on his harness to fall as death tore the air where he had been. He rose, the unit sluggish as
the Monitors swept past and down, to rise again in a sharp curve towards him. He saw their glowing lenses, the guns
aimed and steady, the orifices which would spout missiles to take his life. One he could hit, never both; and one
wasn't enough.
"Earl!"
Adara was rising, his face taut, the gun awkward in his hands.
"Turn, you fool!" He was facing the wrong way. "Turn!"
The Monitors were beyond him, a little above as they came in for the kill. Another second and they would open
fire. Dumarest tensed, jerked to one side, lifted the gun and closed his finger. Flame blossomed as one of the things
died, but the other had already fired.
Then Adara was before him, a living barrier against which the missiles burned; to explode, to rip apart flesh and
bone, to shower the air with a fine spray of smoking blood.
Dumarest dropped, turned as the Monitor passed; he fired at the head, the missiles hitting the torso, the hips,
shattered metal falling to join the tattered bundle which once had been a man.
"Thank god!" As he landed, Arbush came running from a crevasse in which he had only seen the blur of
movement, the flash of explosions against the sky. "Earl, I thought it had got you. I saw—"
"Adara." Dumarest looked at the woman. "He saved my life at the cost of his own."
"I'm glad, Earl. Glad that it wasn't you."
"I wish it hadn't been anyone," said Arbush. "In a way, I liked the man. Felt a little sorry for him, I suppose. Well,
he's dead now, and at peace." He rubbed thoughtfully at his cheek. "At least we're out of danger."
"For the moment." Dumarest searched the sky, tensed as he saw three more flecks in the distance. "Take those
units off. Hurry!"
Eloise frowned. "Why, Earl? We shall need them."
"Do as I say." Tearing at the harness, Dumarest stepped from the tangle of straps. "Those Monitors followed us
and more are coming. How do you think they found us?"
"A beacon?" The minstrel was shrewd. "Inside the units, Earl?"
"I think so. What else are we carrying which could contain it. They're homing in on a broadcasting unit. Now get
rid of them and hurry!"
A deep crevasse swallowed the machines, Dumarest leading the way from the spot; ducking, keeping under cover,
out of sight of the Monitors who had grown in the sky. An overhang gave on to a blind grotto, a dead-end facing the
crevasse in which they had dumped the units. Rocks lay before it, the gray stone slimed with ice; he crouched behind
them, the others lying flat to the rear.
Arbush whispered, "We dumped the food, Earl. If we lose the units—" He broke off, remembering the past; the
bleak and savage time before they had reached the city.
"We'll be alive," said Dumarest.
"True, if they're satisfied with finding the units. But if they should look for us, what then?"
"We pray." Eloise's voice held an ironic amusement. It changed as vibrations tore the air, the shock of explosions
shaking the stone on which they lay. "Earl!"
"Be quiet!"
"But, Earl—"
"Damn you, woman? Be silent!"
The units, he knew, had been destroyed, their signaling devices stilled; but unless the Monitors were fools an
examination would be made. They would have expected to see the fugitives, could still expect to find them, and they
must know that they couldn't be far.
They would be drifting above at this moment, flying slow and low, sensors alerted for sonic vibrations; the
unmistakable signs of infra-red radiation which would betray the presence of living tissue.
Something scraped at the end of the tunnel leading to the grotto. A fragment of ice fell, a small stone. Slowly
Dumarest reached beside him for the gun, lifted it, steadied it on his arm.
The weapon could, in itself, have betrayed them; but it was the only defense against the things they had. And he
couldn't be sure how effective it would be; how many missiles it contained. Only one, perhaps, in which case they
were dead. But if it held only three, they had a chance.
Again came the scrape of ice and something dropped from above. He heard a soft inhalation as Eloise sucked in
her breath, the rustle as Arbush moved, his urgent whisper.
"Get it, Earl! Quickly, for God's sake!"
Dumarest didn't move, staying frozen, blended into the rocks behind which he lay. One Monitor was in sight;
where were the other two?
Something hit the overhang as another metallic shape came into view. Two facing him and one above; out of
sight and impossible to reach without showing himself. And the things were fast. It would fire before he could turn
and aim.
Unless, somehow, its attention could be distracted.
Dumarest rose, aimed, fired all in one quick movement, the missile bursting against the head of the foremost
Monitor; slamming it back against its companion. The weapon it held lifted, firing as the fingers clamped in dying
reflex, sending a hail of missiles into the air above where he stood.
An explosion wracked the air as Dumarest sprang from cover, turning in mid-air to see the Monitor above falling,
limned with flame; he turned again to send the last shot his weapon contained at the remaining Monitor as it climbed
to its feet.
As the echoes died Arbush said, dazed, "God, Earl, I never thought a man could move so fast. You were just a
blur."
Speed and luck, which had won the calculated gamble. Looking at the wreckage Eloise said, "What now, Earl?"
"We walk."
"Walk?" Her voice was high, incredulous. "Without food or fuel? A thousand miles or more over this ice? Maybe it
would be better to end it now."
"We walk," he said again. "And we try to contact the Krim."

***

The man was small, plump, his face smooth in its rim of fur. His hands were broad, dark with hair on the backs,
the nails blunt and filed short. He wore garments of quilted fabric, warmed by the power-packs at his belt. His name
was Juskan, a trader.
"You were fortunate," he said. "If you had handled things differently, made a threatening gesture even; well, you
wouldn't be here now."
"Luck," said Arbush. "Earl is loaded with it. I read it in his palm." He dipped again into his bowl of stew,
swallowing, chewing a fragment of meat. "Luck," he mused. "Sometimes I wonder if, of all the things a man could
wish to be given, that is not the most important. Is there more stew?"
"Help yourself." Juskan gestured to the pot which hung on a tripod over the fire. "How about you?"
Dumarest shook his head. "Later, maybe."
"And you?"
Eloise put aside her bowl, shaking her head. Her face was hollowed, thin with privation, her eyes enormous
beneath the level brows. A week, she thought, or had it been longer. Days in which they had crossed the rugged
ground, staying always on the skyline; burning garments at night to make a clearly visible flame. And then had come
the Krim.
They had arrived like ghosts, furred balls with peaked, suspicious faces; talking only in monosyllables, armed with
knives and primitive guns.
And now, incredibly, they were safe. She leaned back in the low chair, looking at the expanse of the underground
cavern to which they had been taken; the walls thick with luminous fungus, the roof crusted with mineral deposits.
Such places were to be expected, the Krim had to live somewhere; once explained, it all seemed so obvious.
"They're a primitive people," said Juskan. "They live by hunting and farming the fungus. There is coal in certain
regions and they do a little mining. They have a legend that, one day, they will all move to a paradise somewhere in
the north."
To the city and, one day, they might take it. Dumarest wondered what would happen then. What would become
of the people it now contained?
He said, "Aren't you curious as to what it could be like?"
"No." Juskan shrugged. "I've heard so many legends, one way and another. Every tribe has them and none of
them are more than wishful thinking. You crashed, you say?"
"Our flyer got caught in a storm."
"It happens. You chose the wrong time; winter is hard. Not that summer is much better, but there's more chance
then. In the air, anyway, not on the ground. When it gets a little warmer, animals come out of hibernation and some
of them can be trouble." Juskan leaned forward to examine the pot. "If you don't want any more of this stew, I'll hand
it over to the women. They have a taste for what's in it."
Spices and soft meat, dehydrated foods which the man had brought with him. Dumarest watched as a lumpish girl
carried the pot over to where a huddle of children sat around a mass of glowing fungus.
"You said you were a trader. After furs?"
"Furs, gems, anything that's going; but mostly I'm after doltchel. The only way to get the Krim to work is to stay
with them. My partner and I take it in turns. It isn't so bad, really. The caves are snug and I've got a few comforts." He
glanced at the woman. "Treat them right and they play along. And they need what we can bring; knives, guns,
ammunition, needles, stuff like that."
Eloise said, "Where do they come from?"
"The Krim?" Juskan shrugged. "Maybe they're the survivors of an early settlement. They could even be true
natives. I've never bothered about it."
A man devoid of curiosity, or one who had decided that curiosity didn't pay.
Dumarest said, "Can you get us to Breen? We can pay."
"That helps," admitted the trader. "At least it'll get you a ride, but not for a month at least. My partner will be
coming on a raft then. If you can compensate me for the lost load and trouble, I'll take you in." He looked at Eloise.
"Is that your woman?"
"Yes," she said quickly.
"There's a small cave you can share. The minstrel can stay with me."
Arbush said, shrewdly, "With comforts?"
"Something can be arranged." Juskan glanced at the gilyre. "Are you any good with that thing?"
"I'm an expert."
"Then you'll have no trouble. The Krim like music. How about a tune now?"
The music rose as a woman guided Dumarest to a cave. A thick covering closed the opening; massed fungus
giving light to show a table, chairs, a mass of furs piled for sleeping.
Eloise looked at them. "Earl?"
"Yes?"
"Did you mind me telling Juskan that I was your woman?"
"No."
"Then does that mean—" She stepped closer to him, lifting her hands to his shoulders. "Adara is dead now, Earl;
we can't hurt him no matter what we do. And I love you. I want you."
He said, flatly, "When we reach Breen, I leave you."
Perhaps; but, woman-like, she was confident of her power. And she had at least a month to make him change his
mind. As the thrum of strings rose from behind the curtain she closed her arms around him, holding him tightly,
tighter, her lips a demanding flame.

***
 Breen was a slum, a huddle of shacks interspersed with stone buildings, warehouses, limited repair facilities; the
usual conglomeration to be found on any primitive world. Eloise crinkled her nose at the odors; acrid, harsh when
compared to the natural smells she had grown accustomed to while living with the Krim. Juskan had gone, dropping
them at the field and going about his business. As Dumarest was going about his.
She looked at the field, the ships it contained; a small trader plying among local worlds, a vessel from Prel,
another from somewhere beyond the Elmirha Dust. He had been fortunate, the port was unusually busy.
"He won't go," she said. "Earl won't leave me."
"You think that?" Arbush was at her side; a small, somehow shrunken figure, his gilyre nursed in his hands.
Absently he plucked a string. "You are being unkind to yourself, Eloise. Earl will do as he said."
As he had stated from the first, as he would do despite their time of passion, of hours spent in love. The time
when she had used all her skills to bind him to her; yet, she remembered, never once during that time had he
wavered, promised more than he could accomplish. An interlude, she thought bleakly. An episode on his journey. An
event which was now over—for her own hope of future happiness she had to accept that.
And, if nothing else, she had memories.
"He will leave us," said Arbush. "He will move on." The movement of his hand on the fret made the note he
plucked rise to the thin wail of an empty cry. "Do you think you are alone in your desire to want him to stay? I was
nothing when we met; on the lowest rung of the ladder, one step from the mud of the gutter, bound to a swine by
debts I couldn't pay. Chains which Earl broke. He saved my life—do you think I can forget that? Do you think that
love must always be from a woman to a man?"
"Love?"
"Something deeper than friendship. The feeling a man has for his son. Not love as you know it, perhaps; but the
thing which makes a man stand by his comrade, to kill for him, to die for him." Again the plucked string made its
empty cry. "We have much in common, you and I."
The stink of taverns, bad food, poor clothing, the edge of poverty. Tunes played for bread and dances given for
the sake of thrown coins. Avid faces and reaching hands, the demands on her flesh as much as her talent; the life she
had once known and had almost forgotten. The stench had brought it back. The dirt of the settlement, the
remembered faces, the need for money—always the need for money.
Five years in the city had made her soft. She said, bleakly, "There was a world I knew once; a small place with
farms and animals and happy children. A dull place, I once thought, a world without excitement. I used to watch the
ships land and long to ride with them. And then, one day, I did."
"An old tale," said Arbush. "I could tell one much the same."
"Would you go back if you could?"
To the world I left? No. A man has his pride. But there are other worlds on which a man could settle to end his
days."
"Small worlds," she said. "Places where a man with the gift of music and the touch of song could make his way.
Teaching, entertaining, making instruments for sale."
"And, where too, a dancer could teach her art," he pointed out. "As I said, Eloise, we have much in common. True
I am old and have little to offer, but what I have is yours. Money for passage, enough left over to buy a modest place."
She said, "There's Earl."
He came towards them, touching their hands, the gesture of farewell.
Eloise said, quickly, "You're leaving, Earl. Let us come with you. To the next world at least."
"No."
"Me, then. Please!"
"To be left among strangers?" Dumarest glanced at the minstrel. "Here you have a friend."
"Earl!"
"Goodbye, Eloise."
Arbush took her arm as Dumarest walked to where the ships were waiting, turning her away, leading her towards
the edge of the field.
"It's over," he said gently. "Earl has gone to find his dream. You can't go with him. No one can. It is something he
must do alone."

EYE OF THE ZODIAC

 Chapter One
At night the sound was that of a monster, a feral roar which rose to the skies and was carried on the wind, a
hungry growling interspersed with staccato explosions which thickened the air and left an acrid taint. At day the
monster was revealed as a conglomeration of men and machines which tore into the flank of a mountain, delving
deep, gutting ancient stone and pulverizing rock for the sake of the metal it contained.
A dual operation, the metal helping to pay for the pass and tunnel which would link inhabited areas, a passage
which would rob the sea and sky of expensive and dangerous transport.
One day it would be completed—but Dumarest had no intention of seeing it. Already he had stayed on Tradum
too long.
He stood by the door of the hut which housed fifty men, looking towards the west, seeing the fabulous glory of
the sunset. Swaths of red and orange, pink and gold, streamers of purple and emerald caught and reflected by the
mist of scudding cloud so that he seemed to be looking upward at the surface of some incredible ocean.
A relaxing sight, something to ease the fatigue born of eight hours continuous labor. Now he faced another shift
as an extra night-guard. Hard work but added pay. Soon, he would have enough.
"Earl?" He turned as someone called. "You out there, Earl?"
Leon Harvey, young, thin, his face old before its time. He stepped from the hut, bunking, a towel over his arm. His
face brightened as he saw Dumarest.
"You should have woken me," he accused. "You know how Nyther is—once late on the job and you lose it."
"That could be a good thing."
"Why?" Stung, his pride touched, the youngster bridled. "Don't you think I can take it?"
"Can you?"
"Sure I can. I'm tired, true, but I'll get over it. It just takes getting used to. Anyway, I need the money."
Wanted, not needed, a difference Dumarest recognized if the other did not. He made no comment, stepping to
where a trough stood beneath a line of faucets, stripping and standing beneath one, water laving his head and body as
he twisted a control.
Cold water piped from a mountain stream, numbing but refreshing, causing goose pimples to rise on his skin, the
chill accentuating the pallor of the thin lines of old scars which marred his torso.
Shivering, his lips blue, Leon hastily rubbed himself down,
"You're tough, Earl," he said enviously. "That water's close to freezing."
Dumarest reached for his towel. In many ways Leon was a nuisance, but he could recognize the youngster's need,
even be a little amused by his claim to affinity. He too had traveled, a few trips to nearby worlds, but it was more than
that which had won his tolerance. The boy was star-crazed, filled with the yearning for adventure, unable to see dirt
and squalor for what it really was. One day, perhaps, he would learn.
"Earl—"
"You talk too much."
"How else am I to learn." Leon watched as Dumarest dressed, wearing pants, sturdy knee-boots, a tunic long in
the sleeves and fitting high around the throat. The gray plastic was scuffed in several places, the glint of buried mesh
showing, metallic protection against the thrust of a knife, the rip of a claw. Reflected light from the setting sun winked
from the nine-inch blade which Dumarest carefully wiped before slipping it into his right boot.
"Earl!"
"What now?"
"When we get the money—when I get it—can I go with you?"
"No."
"Why not? We could travel together. I could help you, maybe, and—why not, Earl?"
Too many reasons, none of which the youngster would understand. His very desire for companionship showed
how unfitted he was to follow the way he had chosen. A man traveled faster alone. It was easier to get one berth than
two. And two men would be easier to spot than one.
Dumarest said, "Forget it, Leon."
"Why? Is someone after you? Is that it, Earl? Are you in danger of some kind?"
A guess—or perhaps a comment too shrewd for comfort. Certainly too near the truth. Dumarest looked at the
young face, the haggardness it revealed, the fatigue. Medical science could have made him appear younger, intensive
training taught him a part to play, rewards offered and promises made. There could be a thousand like him scattered
on worlds in this sector, placed where a destitute traveler would look for work, waiting, watchful, doing nothing until
the time came to report to their masters.
 Was Leon Harvey an agent of the Cyclan?
"Earl?"
"Nothing—I was thinking. Where is your home world?"
"Nerth. Not too far from here. I—"
"Nerth?"
"Yes. Earl, is something wrong? Your face—" Dumarest forced himself to relax. It was coincidence, it could be
nothing more. A name which held a special association. Nerth, Earth, an accident, surely. Yet hope, never dead,
responded to the familiar sound. A lure, perhaps? If Leon was an agent of the Cyclan, he could have offered no
greater enticement.
"Earth," said Dumarest. "You said Earth?"
"Earth?" Leon smiled. "Earl, are you crazy? Who the hell would call any planet by that name? No, I said Nerth. It's
a quiet world, too quiet for me, I ran as soon as I got the chance. And I'm going to keep on running. Just as soon as I
get enough for a passage I'm on my way. Right smack towards the Center. You've been there, Earl?"
"Yes."
"And you'll come with me?"
"Before we can go anywhere," said Dumarest. "We need the money."

***

They all needed money, the men who worked on the project, contract slaves killing themselves with labor to pay
an ever-expanding debt. Men who had accepted an advance, spent money on clothes, drinks, luxury foods. They had
tried to recoup by gambling and had lost. They stood in the middle of the hut, watching with envious eyes as others,
luckier or more sensible, played with cash they still could call their own.
The lure of easy money, a fortunate win which would enable them to pay off what they owed, accumulate a little
more, get a stake with which to beat the system. Some managed it, the majority did not. They would work until they
died, the victims of speed-accentuated risks, of haste-compounded errors. Fools who had walked willingly into a trap.
Elg Sonef was not one of them. He was a big man, squat, his face seamed, the knuckles of both hands scarred,
the spatulate fingers surprisingly deft as he manipulated the deck of cards. Every hut held one of his kind, the man
who ran the game, who used fists and feet to collect and to maintain his monopoly.
"The more you put down the more you pick up," he droned. His voice was harsh, rasping, careless of the
exhausted men trying to sleep in the double-tiered bunks. "Come on, lads, why hesitate? The canteen has a new
consignment of liquor and you get paid in two days time. A little luck and you could take your pick of the seraglio.
Why wait for luxuries?" Cards riffled from his fingers. "Make your bets. Even money on any choice."
The game was high, low, man-in-between, a simple game with simple rules. A cloth was spread on the table
divided into three sections, each section with three parts. A card was dealt face up before each of the three main
sections and players bet on whether it would be the highest, lowest or, the one between the others in value.
Duplicates canceled out the middle. If all values were alike they paid high.
Sonef was playing by his own rules, ignoring relative odds and ensuring that, with all sections covered, he had a
high advantage. An advantage increased by his own skillful dealing.
Dumarest watched, a little amused, wondering how the players could have been so gullible. At his side Leon said,
wistfully, "Earl, we could double our stake in a few minutes with luck."
"Luck?"
"You think he's cheating?"
Dumarest was certain of it, but it was not his concern. He turned from the cluster of players and moved towards
his bunk, thumbing open the small box at the head. The towel was still damp, but if he left it exposed it would be
stolen. He threw it into the container and slammed it shut. It would stay that way until the lock recognized the imprint
of his thumb.
"It's getting late, Leon. Let's eat."
The canteen was a crude hut filled with tables and benches, staffed with old men and cripples, a scatter of Hyead.
Dumarest stepped aside as one came towards him busy with a broom. A thin, stooped figure, dressed in filthy robes
tied with knotted string. A ravaged face, peaked, the eyes slotted like those of a goat. Blunt horns rose above a tangle
of hair, gray shot with russet. The hands which held the broom were four-fingered claws.
Despised, degenerate, the product of wild mutations, found running like animals in the mountains by the early
settlers and now used as servitors.
Cheap labor, working for discarded clothing and scraps of food, kicked, cursed, or ignored by men who were
themselves little better than beasts.
 Dumarest led the way to the counter, picking carefully at the food, selecting items high in protein and low in bulk.
An expensive choice, but one which gave better nutritional value than the steaming chaff bought by the majority.
As they ate Leon said, "Earl, how did you know Sonef was cheating?"
"Did I say he was?"
"No, but was he?"
"You saw the way he dealt, cards face up and using no regular rotation. He was manipulating the bets, letting the
low stakes win, taking the high. Once you know how to bottom-deal it's easy."
"Could you do it?"
Dumarest ignored the question. "Tell me about Nerth."
"It's a dump."
"And?"
"It's just a world, Earl. A backwater. Mostly farms, no industries, hardly any cities. Ships are rare. They only call to
pick up furs and gems, and deliver tools and instruments. No one with any sense would want to go there."
"And you ran," said Dumarest quietly. "Why?"
"Why did you?" snapped Leon. "What started you on the move?" Immediately he was contrite. "I'm sorry, I guess
that's none of my business. Let's just say that I was bored."
"A young man," said Dumarest. "You had a family, a home?"
"If you can call it that, yes." Leon stared down at his plate, then seemed to come to a decision. "I belonged to a
commune, Earl. It lay well back in the hills and was as isolated as you could get. Maybe I'm a freak of some kind, but
I couldn't accept what they had planned for me. The tests, the ritual, the arranged marriage, the duties." His laugh
was bitter. "The duties. Can you guess what they would have been? Just guarding a lot of old records. A Keeper of the
Shrine. In twenty years, maybe, I'd have made assistant Guardian. In fifty, I might have even become the Head. Fifty
years of dusting, brooding, worshiping—I couldn't face it, I had to run."
"How?"
"I—does it matter?"
A boy, twisted, unsettled according to his fellows, a rebel, a failure. Someone who would have planned, waited
and stolen when the time came. Something of value which would have been sold to gain the initial passage money—
an old story and a familiar one. Only the name held an unusual connotation. Nerth.
"You spoke of records. What were they?"
"Books, papers, I don't know." Leon shrugged at Dumarest's expression. "I never saw them. They are held sacred.
A load of superstitious rubbish, of course, but there it is. Once a year we had a ceremony and everyone congregated,
and chanted and acted like a bunch of fools. I'm well out of it."
Coincidence or design? If the latter, then the boy was a good actor, if he were the boy he appeared to be. A
question which would have to be resolved and soon. A decision made—and if he guessed wrong then his life would
be at stake.
Dumarest leaned back, studying the young face, the eyes. Would the Cyclan have been so obvious? The name,
the talk of ancient records, a secret to be found, an answer to be gained perhaps. The answer for which he had
searched for so long.
Nerth… New Earth… Earth—there had to be a connection.
"Earl?" Leon had become aware of the scrutiny. "Is anything wrong?"
"No." Dumarest rose to his feet. "We'd better get moving. I'll join you at the hut."
"Why not go together?"
Dumarest made no answer, crossing to a vending machine, waiting until the other had gone before filling his
pocket with bars of candy.

***

As usual, Nyther was in a foul mood. He stood behind his desk in the guard hut, a big man with a craggy face and
hard, unrelenting eyes. His shoulders strained at the fabric of his uniform, a bolstered laser heavy at his waist. He
nodded as Dumarest entered and crossed to a table to collect his equipment.
To Leon he said, "You looked peaked, boy. I'm not sure you can handle the job."
"I can handle it."
"Maybe, but I'm putting you under Nygas. If you want to quit, now's the time."
A threat and a warning. Nygas was noted for his ferocity. Men who slept on duty under his command woke up
screaming with shattered bones.
"I'm not quitting."
 "Then get out of here." As the boy left Nyther said to Dumarest, "I'm putting you on free-patrol, Earl. Work the
southeastern sector. It means an increase and a double bonus if you catch anyone stealing. I've had a gutful of losses
and it has to stop."
"More lights would help."
"More lights, more men and more equipment," agreed Nyther bleakly. "Given the money, there's always an
answer. But we haven't got the money so it's no use dreaming about it. Just stay alert, keep moving, summon help if
you think you need it, and remember the bonus."
Outside night had fallen, the area illuminated by floodlights set on pylons, swaths of brilliance cut by paths of
shadow, the face of the workings a blaze of eye-bright glare. Men moved about it like ants, machines throbbing,
diggers, loaders, trucks, making an endless snarl.
Dumarest turned, heading towards his position, moving in shadow and noting everything he saw.
A group of men arguing, on the edge of a fight, ready to kick and pummel.
A crane, the load swinging dangerously, carelessly held.
An overseer, yelling, his arms flailing to accentuate his orders.
And, everywhere, the signs of haste and urgency, the traces of poverty and neglect.
Of men, never of machines. The Zur-Sekulich Combine took care of their own.
The roar from the workings died a little, fading to a grating susurration as Dumarest neared the edge of the
construction site. Stores and supplies stood in neat array, crates piled high, lashed and sealed, standing until needed.
The ground was rough, bristling with rocks, laced with small cracks which could trap a foot and break an ankle. The
pylons were fewer, the shadows wider.
Passing the last of the crates Dumarest halted, his body silhouetted against the light. For a long moment he stood
clearly visible to anyone who might be watching from the surrounding darkness, then he moved to one side and
rested his back against a crate.
There were ways to guard a depot and of them all, the Zur-Sekulich had chosen the most inefficient. There
should have been infra-red detectors set in an unbroken ring about the area, men with light-amplifying devices on
continual watch, rafts with sensors to spot any movement in the darkness. There should have been a close-mesh
fence twenty feet high with special areas for the stores.
All things which cost money. Men and equipment which were unproductive and therefore undesirable. It was
cheaper to use men, to send them out and, if they should be killed, where was the loss?
Dumarest had no intention of getting himself killed. He had chosen a better way.
Awhile and he moved again, standing before the light, returning to his former position. To one side, something
moved.
"Man Dumarest?" The voice was thin, a bare whisper, the tones slurred, the words more a recognition signal than
a question. The Hyead had good night-vision.
"Here." Dumarest took a candy bar from his pocket. "Emazet?"
"Abanact. The other could not come."
"He is well?"
"The other is dead. Hunters in the mountains—he will be mourned."
Trigger-happy fools who had blasted at a barely seen shape and who would now be boasting of their kill.
Dumarest threw the candy bar at the dim figure which rose from the ground to catch it, to chew eagerly at the luxury.
The rare but essential sugars the Hyead metabolism craved.
"News?"
"A whisper. Men will come to take what is not theirs."
"When?"
"Midway through the night. At a point where lights are few and the stores are high. Three hundred paces from
where the other met you the last time you spoke."
The lower dump. Dumarest took out more candy bars, the reward for the information. He lifted the remainder up
in his hand.
"Anything else? News from the city? Were men dressed in scarlet seen leaving the field?"
"By us, no."
"By any?"
"Not that we have heard."
The Hyead moved like ghosts through the town, worked at the field and in the taverns, listened to gossip casually
spoken by men who considered them less than beasts. If a cyber had landed they would have known of it. Dumarest
passed over the rest of the candy.
"If you hear of such men pass word to me at the canteen. The reward will be high."
 "It is understood."
And then there was nothing but the darkness, the shadows, a thin wind which ruffled the tips of dry vegetation. A
ghostly sound like the keen of mourning women.

Chapter Two
Down by the lower dump the shadows were thick, the glow from the floodlights doing little to augment the
ghostly starlight. The patches of darkness could already hide danger—on Tradum as on any world predators came in
many guises, the most dangerous of which were men.
Dumarest slowed, his left hand reaching for the flashlight clipped to his belt, his right tensing on the club he had
been issued. It was a yard of loaded wood, the end lashed to provide a grip, the tip rounded. Hard, strong, it could
smash bones and pulp flesh.
Twice he had checked the area and now, if the information had been good, the thieves would be busy. Halting,
his eyes searched the spaces between the stacked crates, their upper edges barely visible against the sky. Pilfering was
rife, hungry men snatching at castings and components, desperate for the money they would bring, the food it would
provide. Buyers were always to be found, taking no risks but making high profits.
"Brad!" The voice was an urgent whisper. "Which crate?"
"Any of them."
"This covering's tough. We should have brought a saw."
"Quit talking and get on with it."
Two men at least, and there could be more. One set high to act as a lookout, perhaps, an elementary precaution.
Maybe another crouched and watchful to spot a figure moving against the glow from the workings. Dumarest had
swung in a wide circle to approach the spot from the darkness. He looked again at the upper edges of the stacked
crates but saw nothing. But if he used the flashlight and someone was up there, he would be an easy target.
"Shen?"
"Nothing. All's clear."
Dumarest moved as he heard the rasp of metal on wood, a sudden splintering, the snap of a parting binding. The
third voice had come from close to one side and he stepped towards it. A dark patch rested on the ground, a man
who jerked as Dumarest dropped at his side, one hand clamping over his mouth, the fingers of the other digging into
the throat, finding the carotid arteries, pressing and cutting off the blood supply to the brain. A pressure which
brought swift unconsciousness.
"Shen?" The first man who had spoken grunted as he heaved something from the opened crate. "Give me a hand
with this."
Dumarest rose and moved softly towards him. The other man, the one called Brad, must be facing the site. Three
men working together to make a strike and a swift withdrawal. Dawn would find them well on their way to the city,
too far for pursuit, their loot hidden at the first sign of a raft or hunters.
"Shen?" Dumarest saw the blur of a face. "What—"
The man was fast He backed, one hand lifting with a hooked bar, his mouth opening to yell. Dumarest dived
towards him, the club extended, the tip aimed at the throat, hitting, sending the man to double up, retching. A sudden
flurry and Brad was facing him, a gun in his hand.
"Drop it!" he snapped. "The club, drop it!" He sucked in his breath as the wood hit the dirt. "Make a sound and
you're dead. Elvach! Get down here. Fast!"
Four men, a big team, and at least one armed with a gun. A primitive weapon which would make a lot of noise,
but would kill while doing it. The man would hesitate to use it, not wanting to give the alarm. Therefore, the other
man would be coming in from behind with a more silent means of dealing death. A club or knife or strangler's cord.
Dumarest knew they didn't intend to leave him alive.
"Elvach! Hurry, damn you!"
From above came a scrape and a slither as the lookout dropped from his perch.
"What's happening? Where's Shen? What's the matter with Sley?" Elvach was small, lithe, anxious. His face was
screwed up and his eyes barely visible in the puffiness of his cheeks.
"Never mind them," snapped Brad. "Take care of this guard. Move!"
"Kill him?"
"You want to be lasered down at dawn?" Brad lifted his pistol. "Having this gun will kill us all, if we're caught.
Now get on with it."
"Wait a minute," said Dumarest. "We could make a deal. I've got money."
 He dropped his hand to his boot, touched the hilt of the knife, lifted it, threw it underhand toward the face behind
the gun. The point hit, plunged into an eye, the brain beneath. As Brad fell Dumarest turned, the stiffened edge of his
hand slamming against the side of Elvach's neck, sending him helplessly to the dirt.
"Fast!" Sley, gasping for breath, stared his amazement. "He had a gun on you, finger on the trigger, and you killed
him before he could pull it. You killed him."
"Do you want to follow him?"
"No, mister, I don't."
"Then stay here. Move and I'll cut you down." Dumarest jerked his knife free, wiped it clean on the dead man's
clothing and tucked it back into his boot. He picked up the gun and went in search of Shen. Elvach looked up as
Dumarest dumped the man at his side.
"Dead?"
"Unconscious. Are there any more of you?"
"No."
"I want the truth," said Dumarest harshly. "Who set this up?"
"Brad." Elvach sat upright, rubbing the side of his neck. "It was going to be easy, he said. Move in, a quick snatch
and away. One to work and three to watch, we couldn't go wrong." He sounded bitter, "like hell we couldn't."
"Who would buy?"
"I don't know. Brad had it fixed. Him and that damned gun." His voice changed, became a whine. "Look, mister,
how about letting us go? You've gotten Brad. I've a woman lying sick, and a couple of kids close to starving. I made a
mistake, sure, but I didn't know about the gun."
"You'd have killed me," said Dumarest flatly.
"No. Knocked you out, maybe, but not killed. What would be the point?"
To gain time, to avoid later recognition, to ensure their escape. They would have killed him.
Sley said, dully, "What now, mister? I suppose you're going to turn us in."
"That's right."
"Turn us in and collect the bonus, then see us lasered down at dawn. The gun'll take care of that. A smart trick
which let us down. Brad should have fired and to hell with losing the loot. He was greedy. I guess we all were."
Greedy and stupid. Caught without the gun they would have been knocked around a little, interrogated, fined and
set to work. A heavy fine which would hold them fast until the project had been completed, working for small wages,
little better than slaves. But they would have stayed alive.
Dumarest lifted his whistle and blew three short blasts.
"So that's it," said Sley bleakly. "The end of the line. I hope you sleep well, mister. I hope you never have hunger
tearing at your guts."
"Work won't kill you."
"Work? With that gun?"
"Gun?" Dumarest looked at it and, with a sudden movement, hurled it far into the surrounding darkness.
"What gun?"

***

For once Nyther was pleased. "Good work, Earl. A fine job. Four of the scum caught at once. A pity you had to
kill one, but he'll serve as an example. Did you have to do it?"
"There were four of them," said Dumarest. "I didn't feel like taking chances."
"You had a club. You should have broken his skull and maybe smashed a knee."
"He had something, a bar. It could have been a gun."
"A natural mistake," admitted Nyther. "The light was bad and you couldn't have known. Hell, man, I'm not
blaming you. It's just that a man like that could have friends. They might want to avenge him—you understand?"
Dumarest nodded, leaning back in his chair, conscious of his fatigue. It was dawn, the interior of the guard hut
thick with stale air, a litter of returned equipment lying on the tables. The structure quivered to the endless roar from
the workings.
"Did you get anything from the others?"
"No." Nyther opened a drawer in his desk and produced a bottle and glasses. Pouring, he handed one to
Dumarest. "Any ideas?"
"Four men with a plan. And they knew just where to hit."
"You can say that again." Nyther scowled as he sipped at his whiskey. "Those crates held crystalloy components.
Sold in the right place they would fetch a high price. Even if torn apart, the shammatite would be more than worth
the trouble." A man grown old in security, he guessed what Dumarest was hinting. "An arrangement. Those men were
working to a plan set out by a big operator. Right?"
"Maybe."
"Then why no guns?" Nyther answered his own question. "They shouldn't have needed them. Three men
watching could have handled any normal guard. And once the scum start using guns I'll have a case in order to
increase the guard allocation. You were lucky, Earl, in more ways than one."
Dumarest drank, slowly, saying nothing.
"Four bonuses—you can collect the cash immediately. No guns and the chance of a promotion. Interested?"
"I might be."
"I've been watching you, Earl. You're wasted at the workings. Any foot can handle a machine, but it takes a
special kind of man to make a good security officer. He has to have a feel for the job, an instinct. You have it. It sent
you to the right place at the right time. I need all the men I can get like you."
"So?"
"How about becoming a full-time guard? I'll make you the head of a sector. Twice as much as you're getting now
with free board and lodging. A deal?"
It was tempting, and it would be a mistake to refuse too quickly. A sign of guilt, perhaps. At the workings men did
not hesitate at the chance of extra pay.
"Of course, I'll have to check you out with Head Office," continued Nyther. "But that's just a formality. All they
want is that you be registered in the computer. The doc can take your physical characteristics and do the rest of it. A
blast in the shoulder—nothing to worry about."
Dumarest set down his empty glass, watched as it was refilled.
"A radioactive trace?"
"Sure, just a precaution and, as I said, nothing to worry about. If you take off without warning, we'll know where
to look for you."
The Zur-Sekulich and others who might be interested. Once branded he would stand out in any crowd, electronic
tracing gear picking up the implanted pattern.
Nyther said, "I'll fix it for noon. I'll send word to your foreman to release you. By dusk you'll be ready for full-time
duty. Health, Earl!"
Dumarest responded to the toast. Without knowing it, the guard chief had forced his decision. By noon he would
have to be on his way.
Casually he said, "I'm grateful, Chief. Maybe I could do something for you. Are you willing to gamble an extra
bonus?"
"A deal? Hell, Earl, once you start working for me—"
"I'm not working for you, Chief. Not yet, and a man has to get what he can, right?" Dumarest didn't wait for an
answer. "For an extra bonus I'll tell you how to seal this place so no scavenger will have a chance. And all it will cost
you is a few boxes of candy a day."
Nyther was shrewd. "The Hyead?"
"The bonus?"
"Yours, damn it. Take me for an idiot and you'll return it double." Nyther frowned as Dumarest explained. "Have
they the brains for the job? Are they reliable?"
"They don't need brains just to watch and listen and the candy will keep them on the job. Arrange a meeting with
one called Abanact—better still I'll do it for you. Put off the doc until tomorrow."
A day gained if the other agreed. As Nyther nodded Dumarest continued, "I'll need some candy, you can give me
a chit for that, and some supersonic whistles. We can work out a simple code so they can give you the warning
without alarming the thieves. Once arranged, you can cut down on the extra guards and use regular mobile patrols."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"You get the bonus back-double."
Nyther reached for the bottle. "Now why the hell couldn't I have thought of that? The Hyead—cheap and the
damned things go everywhere. You've got a point, Earl."
One he had overlooked, familiarity breeding contempt.
"The bonus," reminded Dumarest. "I'll take it now."
He collected it all in cash, thick coins which weighted down his pocket, his eyes thoughtful as he walked from the
cashier's office. It was time to disappear, to vanish like a stone thrown into water, to move on before it was too late.
He could catch a lift into the city, hope for a quick passage, hide if he had to wait. For a lone man it would be
simple. Nyther would be annoyed, but he had received value for his money and would quickly forget. A casual worker
who had turned down the offer of a good job—why be concerned when there were so many others to take his place?
And, if he had the sense to contact the Hyead, his worries would be over.
The problem was the boy. Dumarest thought about him as he moved towards his hut. Caution dictated that he
keep going, head for the road and flag a truck, bribe the driver if he had to, but in any case to keep moving. No one
would bother him and no one would argue. Leon, Nyther, the whole mess and approaching danger of the works could
be forgotten.
But the boy had not lied? Nerth—the name was a bait. A chance he could not afford to miss. Even if the planet
offered but a single clue he had to find it. Find the location of the planet of his birth. His home world. Earth!
And, to find Nerth, he needed the boy. The name was too similar. Someone, somewhere would have heard of it,
and yet it appeared in none of the almanacs he had studied. A mystery which had to be resolved.
He sensed the tension as soon as he entered the hut. A crowd was clustered around the table, men who should
have been sleeping remaining awake, responding to the excitement, the mounting desperation. A sure sign that big
stakes were being wagered, that someone had lost all restraint.
A man turned as Dumarest touched his shoulder. His face was flushed, annoyed.
"Earl, thank God you're here. The kid's in trouble."
"Leon? What happened? Why did he play?"
"Nygas caught him dozing on duty. He broke a couple of ribs, I think. Anyway, he kicked him off the job. We
strapped him up but he's unfit to work. I guess he hoped to make a stake." The man scowled. "Against Elg Sonef
that's asking for a miracle. The kid doesn't stand a chance."
Leon sat at the board, sweating, his face strained, his eyes distraught as he stared at the small heap of coins
remaining in his pile. Sonef's voice was a rasping purr.
"You lose again, son. Too bad. Better luck the next time. What'll you take, high, low or man-in-between?"
"I—" Leon broke off as Dumarest reached down and covered his few coins. "Earl!"
"You want in?" The gambler was unruffled. Big, unrestrained in his violence, he was fearless. "You!" He pointed at
one of the players. "Move over. Make room for a real man. Cash down, Earl. Let's go!" He poised the cards.
"No."
"You don't want to play?"
"Not this game. It's for kids. Let's try something else. Poker."
"House dealing?"
"Do I look stupid?" Dumarest met the other's eyes. "We deal in turn, no limit, five card draw."
Sonef said, dangerously, "Are you saying there's something wrong with the deal?"
"Did I say that?" Dumarest shrugged. "Of course, if you're scared—"
"Like hell I'm scared!" The big man bristled. "You name it and I'll play it."
He'd been pressured and must have known it, but was unable to refuse the challenge. Big and tough though he
was, previous losers could bear grudges and it took little strength to slip a blade into a sleeping man. He grunted as
Dumarest sat, heaping coins before him, the glitter of his accumulated bonuses.
"Anyone else want to sit in?"
Two men accepted the invitation followed by a third, a pale man with slender hands who rarely played. Dumarest
gave him one glance, recognized him for what he was and made his own, mental reservations. The two would play in
partnership, operating a squeeze and manipulating the deal. Against them a normal player would have no chance.
Dumarest was not a normal player. Too often during the tedious journeys between the stars he had run the tables
in the salons, providing a means to beguile the passengers traveling on High passage. These were the men and
women drugged with quicktime, the magic compound which slowed their metabolisms so that, to them, hours passed
as quickly as minutes. And there had been others, gamblers who had become friends and who had taught him the
tricks of their trade.
Even so, it took time. The cards had to be stacked, the backs marked with slight indentations of a nail, a trick
which if noticed by the others would be put down to each other. And the system of play had to be recognized and
used against those who employed it.
Sonef was the lesser of the two, Lekard dangerously skillful. The other men were padding, caught up by the
excitement, limited as to resources and quickly disposed of. Dumarest used them, adding to his pile, throwing in good
hands when he knew that Sonef or Lekard would have given themselves better. Cautious play, as he waited for the
moment he knew was sure to come.
Sonef grunted as the three were left in sole possession of the table. "Now we can really get down to it Your deal,
Lekard."
The moment, Dumarest was certain of it. He watched as the cards fell, picked up his hand and looked at it. Three
aces, a nine, and a deuce.
"I'll open."
 Sonef was to his left. "I'll just double that, Earl. Lekard?"
"I'll stay."
Not an obvious squeeze play, then, but that would come later. Dumarest met the raise and raised in turn. Sonef
doubled, Lekard stayed, Dumarest raised again and was raised by Sonef. Lekard dropped out.
It was between the two of them, and Dumarest knew exactly what was intended. He frowned at his cards,
apparently uncertain, a man tempted but a little afraid.
"Earl?"
Dumarest looked at his money. "I'll raise," he said. "All of it. Table stakes, right?"
"No limit, Earl, that was what we agreed."
From the circle of watchers a man growled, "What the hell, Sonef, aren't you ever satisfied? You trying to buy the
pot or what?"
Draw poker, no limit. A man with enough money would always win because he could put down more than his
opponent could match. A risk Dumarest had taken, one lessened now that Lekard had dropped out. He could match
the other's bet, but after? He knew what would happen after.
"Table stakes," said another man from among the watchers. "We always play that way. No limit, but you can't beat
a man into the ground. I say meet his pile, draw, and show."
"You're not playing," snapped the gambler. "So you just shut your mouth. Earl, if you want I'll accept your paper.
Good enough?"
I.O.U's which would carry a high rate of interest. Registered with the company cashier, Dumarest would be
working for the gambler until the debt was paid. Again he pretended to hesitate.
"Any amount?"
"As high as you want. And I'll meet it with cash." Sonef, certain he would win, could afford to be generous. "Hell,
Earl, shove in the cash and I'll match it. Then we can draw. Fair enough?"
Dumarest nodded, waited until the money was placed, and looked again at his hand. Three aces. No normal
player would do other than draw two cards hoping for a pair, or a fourth ace.
He said, "Put down the deck, Lekard."
"What?"
"Put it down." Steel flashed as Dumarest lifted his knife and slammed the point through the pasteboards into the
table beneath. To a man standing at his side he said, "Pull them from the top. I want no seconds or bottoms—just deal
them as they come."
The man was uncertain. "Elg?"
"Do it." Sonef was confident. "Just deal them as he says. How many do you want, Earl?"
Dumarest dropped the nine, the deuce and one of the aces. "I'll take three."
He heard the incredulous suck of breath from a man behind him, a kibitzer who had seen his hand, saw the
sudden hardening of Sonefs face, the accentuated pallor on Lekard's thin features.
He didn't have to look at his cards, he knew what they had to be. An ace followed by two cards of the same suit,
either of which would have completed Sonefs running flush. If he had taken one card or two, he would have held four
aces against a winning hand.
He said, flatly, "I bet a hundred. You want to see me? No? Then I've won."
He rose, dropping his cards face upwards, sweeping the money into his pocket. To Leon he said, "Get your gear.
It's time for us to go."

Chapter Three
They reached the city at mid-afternoon, dropping from the raft which had carried them, the driver waving a
casual farewell as he drifted away. The area was bleak, a mass of warehouses and rugged ground, huts and offices
showing hasty construction. An extension of the old town which lay in a hollow, at the head of a strait leading to the
sea.
The field lay beyond on a stretch of leveled ground, ringed with a high perimeter fence topped with floodlights.
On Tradum the authorities maintained a check on all arrivals and departures, a policy backed by the Zur-Sekulich as
a precaution against contract-workers leaving before their time.
Leon said, "What now, Earl?"
"We find somewhere to stay. Then we eat, then I'll look around."
"Can't I come with you?"
"No, you'd better rest those ribs."
 "Nygas!" The boy scowled. "That animal! He had no right—"
"You were warned," said Dumarest curtly. "You knew what to expect."
He glanced at the sky. Walking would save money, but be costly in time. He waved as a pedcar came into sight,
the operator a slender man with grotesquely developed thighs. Leon sighed with relief as he slumped into the open
compartment at the rear. His face was pinched, the nostrils livid, dark shadows around his eyes. He clutched a small
bag, the sum total of his possessions, a cheap thing of soiled fabric which he rested on his lap. Dumarest had nothing
aside from what he carried on his person.
"Peddling," the operator asked, "You from the workings? I ask because I was thinking of getting a job up there. A
friend of mine, my sister's second cousin, he reckons a man could do real well. You think it's worth me trying?"
"No harm in that."
"I could handle a machine given the chance. And I can take orders—hell, in this job you do it all the time. Say,
you boys looking for a little excitement?"
Dumarest said, dryly. "What had you in mind?"
"There's a new joint opened on Condor Avenue. Young girls, sensatapes, analogues, all the drinks you can handle,
and all the games you can use. Fights too, if you're interested. Real stuff, no messing about, naked blades and no
stopping. Interested?"
They were from the workings. Men from a long bout of hard, relentless labor would be interested.
"Condor Avenue," said Dumarest. "What's it called?"
"The Effulvium. Crelk Sugari runs it. If you want, mister, I'll take you straight there. Why waste time?" His chuckle
was suggestive. "Get in while the fruit is unspoiled, eh?"
"We'll drop in later."
"You do that." The operator handed back a card. "Hand this in when you arrive. It'll get you a free drink. A big
one, and you won't have to pay entry. Don't forget now."
Dumarest took the slip of pasteboard. Handed in, it would ensure the man his commission.
"You know a good hotel? Something not too high and with available service?"
"Service?" The man twisted his head, grinning. "I get it. Sure, Madam Brandt runs a nice, clean, interesting place.
Just don't make too much noise and everything will be fine. You want me to take you there?"
"Just drop us close by. You got a card for me to give her? Thanks."
Leon staggered a little as he left the pedcar, leaning on Dumarest for support as the vehicle moved away, the
operator waving and pointing to the front of a house with shuttered windows and gaudy streaks of paint on the walls.
Dumarest watched him go, then turned and headed in the other direction.
"Aren't we going in there, Earl?"
"No."
"But I thought—" Leon frowned. "That man thinks we'll stay there."
"Which is why we won't." Dumarest stared at the pale face. "Can you hold up until we find somewhere else?"
"I guess so." Leon made an effort to stand upright. "I guess I'll have to."
"That's right," said Dumarest. "You do."
He settled for a small place in a quiet street, run by a woman long past her prime. The room had twin beds, a
washbasin and faucet, a faded carpet on the floor, frayed curtains at the window. The panes were barred and faced a
narrow alley. The walls were cracked and the ceiling stained. From a room lower down the passage came the sound
of empty coughing:
"Chell Arlept," she explained. "He worked with my husband up at the site. They got caught in an explosion. Chell
ruined his lungs. My husband—" She broke off, swallowing.
"It happens," said Dumarest. "I'm sorry."
"They just left him there," she said bleakly. "Piled dirt over the place where he fell. I didn't even get
compensation."
Dumarest said nothing.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tell you, but you did ask about Chell. If there's anything you need?"
"I'll let you know," said Dumarest. "There's a bath at the end of the passage? Good." He looked pointedly at the
door. As the woman left he said to the boy. "Get stripped. I want to look at those ribs."
Nygas had been savage, or perhaps he had misjudged his victim. Leon winced as Dumarest's fingers probed his
side, the strappings that had been hastily applied lying to one side on the bed. One rib was broken, others cracked,
the flesh ugly with bruises.
"How bad is it, Earl?"
"Bad enough." Dumarest picked up the bandages, soaked them in water from the faucet, bound them tightly
around the slender torso. "Just lie there and get some sleep. Don't move unless you have to and, when you do, don't
bend. Hungry?"
"I could eat."
"I'll get the woman to bring you a meal. If she wants to feed you, don't argue."
"You leaving, Earl?"
Dumarest smiled at the look of concern. "Don't worry, Leon. I'll be back."

***

Finding the hotel had taken time, taking care of the boy still more. It was dusk as Dumarest neared the heart of
the city, the square where the market was located. Beyond it lay the wharves from which boats were already putting
out to fish the turbulent seas. Around it, running along the avenues to either side, were the palaces of pleasure, the
casinos, dream parlors, brothels, the places in which men could pander to their inclinations. Establishments for the
rich, or those with money to burn. The market was for the poor.
Beggars were prominent, men with crippled limbs and scarred faces, discarded veterans of mercenary wars.
They jostled women selling dubious pleasures, others offering lucky charms, vials of aphrodisiacs, pods of narcotic
seeds. In the market proper, traders displayed their wares on stalls illuminated by brightly colored lanterns which
fought the encroaching darkness with pools of red and green, yellow and amber, pale blue and nacreous white.
In the kaleidoscope of brilliance heaps of tawdry jewelry, gaudy fabrics, and cheap adornments looked like rare
treasure stolen from fabled temples.
A crone called out as Dumarest passed where she sat before a table brilliant with cabalistic symbols.
"Your fortune, my lord? Told with skills won from an ancient race and passed down through seventeen
generations. Learn of the dangers which may lie in your path, perils which can be avoided."
Another swung a small bag suspended from a gilded chain which, she assured him, would give full protection
against the diseases of love, poisoned waters, and wild radiation.
A man sat like a brooding idol over an assembly of finger rings holding vibrant darts, needles tipped with venom,
artificial fingernails of razor-sharp steel, brooches which could blast a stunning gas; subtle mechanisms for dealing
death and pain, things much used by the harlots who needed such protection.
Dumarest paused at a stall from which rose tantalizing odors, buying a skewer of meat and vegetables seared
over a flame. The food was hot, pungent with spice, crisp to the tongue. The woman who served him was tall, darkly
attractive, the cleft in her blouse doing little to hide the swell of her breasts.
She watched as he ate with the fastidious neatness of a cat, her eyes roving over his face, his body, noting the tall
hardness of him, the instinctive wariness. A man who had learned to survive the hard way, she decided. One without
the protection and benefit of Guild, House or Organization. His face was somber, the planes and contours revealing
an inner determination, the mouth hovering on the edge of becoming cruel. He met her eyes as he dropped the
empty skewer on a tray.
"You like it?"
"It was good," he admitted. "How's trade?"
"It's early yet." She turned to stare at the Hyead who worked at the back of the stall. "Better start another batch,
Kiasong. Set them up and leave them to soak." To Dumarest she said, "He's willing but he has to be watched."
"And comes cheap?"
She shrugged, quivers manifest beneath the thin material of her blouse, the breasts, unbound, moving like oiled
balloons.
"I give him food and a place to sleep. I had a man once, but he wanted more than I was willing to give. Now I
operate alone." Pausing she added, deliberately, "Maybe, if he had looked like you things would have been different."
Dumarest smiled at the compliment.
"Well, that's the way it goes," she said. "You looking for something?"
"A healer."
"You sick?" She shrugged again as he made no answer. "Try Bic Wan, he's two rows over, three stalls down. Not
the cheapest, but you can trust his goods. Tell him Ayantel sent you, he'll treat you fair."
He was a small man, wizened, his eyes like jewels in the meshed contours of his face. A round hat hugged his
skull and his hands were thin, the fingers long, the nails sharpened to points. He sat behind a display of vials and
containers of tablets and pills. Bunches of dried herbs hung beside clusters of seeds, withered fruits, strands of sun-
dried kelp. A skull bore a tracery of lines, hollow sockets staring at the crowd. Metal chimes made small tinklings in
the rising breeze.
"Ayantel," he said. "A fine woman with a shrewd mind and a discerning eye. She guided you well. What are your
needs?" He blinked as Dumarest told him. "The salve I can supply, the bone mender also, together with a syringe. But
the other? My friend, what you ask is not easy."
Dumarest produced coins, let them fall from one hand to the other.
"A compound to erase the barrier between truth and falsehood—how often have husbands asked for the same?
Deluded men and suspicious women, eager to quell their fears or discover their rivals. If I had such a thing my
fortune would be made."
"Then you can't help me?"
"My friend, I am honest with you. I could give you what seems to do as you wish, but the resultant babble would
be meaningless, the product of hallucination. You wish advice?"
"I am always willing to learn."
"A wise man, and a humble one. That is well. Many would throw it back in my face and therefore compound their
stupidity. There are means to induce sleep and, when used, there is a period during which questions may be asked
and will be answered. It will not last long and the drug can only be used once. There are better methods, but they are
the prerogative of the authorities. I am only a poor man, a seller of salves and healing compounds, what would I
know of such things?" His shrug, his gesture, were timeless.
"Give me what you can," said Dumarest.
He turned as the old man busied himself with items taken from beneath his counter. The market was growing
busy, the scattered wanderers reinforced by workers from the field, others on leave from the site. Locals too, gaily
dressed men and girls seeking recreation. From one side came the steady beating of a drum, the wail of a flute, a
troupe of dancers spinning, flesh glowing in the multicolored illumination. Cunningly they stooped to pick up thrown
coins, each gesture a titivation.
Life, brash, gay, abandoned, ruled the market square. It would grow to a crescendo, peaking at midnight when the
stalls closed, the revelers wending their way home, others moving on to more decadent pursuits.
Against them, the monk stood like a faded statue in somber brown.

***

He stood before the exchange, an ornate building facing the square in which fortunes were made and lost,
merchants gambling on cargoes which had yet to arrive. He was tall, thin. The face shielded by the cowl was
emaciated with deprivation. A beggar without pride and having little success. The chipped bowl of plastic in his hand
was empty. The sandals on his bare feet were scuffed, a strap broken and held together with twine. His voice was a
droning murmur.
"Of your charity, brother, remember the poor."
Few looked, less lingered, none threw money into the bowl. A plump trader, his hands heavy with gems, his face
oiled with good living, laughed as he flung a harlot a coin.
"That for your smile, Mayelle. Today I cleared a big profit. Tomorrow—who can tell?"
"Thank you, my lord." Deftly the coin was slipped beneath a gown slit to reveal glimpses of what lay beneath. "If
a smile brought so much, then surely a kiss would bring more?"
"Don't tempt me, girl. I cannot afford the delay. Even while talking a fortune could be made."
"Brother," said the monk, "remember the poor."
"You remember them." The plump man was indifferent. "I'm too busy."
Brother Sayre made no comment, felt no anger at the cynicism. To have done so would have been to verge on the
sin of pride, and that would have been a refutation of what he was and what he stood for. Pride and self-indulgence
had no place in the Church of the Universal Brotherhood. Each monk shed all thought of personal comfort when he
donned the plain, homespun robe, took the bowl of plastic, accepted the privation which would be his normal lot.
A hard life, but none who joined the Brotherhood expected otherwise. To stand, to beg, to give aid when aid could
be given, to comfort always. To follow the creed of the Church, to extend the teaching which alone would end all
hurt, all pain, all despair. No man is an island. All belong to the corpus humanitatis. The anguish of one is the torment
of all. If all men could be brought to recognize one basic truth, to remember as they looked at another—there, but for
the grace of God, go I—the millennium would have arrived.
"Of your charity, brother, remember the poor."
Halting before the monk Dumarest said, "Brother, I need your help."
"You are in distress?"
"No." Dumarest dropped coins in the bowl. He was generous, but both knew it was not a bribe. "I need
information."
"There are places where answers may be found."
Taverns, shops, agencies, the field itself, the records, the complex which sold computer-time, the men who traded
in nothing else. But each question would leave a trail, arouse curiosity, focus unwanted attention on him.
"There is a young man," said Dumarest. "A boy. Leon Harvey. I wondered if you know of him."
"Does he belong to the Church?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"A casual?"
It was possible. A young man, on the run, lonely and perhaps afraid. The Church would have offered him comfort
and more. The bread of forgiveness given to all who sat beneath the benediction light when, hypnotized, they eased
their souls and suffered subjective penance. There were many who joined the queues for the sake of the wafer of
concentrate. The monks regarded it as a fair exchange—food in return for the instilled conditioning which made it
impossible to kill. The reason Dumarest had never sat beneath the light.
He said, "Leon is a runaway. He might have been reported and your aid sought."
"A boy, one of so many, how would we know of him?"
"You know, Brother. We both know."
By means of the hyper-radio incorporated into each benediction light. Monks were everywhere, tolerated and
befriended by those in high places, in constant touch with the great seminary on Hope. And a parent, desperate,
would have asked for help, or at least eased their hearts to listening ears. A small hope, but one which had to be
followed.
Dumarest was not disappointed when, after a moment, the monk shook his head. "We have been asked to look for
no one of that name. Where did he originate?"
"Nerth. You know it?"
"An odd name—no, I have no knowledge of any such world. The boy, of course, could be lying. You have
considered the possibility?"
"Yes."
"Your name?"
Dumarest gave it, adding, "I am not unknown to the Church. If Brother Jerome was still alive he would vouch for
me, but you can check the records."
"There is no need." The monk's eyes were direct. "As you say, you are known. If I could help you I would, but that
does not seem possible. However, there is one thing perhaps you should know. Cyber Hsi has landed on Tradum."

Chapter Four
Manager Loh Nordkyn was disturbed. His reports had always been on time, work was progressing according to
schedule, and the powers ruling the Zur-Sekulich had no reason for dissatisfaction, yet they had sent a cyber to
Tradum.
He was housed in an upper suite of the company building, the windows giving a fine view of the town and space
field, a view which meant nothing to Hsi as he sat at a desk studying the mass of data provided by the manager's
aides.
He was tall, thin, robed as were the monks of the Universal Brotherhood, but there the similarity ended. He wore,
not brown homespun, but scarlet fabric of fine weave, the Seal of the Cyclan prominent on his breast. His head was
shaved, accentuating the skull-like appearance of the deep-set eyes, the skin drawn taut over bone. A living machine
of flesh and bone and blood, all capacity for emotion eradicated by training and an operation performed during his
youth, his only pleasure that of mental achievement.
A man who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of coldly logical reason. One to whom food was a tasteless fuel. A
creature who could take a handful of facts and build a sequence of events from them culminating in a predicted
eventuality.
He glanced up as the door opened, leaning back in his chair, his eyes watchful.
"Manager Nordkyn." The inclination of his head was perfunctory. "It is late. I had not thought to see you until
tomorrow."
"I was curious," admitted the manager. "To to frank, I cannot understand why the company should have chosen to
employ the services of the Cyclan. We have our own computers and the operation programs are proving successful."
"As yet, perhaps."
"A trend?" Nordkyn frowned. "I have run a complete series of analogues and have found nothing to pose any
serious problems."
"And perhaps none will be found." Hsi touched the sheets before him, the reams of data, incidents, reports all
compressed into symbolic language. "However, I notice that your progress per man-hour is falling."
 "A seam of adamantine rock which delayed progress," said Nordkyn quickly. "It was anticipated and, now that we
have penetrated it, lost time will be regained."
"Casualties seem to be high."
"Carelessness due to untrained labor. We are operating under a tight cost-schedule, as you must know. But is is
unimportant, men are cheap." He added, incredulously, "Surely the Zur-Sekulich are not concerned over the loss of a
few vagrants?"
"No."
"Then, with respect, I fail to see what you can achieve."
"You doubt the efficiency of the Cyclan?" Hsi's voice was a smoothly modulated monotone devoid of all irritant
factors, yet Nordkyn was swift to refute the accusation.
"No! Of course not!"
"But you fail to see what can be gained by my advice." Hsi touched the sheets again, selected one. "Let me
illustrate. Due to the price rise in basic staples, the food served at the canteens has fallen in terms of nutritional value
to a factor of fifteen percent during the past eight weeks. This has resulted in a loss of physical energy and therefore,
a lessening of productive effort put out by the workers. The financial gain is more than lost by reduced efficiency. If it
is continued there will be an increase in accidents and deaths. There will also be a higher incidence of sickness and
minor injury. Unless there is a change I predict that, within two months, you will be three and a half days behind
schedule. This prediction is in the order of 89.6 percent of probability."
"I see." Nordkyn was thoughtful. "In that case you suggest—"
"I suggest nothing," said Hsi evenly. "I give no orders and insist on no change. I merely tell you what will be the
most probable outcome of any series of events. What action you choose to take is entirely your own concern."
And, if he failed, his career would be over. Nordkyn didn't need to have it spelled out in detail. The Zur-Sekulich
had no time for failure.
He said, "I will order the food to be changed at once. The expense will be high, but I'll manage somehow."
Hesitating he added, "Is there anything else?"
"For the moment, no."
"Then I'll leave you, Cyber Hsi." Nordkyn backed toward the door, sweating. He was glad to leave the room.
Hsi turned again to the papers. Things were going as planned. The manager was a fool, concerned only with the
job in hand. The Zur-Sekulich little better, thinking only of immediate profit, the wealth of the reclaimed metal, the
subsidy they won from the Tradum authorities, dreaming of the constant stream of profits they would collect from
tools once the passage was completed.
Later he would visit the Tradum Council, seek out those with the greatest powers, sow seeds of dissatisfaction in
the minds of the landowners, those who now operated the sea and air transports.
Faced with ruin they would cooperate, forming a cabal to seize power, relying on the Cyclan to show them how
to take and hold it. And then, once they were established, the pattern set, others would move in. Tools of the Cyclan,
leaders willing to obey, men eager to be guided.
And yet another world would have fallen under the domination of the organization of which he was a part.
Already the hidden power of the Cyclan reached across the galaxy, worlds secretly manipulated by resident
cybers, all living extensions of Central Intelligence, all working to a common end. The complete and total domination
of all humanity everywhere.
Hsi turned a sheet, scanned it, his brain absorbing, assessing, collating the information it contained. A mass of
trivia, yet each item could be part of something greater, each detail a step in a logical series of events.
"Master!" His acolyte entered the chamber at the touch of a bell. "Your orders?"
"Contact Chief Nyther at the workings. He reported a small gang of pilferers were captured. One was killed with
a thrown knife. Find out who did it." A moment and it was done.
"Master, the man concerned was Earl Dumarest. He—"
Dumarest! Hsi rose and stepped towards the inner room. It was soft with unaccustomed luxury, the couch
covered with silk, the mattress like a cloud.
"Total seal," he ordered. "I am not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever."
As the door closed behind him, he touched the bracelet locked around his left wrist. From the device came an
invisible field which ensured that no electronic eye or ear could focus on the vicinity. A precaution, nothing more, it
would defy an electronic genius to probe the ability he possessed.
Relaxing on the couch, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatachazi formula Gradually he lost
sensory perception, the sense of touch, taste, smell and hearing, all dissolved into a formless blur. Had he opened his
eyes he would have been blind. Locked in the confines of his skull his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli.
It became a thing of reasoning, awareness, and untrammeled intellect. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements
become active.
Rapport was established. Hsi became fully alive.
Each cyber had a different experience. For him, it was as if he drifted in an infinity of scintillant bubbles which
burst to shower him with incredible effulgence. Spheres which touched to coalesce, to part, to veer in diverse paths,
to meet again in an intricate complex of ever-changing patterns. Patterns of which he was an integral part, immersing
himself in the effulgence and, by so doing, becoming both a part of and one with the whole.
Like a skein of dew the spheres stretched to all sides. Brilliant, shimmering, forming a moving, crystalline pattern,
at the heart of which rested the headquarters of the Cyclan.
The Central Intelligence which made contact, touching, absorbing his knowledge as a sponge would suck water
from a puddle. Mental communication of incredible swiftness.
"Dumarest?"
Agreement.
"Probability of error? Predictions low on possibility of his being on Tradum. Basis for assumption?"
Explanation.
"Probability high. Variable factor of deliberate random movement negates previous predictions. Take all steps to
ensure that Dumarest is apprehended. Utmost priority. Of most urgent importance that he is not allowed to escape.
Full protective measures to be employed at all times."
Understanding.
"Successful culmination will result in advancement. All previous instructions canceled. Find and hold Dumarest."
The rest was sheer mental intoxication. There was always a period after rapport, during which the Homochon
elements sank back into quiescence. The physical machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental affinity,
but the mind was assailed by ungoverned impacts. Hsi floated in an ebon void, experiencing strange memories and
unknown situations—fragments of overflow from other minds, the discard of a conglomerate of intelligences. The
backwash of the tremendous cybernetic complex which was the heart of the Cyclan.
One day he would be a part of it. His body would weaken, his senses grow dull, but his mind would remain
active. Then he would be taken, his brain removed from his skull, immersed in a nutrient vat, hooked in series to the
countless others which formed Central Intelligence.
There he would rest, wait, and work to solve all the problems of the universe. Every cyber's idea of the ultimate
paradise. Find and hold Dumarest and it would be his.

***

Leon stirred, sweating. "Earl! That hurts!"

"Not for long." The salve was a sticky paste which vanished into the skin beneath Dumarest's fingers. A numbing
compound smelling of peat and containing the juice of various herbs. A crude anesthetic which would ease the pain
of bruises and diminish the nagging agony of the broken rib. "Steady now."
"Earl?"
"Steady—move and you'll break the needle."
A hypogun would have been more efficient, blasting its charge through skin and fat and flesh, but the syringe
would have to do. Dumarest rested his hands on the boy's side, feeling the ends of the broken rib, hearing the sudden
inhalation, the barely stifled cry. Quickly he set the bone and, lifting the syringe, thrust the needle home. Leon
convulsed as the tip hit bone.
"Hold still, damn you!"
Harsh words, but they did as intended. Pride held the boy still as Dumarest fed the hormone-rich compound from
the syringe into the area around the broken rib. It would hold, seal and promote rapid healing. The thing done,
Dumarest threw aside the empty syringe and rebound the slender torso.
"You do nothing for the next three days," he said flatly. "You lie there, you eat and you sleep, and that's all.
Understand?"
Leon lifted a hand and wiped sweat from his eyes. In the dim light from the single bulb, he looked ghastly pale.
"And you?"
"Never mind me—we're talking about you. That rib will heal if left alone. Try and act the hero and you'll lacerate
a lung and wind up dead, or in hospital." Dumarest picked up the third item which the package given him by Bic Wan
had contained. A wrinkled pod which, squeezed, would release a puff of spores. A narcotic dust which would bring
sleep and, he hoped, a loose and honest tongue.
"Earl, we're traveling on together, aren't we?"
"Maybe."
 A lie, but a vague one. When he moved on, Dumarest intended to be alone. Crossing the room he looked through
the window. The alley was in thick shadow, vagrant beams of illumination touching walls, a shuttered window, a can
of garbage. From down the hall came the monotonous sound of coughing, as Chell Arlept waited for the panacea of
sleep. Money could have cured him, given him fresh lungs grown from tissues of the old, but he had no money.
"Earl?"
"Your home world," said Dumarest slowly. "What made you say it was Nerth?"
"Because it is."
"You know how to get back there?"
"I don't want to go back." Leon eased himself on the bed. "I never want to see it again. I managed to get away
and I'm staying away."
"Tell me," said Dumarest. "Does it have a large, silver moon? Is the sky blue at day and thin with stars at night?"
"It's got a moon," admitted the boy. "And, yes, a blue sky. The stars are thin too, but that's because it's a long way
from the Center. Just like they are here. Why, Earl? What's your interest?"
Dumarest said, "Lean back. Make yourself comfortable. Close your eyes, that's it. Now breathe deeply, deeply,
good." Lifting the pod he squeezed it, gusting a fine spray at the boy's mouth, seeing the minute spores enter the
nostrils to be absorbed by the inner membranes.
Within seconds he was asleep.
"Leon, listen to me." Dumarest dropped to his knees beside the narrow bed. "Answer me truthfully—have you
ever heard of the Cyclan?"
"No."
"Did anyone tell you to speak to me, to mention Nerth?"
"No."
"Is there such a place, or did you make up the name because you were afraid of something?"
"Nerth," murmured the boy. "No! I won't!"
"Steady!" He quieted beneath Dumarest's hand. "What made you run?"
"I—they, no! No, I won't do it!"
"Do what? Answer me, Leon, do what?"
The boy shifted on the bed, sweat shining on his face, his voice deepening, taking on the pulse of drums.
"From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man
be united again."
The creed of the Original People. Dumarest rose, staring down at the bed, the figure it contained. A boy, too
young to know what he was saying, or someone primed for just such an eventuality. The drug he'd used was primitive
—any biological technician could have provided conditioning against it, primed the youngster with intriguing answers
to appropriate questions.
Any information he could give would be valueless, and already he was convinced the boy had lied.
A knock and he spun as the door swung open.
"What—?" The woman was middle-aged, dowdy, her face seamed, relieved only by the luminosity of her eyes.
Wide now as they stared at Dumarest's face, the glitter of the naked blade in his hand.
He spoke before she could scream. "What do you want?"
"The boy—I heard that he was ill. I wondered if I could help?"
"Are you a nurse?" Dumarest sheathed the knife.
"Yes, in a way. I work at the hospital and try to help others in my spare time. Chell Arlept, you know of him?"
"The dying man? Yes."
"I call sometimes. There's not much I can do, but at least I can help him to sleep. I wondered—"
"What I was doing with a knife in my hand?" Dumarest smiled, casually at ease. "You startled me, that's all."
"The boy?"
"Has been taken care of. All he needs now is to rest. Perhaps you could look in tomorrow?"
"I'm in no hurry." She moved towards the bed, smoothed back the hair from the pale face. "I could sit with him for
a while." She added meaningfully, "I'm sure that you have other things to do."
To go downstairs, to find the woman who ran the hotel, to give her money for Leon's keep, more money to be
given him when he woke. The cost of a Low passage which he would be a fool to use too soon, but Dumarest couldn't
leave him stranded.

***

There was trouble at the field. Dumarest sensed it as he approached the gate, slowing as he studied the men
standing around. Too many men and too many of them without apparent duties. Hard men with blank faces who
needed no uniforms to betray their profession. Guards and agents, watchful and alert.
They stood in patches of shadow, scarcely moving, rigid with the patience which was part of their trade. A pair of
them stepped forward as a man neared the gate, a tall figure wearing gray, the material scuffed, his feet unsteady.
"You there!" One of the guards shone a flashlight into a flushed and blinking face. "Name?"
"Connors. Why?"
"Just answer. You from the workings?"
"Say, what the hell is this all about?"
"Just answer. Rawf ?"
"It could be," said his companion. "He fits the rough description. Mister, you'd better come with us."
"Me? What for? Like hell I will!"
"Suit yourself," said the first man. "You want it hard, you get it hard. Rawf !"
The sap made a flat, dull sound as it landed against the man's temple, knocking him into an unconscious heap.
Thoughtfully Dumarest turned away. The field sealed, a cyber landed—he felt the closing jaws of a trap. Soon the
hospitals would be checked, the doctors, it wouldn't take long for Hsi to connect isolated incidents. Connect them and
extrapolate and predict exactly where he was to be found. And, on Tradum, places were few in which he could hide.
The city, the workings, the areas beyond the mountains impossible to reach on foot. Even the Hyead couldn't live off
the land here, between the mountains and the sea. And any attempt to hire transport would leave a trail.
The field—it had to be the field and the first ship to leave. But, already, he had left it too late.
"Man Dumarest!"
The voice came from the shadows, a slight figure in the darkness making a formless blur. One which became a
stunted shape, horned, a hand extended for candy.
"Word, man Dumarest. One in scarlet has landed. You promised a high reward."
To a creature at the workings—another proof of the rudimentary telepathic ability Dumarest suspected the
Hyead possessed.
"You are late with the word," he said gently. "But the reward will be given. Can you help me more?"
"How, man Dumarest?"
"I want to get on the field unseen. Can it be done?"
"By us, no."
"By others?"
"It is possible. The one known as Kiasong could help. He is to be found—"
"Thank you," said Dumarest. "I know where he is to be found."
Ayantel was closing down when he arrived, saying nothing as he took the heavy shutters from her hands,
watching as he set them into position. The interior of the stall was hot, the air scented with spice and roasted meats.
A single lamp threw a cone of brilliance over the counter and cooking apparatus, shadows clustering in the corners.
Among them the Hyead bustled, cleaning, polishing skewers, setting cooked food to one side, piling the rest into
containers of lambent fluid.
"I'm glad you came back," she said when the stall was sealed. "You know my name, what's yours?"
He told her, watching her eyes. If she recognized it she gave no sign.
"Earl," she mused. "Earl Dumarest. I like it, it has a good sound. I'm glad that you didn't lie."
"You would have known?"
"I knew that you were coming." Her hand lifted, gestured at the Hyead. "Kiasong told me. Don't ask me how he
knew—sometimes I think they can pick up voices from the wind. He said you needed help. Is that right?"
"Yes. I—"
"Later." Turning she said, "Kiasong, that'll be all for now. Take the cooked food and give half to the monk. You've
got the key?"
"Yes, woman Ayantel."
"Then get on your way."
"Wait." Dumarest handed the creature a coin. "For candy—and for silence."
"It is understood, man Dumarest."
"Odd," she said as Kiasong left. "They creep about like ghosts, work for scraps, and yet at times they make me
feel like an ignorant savage. Why is that, Earl?"
"A different culture, Ayantel. A different set of values. As far as we are concerned, they have no ambition. They
live for the moment—or perhaps they live in the past. Or, again, they could regard this life as merely a stepping stone
to another."
"Or, maybe they're just practical," she said. "We all have to die so why fight against the inevitable? Why wear
yourself out trying to get rich when the worms will win in the end anyway?"
"You're a philosopher."
"No, just a woman who thinks too much at times."
"And generous."
"Because I give Kiasong a few scraps and a place to sleep? No, I'm practical. The food will go to waste anyway,
and with him sleeping in here I've got a cheap watchman." Shrugging she added, "To hell with that. Let's talk about
you. You need help—trouble?"
"Yes."
"I figured it might be something like that. What did you do, kill a man?"
"A pilferer called Brad. I don't know his other name but he had friends."
"Brad." She frowned. "Did you have to kill him?"
"He had a gun. It was him or me."
"A gun? Muld Evron arms his scavengers. Brad," she said again. "Medium build, dark hair, scarred cheek?
Operates with a runt called Elvach?" She thinned her lips at his nod. "One of Evron's boys. You were smart to pull
out. You'd be smarter to get the hell off this world before they catch up with you. Is that what you're after?"
Dumarest nodded, letting her make the natural assumption. "I can pay," he said. "If you can fix it I can pay."
"That helps," she admitted. "But it'll take time. In the meanwhile you'd better stay out of sight. Got a place to
stay?"
"I can find one."
"And bump into one of Evron's scavengers? No, Earl, I've go a better idea. You can stay with me." She stepped
towards him, light glinting from her eyes, her hair. Her flesh held the warm scent of spice, the odor of femininity. She
lifted her arms to his shoulders, aware of the movement of her breasts, the temptation they presented. "You've no
objection?"
"No," he said. "I've no objection."

Chapter Five
The room was small, warmly intimate, filled with trifles and soft furnishings; a stuffed animal with glassy eyes, a
faded bunch of flowers, a box which chimed when opened. The bed was a frilled oasis of hedonistic comfort, the
pillows edged with lace, the sheets scented with floral perfumes. A carved idol nodded over a plume of incense, a
gilded clock registered the passing hours.
Dumarest stretched, remembering the night, the warm, demanding heat of the woman, the almost savage
intensity of her embrace. A thing of need, not affection, though he suspected that affection could come and turn into
love. On her side, not his. He could afford no hampering chains.
"Earl, awake yet?"
She came from the bathroom, smiling, radiant. The thin material of the robe she wore did nothing to hide the
swell of hips and thighs, the liquid movement of her breasts. She stooped and kissed him, her lips lingering, his own
body responding to her proximity. A hunger as pressing as her own, a need as intense.
Later, lying side by side, they talked.
"You're nice," she said. "Gentle. A lot of men think they have to be rough. I guess they reckon they have to prove
something, but not you." The tip of her finger traced the scars on his chest. "Knives?"
"Yes."
"In the ring?" She didn't wait for his nod. "A fighter. I guessed as much. You have the look, the walk. Why do men
do it, Earl? For kicks? For money? To stand and slash at someone with a naked blade, to get cut in turn, crippled or
killed. And for what?"
For the titivation of a jaded crowd, men and women hungry for the sight of blood and pain, reveling in the
vicarious danger. Lying back on the scented pillows, Dumarest could see them as he had too often before. A ring of
faces, more animal than human, leaning forward from the gilded balconies of arenas, edging the square of a ring,
shouting, screaming, filling the air with the scent of feral anticipation.
And, always, there was the fear, the taint mixed with the smell of sweat and oil and blood. The knowledge that a
slip, a single error, a momentary delay and death would come carried on a naked blade.
"Why, Earl?" she insisted. "Why did you fight?"
"For money."
"Just that?" Her finger ran over his naked body drifting, caressing. "A man like you could get it in other ways. A
rich woman needing a plaything, a man needing a guard. No?"
 "No."
"Why not, Earl? You don't want to feed off a woman, right? And to be a guard is to take orders. I don't think you'd
like to do that, take orders, I mean. But if you had the chance to be your own boss? To own your own business?"
He said, dryly, "Such as a stall in a market?"
"It's a living."
"For you, maybe. Not for me."
"Not good enough for you?" Her voice hardened a little. "Both the stall and me, perhaps? Is that it, Earl?"
"Is that what you think?"
"Then tell me I'm wrong," she demanded. "Tell me!"
"A stall selling succulent meats," he said bleakly. "Endless food—can you guess what that means to a traveler? I've
known men who ate insects in order to stay alive, grass, slime, the droppings of birds. And a woman like yourself—a
gift to any man walking under any sun."
"But not you, Earl." Reaching out she rested her fingers on his lips. "Don't argue, I know, you have to keep
moving. Traveling, going from world to world, always drifting, never settling down. Why, Earl? What makes you do
it?"
He said, "I'm looking for something. A planet called Earth."
"Earth?" He heard her sharp inhalation, the note of incredulity when next she spoke. "You must be joking. No
world has that name."
"One does."
"But—Earth?"
"It's an old world," he said, his eyes on the ceiling, the cracks it contained. "The surface is scarred and torn by
ancient wars. A great moon hangs in the sky and the stars are few at night. It's a real place, despite what legends say.
I know, I was born there."
"And you want to go back?"
"Yes."
"Then why can't you? If you left it, you must know where it lies?"
"I was young," he said. "A scared and hungry boy. I stowed away on a ship and was luckier than I deserved. The
captain could have evicted me. Instead, he allowed me to work my passage. I stayed with him until he died, then
moved on."
Ship after ship, journey after journey, and each taking him closer to the Center where stars were close and
habitable worlds thick. Moving on until even the name of Earth had been forgotten. The coordinates unregistered,
unknown.
And then the search, the endless seeming quest, the hunt for clues. Earth existed, he knew it. One day, with luck,
he would find it. One day.
"Earl." Her hands were gentle as they touched his forehead, his cheek. The caress a mother would give to a child,
soothing, comforting. "Just don't worry about it, darling."
She thought he was deluded, maybe a little disturbed, a man following an empty dream. An impression he was
content to leave.
"When will you set about making the arrangements for me to get on the field?"
"Later." She stretched beside him, muscles bunching, rounding the contours of her thighs, accentuating her torso,
narrowing her waist. "Earl?"
The idol nodded, smiling as the clock ticked on, murdering the day.

***

The rendezvous was at dusk down by the wharves, in a small hut which held the stench of rotting fish, brine, the
musty odor of nets. Dumarest was cautious as he approached. The woman could be genuine, but her contact have
other ideas. Twice he scouted the area and then, satisfied he was not being followed, ducked through the narrow
door. Stepping immediately to one side, his eyes were wide as he searched the inner gloom.
"You Dumarest?"
The voice came from one side, a harsh rasp which echoed from the rafters, the roof which half-filled one side of
the hut. As Dumarest answered a light flared, settled to a glow. A lantern fed by rancid oil, fuming, adding to the
smell. In its light, he could see a tall thin man with narrowed eyes and a mouth pulled upward by a scar into a
perpetual sneer.
"Elmar Shem," he said. "We have a mutual friend, right?"
"Maybe."
 "You're careful, I like that. Well, mister, if the price is right we can do business. What do you offer me to get on
the field?"
"Unseen?"
"That's the deal. How much?
"Fifty."
"Too bad, mister, someone's been wasting my time."
"And another fifty when we part." Dumarest stepped forward towards the lamp, the table on which it stood. "A
hundred total. Easy money for little work."
Shem sucked in his breath. He wore a faded uniform with tarnished braid. A checker at the field who owed the
woman a favor and, so she'd claimed, could be trusted. Dumarest wasn't so sure.
"Well?"
"It's low," Shem complained. "They've got the field sewed up real tight. Every man is scrutinized and every load
searched. God knows what they want you for, but it has to be something big."
"Me? Are they looking for me?"
"You fit the description." Shem hesitated. "There's even talk of a reward for the man who turns you in."
"From whom? Evron?"
"Well—"
"You're lying," snapped Dumarest. "And even if you're not, it's none of my concern. Evron's after me. He could be
watching the gate and I don't want to be shot in the back as I pass through. Now, do we make a deal or not?"
"A hundred?"
"That's what I said."
"Then that's what it'll have to be." Shem produced a bottle, poured, handed Dumarest a glass. "Drink to seal the
bargain?"
Dumarest lifted the glass, pressed it to his closed lips, watching Shem's eyes. They lifted, flickered, fell again.
"How many ships are on the field?"
"Five—you want specifications?"
"No. Are more expected soon?"
"Two should arrive at dawn, another three before nightfall. We're pretty busy at the moment."
Good news, if ships were due to arrive then others must be ready to leave. Cargo vessels ferrying processed
metals, others with loads of contract-workers, still more with imported staples. The workings made a ceaseless
demand on men and machine replacements, explosives and tools—all which had to be fetched in from nearby worlds.
Dumarest said, "How are you going to work it?"
"I'm in charge of a bunch of workers. I'll get you a set of dungarees, you change, join the bunch and walk in with
us. I can vouch for you, and arrange for a man to fall out so you can replace him. It won't be easy, but if we pick the
right time it can be managed. I'll need the advance now."
Dumarest said, casually, "I've seen the gate. They check each man individually. How are you going to get over
that?"
"I told you, they trust me. Hell, man, you want me to help you or not?"
"I'll think about it. See you here this time tomorrow?"
"Hell, no!" Shem lifted his voice. "Evron!"
Dumarest smashed aside the lamp. It fell on a mass of wadded nets, bursting, sending tongues of flame over the
oiled strands. A thread of gun fire spat from the roofed section, the report of the pistol muffled, a vicious cough,
splinters flying as lead slammed into the table. Shem cried out, falling backwards, the victim of bad aiming. Dumarest
crouched, his shoulder against a wall, the pale frame of the door to one side. From the burning nets rose a thick cloud
of rancid smoke.
"Muld! The fire! We'll be burned alive!"
"Shut up, watch the door, shoot if he tries to escape." The voice was a feral purr. "Crell, Van, you drop from the
back and go around the sides. Move!"
A trap, baited and primed. Only his instinctive caution had saved him from the closing jaws. But he still had to get
out.
Dumarest tensed, pressed against the wooden planks at his side, felt something yield a little. Reaching out he
found something hard and round, a float for one of the nets. He threw it to the far side of the hut, rising as it left his
hand, throwing his full weight against the planking as it fell.
Wood splintered, nails yielding with a harsh squeal, smoke following him through the opening as he lunged
outside. Something tore at his scalp to send blood over his cheek, and a giant's hammer slammed at his left heel.
Then he was out, running, dodging as a figure rose before him, one arm lifted, aiming, the hand heavy with the
weight of a gun.
A hand which fell beneath the upward slash of his knife, the figure staggering, screaming, trying to quench the
fountain of blood gushing from the stump of his wrist.
Dumarest stooped, snatched up the discarded weapon, tore the severed hand from the butt and, lifting it, closed
his finger on the trigger. Three shots aimed low and in a tight fan. Three bullets a little higher, the second echoed by a
shriek, the sound of a falling body.
Evron's snarling voice. "Back, you fools, he's armed!"
Dumarest turned. The man with the severed hand was leaning against a bollard, his face ghastly in the thickening
dust, a crimson pool at his feet. Beyond him men came running, fishermen intent on saving their nets, boathooks and
gaffs held in their hands. A near-mob who would not be gentle. Past the hut, leading to a ridge and a road, ran a
narrow path.
Dumarest raced towards it, almost fell, regained his balance as bullets hit the dirt inches from his feet. Quickly he
emptied the gun at the burning hut, threw it aside and headed for the road. A ditch lay on the other side and he
ducked into it, crouching low, a blur among the vegetation which almost filled the narrow gully.
From above came the sound of running feet and panting breath.
"A set up," the voice was bitter. "Crell dead and Van without a hand. Shem—"
"To hell with Shem!" The feral purr was savage. "He should have handled it different, instead he must have
aroused suspicion. Get the raft. He's got to be around here somewhere. We'll lift and drift. Move!"
"Why bother?" The third voice was cynical. "He'll go back to the woman. All we have to do is to get there first and
wait."
"The woman." Evron chuckled. "Sure, why didn't I think of that? Good thinking, Latush. We'll meet with her and
have a party."
Three of them, close, lost in anticipation of lust and bestiality. Within minutes they would be airborne and out of
reach. Dumarest could wait until they had gone, make his own way to the field and do his best to elude the watchers.
But the woman had been kind. He rose, moving silently, a shadow among other shadows, seeing the three
silhouettes dim against the sky. Two facing each other, a third moving away down the road, obviously to collect the
raft. His hand dipped, rose, lifted with the knife, moved forward to send the steel slamming into the exposed back. As
the man fell he sprang up onto the road and lunged forward, hands stiffened, blunt axes which lifted and fell.
Latush died first, his neck broken as he turned, eyes glazed as he fell. Evron was luckier. With the instinct of a rat
he dodged, one hand clawing at his belt, mouth opening to shout or plead.
Dumarest hit him, bone snapping beneath his hand, the reaching hand falling from the belt. He struck again and
blood spouted from the pulped nose.
"For God's sake!" Evron backed, his broken arm swinging, the other lifted in mute appeal. "You can't kill me, man!
You can't!"
"A party," said Dumarest thickly. "Enjoy it you swine—in hell!"
He stabbed, the tips of his fingers crushing the larynx then, as Evron doubled; chopped at the base of the neck.
Like a crushed toad the man slumped, dying, vomiting blood.
"Hey!" A voice called from beside the smoldering hut. "There's a dead man here. God, look at the blood!"
"Here's another, shot. What's been going on?"
Murder, violence and sudden death. Execution dealt to those who deserved it. A threat eliminated and something
gained. Money and a raft, the wealth they carried on them, the vehicle parked nearby. Dumarest could use both.

***

"Earl!" Ayantel stared from her open door, her eyes shocked. "God, man, you look like hell!"
Blood which had dried in ugly smears, dirt and slime on his clothing and boots, his hands begrimed, his hair a
mess. He could have washed in the sea, but it would have risked too much. Instead he had flown high in the raft,
looking, waiting, dropping down to the roof of her apartment, lashing the raft firmly before climbing down to a
window, then her landing.
He said, quickly, "Let me in."
"You hurt?" Her voice was tense as she closed the door after him.
"No, but I could use a bath."
"A bath and a drink, by the look of it. What happened?" Her lips tensed as he answered. "Shem, the bastard! He
sold you out. Me too. Earl, if Evron—"
"He won't."
"But—"
 "Evron is dead. I dumped him and two of his boys into the sea." Dumarest dropped the bag he had carried slung
around his neck by a belt. "You don't have to worry about him, Ayantel. Not now, or ever again. Now, where's that
drink?"
It was good and he relished it, before stepping fully dressed under the shower, rubbing the dirt and blood from his
clothing, the mess from his boots. Stripping, he bathed as the woman dried his gear. Aside from the lacerations on his
scalp, he was unharmed. The bullet which had hit his boot had done no more than tear the heel.
Clean, drying himself on a fluffy towel, he rejoined the woman, pouring himself another drink.
"So Shem set you up," she said. "I'm sorry, Earl. I thought I could trust him."
"Am I blaming you?"
"No, but you have the right." She poised the knife, remembering the traces of blood it had carried, the smears.
"How many?"
"Does it matter?"
"I want to know, Earl." Her hand tightened around the hilt as he told her what had happened. "You were lucky,"
she said. "No, clever. You guessed that they would be waiting. What tipped you off ?"
"Shem offered me a drink, but he didn't join me. The stuff was drugged. And he couldn't keep his eyes from the
roof. When I questioned him he had the wrong answers. As for the rest, forget it, it's over."
"Easy to say," she said, "not easy to do. You could have been killed. A wasted night, all for nothing."
"No," he corrected. "Not for nothing."
The bag lay where he had dropped it. Opened, it revealed wallets, rings, heavy-banded chronometers—the loot
he had collected from the dead. Quickly he sorted it. Evron, as most of his breed, had liked to carry a fat roll. His
aides had emulated him.
"This is for you." He handed a wad of cash to the woman. "I'll take the jewelry—you don't want to risk having it
traced."
"No." She shook her head as she stared at the money. "No, Earl, I haven't earned it. I don't deserve it."
"Wrong on both counts," he said curtly. "You have and you will. Can you fly a raft?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I've got one on the roof. Now listen, this is what I want you to do."
She frowned as he explained. "Now?"
"Now." Before the alarm could be given, the authorities begin to investigate. And before the cyber, sitting like a
gaunt red spider in his web, could learn new facts with which to build a prediction to gain him high rewards, and the
Cyclan could get what they wanted most of all.
The secret which had been stolen from one of their hidden laboratories. The correct sequence in which the
fifteen molecular units needed to be joined, in order to create the affinity twin.
Kalin had passed it on to him, the girl with the flame-red hair Earl would never forget. Brasque had stolen it,
destroying the records, dying in turn to keep it safe. Fifteen biological molecular units, the last reversed to determine
dominant or submissive characteristics.
An artificial symbiote which, when injected into the bloodstream, nestled at the base of the cortex and took
control of the entire nervous and sensory systems. The brain containing the dominant half would take over the body
of the host. Literally take over. Each move, every touch, all sound and sight and taste, all would be transmitted. In
effect, it gave an old man the power to become young again in a new, virile body. A body he would keep until it was
destroyed, or his own died.
It would give the Cyclan the galaxy to use as a plaything.
The mind of a cyber would reside in each and every ruler and person of consequence. They would be helpless
marionettes moving to the dictates of their masters. Slaves of the designs of those who wore the scarlet robes.
They knew of the secret and would discover it in time. But too much time, the possible combinations ran into
millions, was needed to test them all. Even at the rate of one every second, it would take four thousand years.
Dumarest could cut that time down to a handful of hours. Once they had him they could probe his brain, learn
what they needed to know, advance their domination like a red stain spread on the stars.
"Earl?"
He blinked, conscious that he had fallen into a reverie, hovered on the brink of sleep. Standing, he looked at the
woman. She wore a casual gown, a flower in her hair, too much paint on her face. The scent of her perfume was
overpowering.
"Is this what you wanted, Earl?"
"Yes." He gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "Make no mistake, girl. My life is in your hands now.
You know what to do?"
"I know."
 "Good." He turned, picked up the bottle of brandy, spilled the contents over her hair, her shoulders, her gown.
"Then let's go."

Chapter Six
It was late and Dach Lang was tired. For five hours he had stood guard at the gate. Now it was his turn to make a
patrol around the inner perimeter of the fence. A long journey and a useless one. The summit was fitted with alarms.
If anyone tried to climb the mesh, they would be shocked and caught. Yet the orders had been plain.
"Dach!" The figure approaching was muffled, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap, his collar turned high.
Haw Falla felt the chill. "A bad night," he grumbled. "And still hours to wait before dawn. This kind of thing makes a
man wish for his bed."
"You're late."
"I had things to do." Falla shrugged aside the accusation. "A man has his needs."
Too many and too often as far as Falla was concerned, but that was his problem. Dach checked his watch, made a
notation on his pad and tucked the book away. Three minutes late. With luck they could make it up, but in any case
he was in the clear. Two-man patrols, the orders had said, and a two-man patrol it would be.
"Let's get on our way."
It was growing cold, the wind from the sea carrying a drift of rain, sparkles clinging to the mesh of the fence,
glittering like minute gems beneath the glow of the floodlights. An artistic scene, but one which neither man
appreciated. They kept their eyes down, searching for holes, for strangers.
Not that it was easy. The ships stood close, crewmen busy, making a straggling line from their vessels to the gate.
Accustomed to the freedom of space they resented the new restrictions, the checks and questions at the gate. There
had been a little trouble, a couple of fights, some broken heads.
Well, to hell with them. Dach had his own problems. He brooded on them as Falla led the way around the
perimeter. Sulen was fully grown now and getting rebellious. Mari didn't help, what with her spendthrift ways. A
woman should look after her daughter, take a closer interest in what she was getting in to. Instead, she spend hard-
earned money on clothes and paint which made her look like a creature from a seraglio. A shame and a disgrace to
any decent, hard-working man. And the chances were high that if he went home now, she would be out or not alone.
"Dach!" Falla halted, staring up at the sky. "What the hell—look, a raft!"
It swept down low, almost touching the summit of the fence, veering over the field as alarms sounded from the
gate. From it came the sound of singing, high-pitched laughter, the trill of a woman's voice.
"The stupid bitch!" Falla began to run, waving his arms. "Hey, you up there! You crazy or something?"
Insane or drunk, the only reasonable explanation. No one flew over a field, the risk was too great. With ships
leaving and landing at any time, the air-displacement would wreck any smaller craft. A fact Dumarest had known, a
risk he had taken.
He lay flat in the body of the raft, invisible from below, tensing as the vehicle jerked beneath Ayantel's
inexperienced hands. She was acting well, a little too well. Only by a tremendous effort did she avoid being thrown
over the edge.
"Careful!"
"I can manage," she whispered. Then, loudly, "Hey, down there! You wanna drink? You wanna join the party?
Hows about us all getting together?"
"Mad," said Dach. "Stinking drunk and crazy. Watch out!"
He ducked as the raft swept over his head, dropped to vanish behind a ship, lifted again immediately to swing
towards them, to smack against the ground.
"Whew!" Ayantel fanned herself, then reached for a bottle. "That was rough. Here, friends, help yourself !"
A spoiled bitch, the product of decadent luxury, half-naked, stinking of liquor, out on a crazy spree. Yet she had to
be rich, or have wealthy friends. Rafts were expensive on Tradum, especially the small, personal-carrier kind.
Dach slowed as Falla gripped his arm.
"Take it easy, now. Handle her gently."
"She should be canned!"
"Sure, but what'll it get you?" Gifted with the survival cunning of an animal Falla moved closer to the raft, the
woman it contained. "Now, madam," he said soothingly, "you shouldn't be here. I'll have to take care of you. If you'll
just step out of that raft—"
"Go to hell!"
"It's for you own protection. I'll call your friends and have them take you home. You don't want to risk your pretty
neck in a place like this."
"Here!" Falla dodged as a bottle swept towards his head. As it landed with a shatter of breaking glass, the raft
lifted. "So long, boys—buy yourselves a drink!"
Money fluttered down, a shower of notes, landing as the raft lifted over the fence. Too high to be stopped, and to
shoot it down was to invite later trouble.
"Falla, she's—"
"Get the money, man!" Falla was practical. "We can't stop her now."
No one could stop her. Within minutes she would land, change, vanish into the night. The harlot had appeared
unrecognizable as the woman who sold meats at a stall.
Dumarest rose from where he had jumped, keeping the bulk of a ship between himself and the guards. The
loading port was open, a handler staring interestedly at the couple chasing the scattered wealth.
"When you leaving?"
"What?" He turned, looking at Dumarest. "Not until noon."
"Anything due earlier?"
"The Hamanara, she's loaded and set. And there's the Golquin over to your right. Say, did you see that dame in
the raft?"
"A looker."
"You can say that again." The handler sighed, enviously. "Rich too. See how she scattered that loot? Hell, some
men have all the luck. You looking for a passage?"
"That or a berth."
"Try the Golquin. Their steward had an argument at the gate and got his head broken. You could be lucky."

***

It was a vessel which had seen better days. The plates were stained, scarred, patches breaking the smooth lines
of the original design. The ramp was worn, the lights dim beyond the open port, the air filled with a musty taint due
to ancient filters and bad circulation. The captain matched his ship.
He stood glowering in the passage leading into the heart of the vessel, a squat man with suspicious eyes, heavy
brows which joined to form a russet bar, a short beard which hid a trap of a mouth.
"A berth?"
"If you have one, Captain, yes." Dumarest added, casually, "I heard that your steward ran into some trouble."
"He was drunk and a fool. You've handled the job before?"
"Yes."
"If you're lying you'll regret it." Captain Shwarb rocked back on his heels, thinking. "The gate," he said. "Did you
have trouble coming through?"
"None—what's it all about anyway?"
"Damned if I know or care. Can you operate a table?" Shwarb grunted at Dumarest's nod. "Good. Well, this is the
deal. No pay, hard work and a half of what you win is mine. Take it or leave it."
A hard bargain, but Dumarest was in no position to argue. "I'll take it, Captain. When do we leave?"
"In thirty minutes. You bunk with Arishall. We're bound for Mailarette." He added, grimly, "A warning. You look
straight, but you could be kinked. If I catch you using analogues you go outside. Understand?"
Arishall was the engineer, one of fading skill and advancing years. A quiet man with mottled skin and pale blue
eyes. He rose from his bunk as Dumarest entered the cabin and introduced himself.
"The new steward, eh?" Arishall waved to a cabinet. "That's yours. Urian's about your size so his gear should fit.
Want some advice?"
"Such as?"
"Stay off kicks. The captain—"
"I know. He told me."
"Don't think he doesn't mean it. He lost his wife to a guy who thought he was a gorilla. Since then he can't stand
anyone who uses analogs. I can't say that I blame him. A man's a man, why the hell he should want to adopt the
characteristics of a beast I can't imagine. You drink?"
"At times."
"With me it's medicine." Arishall produced a bottle and drank from its neck. "This is between us, right?"
Dumarest nodded, opening the cabinet and taking out the uniform it contained. It was clean, the colors bright,
and stripping he donned it. A box held a hypogun and a container of drugs, quicktime and the neutralizer. Checking
the instrument, Dumarest loaded it with ampules from the container.
 "How many crew?"
"Me, Shwarb, Dinok the navigator."
"No handler?"
"I double up and you help me if I need it." The engineer drank from the bottle again. "The Golquin's a free trader
—or didn't you know?"
The condition of the vessel had told him that, the minimum crew made it obvious. Operating on a low budget,
making a profit where and how it could, the crew paid by shares after all expenses had been covered. Some free
traders were better than others—the Golquin was one of the worst.
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I knew."
"And you don't care?"
"Working a passage is better than paying."
"And you've worked on free traders before, right?" Arishall pursed his lips as Dumarest nodded. "Good. It helps.
Do a good job and maybe Shwarb will offer you a regular berth. He's hard, but fair." He took a final drink. "Well, I'd
better get with it. See you, Earl."
The alarm sounded twenty minutes later. Dumarest made the seal-check and reported to the control room. Two
minutes later he felt the vibration of the drive, the lift of the vessel as the Erhaft field was established, carrying the
ship up and out towards the stars. A man-made missile moving at a velocity against which that of light was a crawl.
Taking the hypogun, he went into the salon. Five passengers were riding High; a grizzled mining engineer, a
suave entrepreneur, a trader and two women, neither of them young, both of them retiring from the stress of an
ancient profession before they bit the bottom. One smiled as he approached.
"This is a bonus. A steward who looks like a man. Can you give a girl relaxation if she can't sleep, mister?"
"Cut it out, Hilma," said her companion tiredly. "If you hope to pick up a husband on Mailarette you'd better learn
to watch your tongue."
"Old habits, Chi." The woman shrugged. "But I guess you're right. Well, friend, where do you want to put it?"
"In the neck."
Dumarest lifted the hypogun as the woman tilted her head, firing the charge of drug into her bloodstream. The
reaction was immediate. She seemed to freeze, to become a statue as her metabolism slowed. Each act, the blink of
an eye, a breath, the lift of a finger took forty times longer than normal.
Within seconds the other passengers had been treated. As Dumarest turned from the last, he saw a man standing
and watching from the door of the salon.
"So you're Dumarest," he said. "I'm Dinok, the navigator."
His uniform was impeccable, the material carrying the sheen of newness, braid and insignia gleaming with polish.
A small man, fastidious in his appearance, Dinok wore his hair short, his face hairless aside from a thin mustache. His
hands were smooth, the nails polished, neatly filed.
"Neat," he approved, glancing at the passengers. "You hit them where it counted. I like to see a man who knows
his work."
"Did Shwarb send you to check?"
"Would you care if he did?" Dinok shrugged, not waiting for an answer. "Now you clean the cabins, prepare the
basic, fill the hoppers and then get to work at the table." He glanced at where cards and dice stood on an expanse of
green baize. "If it's your style to cheat, don't get caught."
Dumarest lifted the hypogun. "When do you want it?"
"The captain and me take care of ourselves. Give Arishall a shot after you've done the chores—but I guess you
know the system." Dinok pursed his lips as he stared at the women, the men. "Scum," he said. "But the best we can
hope for. If you get tips you'll be lucky."
Dumarest caught the note of disdain in the man's voice and could guess the reason. Dinok had been used to
better things. An officer, perhaps, on a luxury vessel where a part of his duty would have been to entertain. A good
job for a man with the inclination to do it—one he would have hated to lose.
He said, casually, "When did they book?"
"We got them from the agent, some could have been waiting for weeks. But you? What made you join the
Golquin?"
"I needed the job."
"Don't we all?" Dinok scowled, a man caught in a trap of his own making. Drink or drugs, or an alliance with the
wrong woman at the wrong time. Something had sent him on the downward path which, as yet, hadn't ended. That
would come when he grew careless about his appearance, casual as to his duties. Then, he would be kicked out to rot
on some lonely world. "Well, Earl, I'll leave you to it. Watch out for the entrepreneur—I don't trust his type."
 ***

Ren Dhal was smooth, skilled, deft with the dice and clever with the cards. A man who had established a small
business on Tradum, selling out when the opposition grew too strong. Moving on now to seek fresh opportunities.
"They're everywhere," he said as he sat at the table. "But it takes a smart brain to recognize them. On Heiglet, for
example, I noticed that three taverns were competing. I arranged a merger, raised the prices and took a nice profit.
All it required was some fast talking."
Dumarest dealt the cards, playing without real interest, merely doing a part of his job. As always on any journey,
life had settled into a routine. Play and talk passed the time. Work a little more when, the quicktime in his blood
neutralized, he attended to what had to be done.
The cabins searched, baggage checked, looking for any signs that the passengers were not exactly what they
claimed to be. He had found nothing suspicious.
"Time to eat," he announced, and went to draw the rations of basic. Elementary food, a liquid thick with protein,
sickly with glucose, laced with vitamins and essential elements. A cup would provide enough energy for a day.
The trader grunted as he accepted his ration. A dour man who spent long hours studying lists of figures,
computing his margins of profit. He rarely spoke and seemed to hold a grievance against the grizzled engineer who
had formed an attachment with one of the women, careless as to her past.
"Food." Chi pulled a face. "Is that what you call it? Hilma, we could be making a mistake. On Tradum, at least we
had something decent to eat."
"And will again." Hilma glanced at the engineer. He was old, but he had money and was as good as she could
hope to get. Smiling she said, "To the future, Gramon, may it be pleasant."
"I'll drink to that." He sipped, beaming. "It'll be good to settle down. I've had enough of traveling and I've
breathed in all the rock dust my lungs will take. Say, Chi, I've a friend who might be interested in you. A farmer—you
got objections to living on a farm?"
The nearest thing to hell she could imagine, but a man could be changed and, if he owned land, he was worth
looking at.
"His own farm?"
"Of course. Warsh and me grew up together. His wife died a decade ago and I figure it's time he got another. Tell
you what, I'll fix it up as soon as we land. Have dinner together and talk things over. Agreed?"
They were talking too much, ignoring the table, and Dumarest riffled the cards.
"What'll it be, friends? Starsmash, olkay, nine-nap, spectrum?" They weren't interested, not that it mattered.
Dumarest could take Shwarb's disappointment. And, soon now, the journey would be over.
They landed at dawn, when the terminator was bisecting the field, early mist blurring outlines, a thin fog which
had not yet burned away. Dumarest stood at the head of the ramp as was expected. Dinok had been right, there were
no tips.
"With a bunch like that you're lucky to get a smile," scowled Arishall. "How did you make out at the table?"
"Poor."
"Bad news for the captain." Arishall shrugged. "Well, he can't grumble. In this game you have to take it as it
comes. Earl, I need your help."
Dumarest glanced at the field, the mist. It was a good time to leave.
"It won't take long," said the engineer. "A dump-job down in the hold. Some poor devil didn't make it."
He looked very small as he lay in the casket designed for the transportation of beasts, but in which men could
ride, doped, frozen and ninety-percent dead. Riding Low, risking the fifteen-percent death rate for the sake of cheap
travel. A gamble which he had taken once too often.
"A kid," said Arishall. "I didn't want to take him, but Shwarb insisted."
Dumarest made no comment, looking at the ceiling where someone with a touch of imagination had painted a
smiling face. A woman's face with liquid eyes and a softly inviting mouth, hair which was wreathed in a mass of
golden curls over a smooth brow. Her throat accentuated the slope of the shoulders, the upper curves of barely
portrayed breasts which vanished into a depicted cloud, a mass of vapor which framed the portrait with a milky
fleece. The last thing Leon Harvey had seen.
"A kid," said Arishall again. "I guessed he wouldn't make it. He was too thin, too puny. He should have waited,
fattened himself up—well, to hell with it. It's all a part of the job."
"Something wrong?" Dinok entered the hold and frowned as he looked at the dead boy. "Hell, I know him."
"From where?" Dumarest was sharp. "Nerth?"
"Nerth? No, Shajok. It was his first trip."
"Are you sure about that?"
 Dinok shrugged. "I'd gamble on it, Earl. You know how it is with first-timers. No matter how they try to cover it
up, it shows. The kid was green. He didn't know enough to argue about the price when Shwarb cheated him. He was
in a sweat, eager to get away. Knowing Shajok, I can't blame him."
"Arishall?"
"I remember Shajok, but not the boy," said the engineer. "Urian handled it. I was busy getting a replacement part
for the engine. They had him sealed by the time I got back."
"And when he left?"
"Arishall wouldn't remember that, Earl," said the navigator dryly. "He'd taken a little too much of his medicine.
We first dropped the boy on Aestellia and he must have moved on to Tradum. I guess he recognized the Golquin and
felt at home. Now he's dead. A pity, but that's the way it goes." He stooped, felt under the casket, rose holding the
cheap fabric bag Leon had carried in his hand. "Let's see if he left anything worth having."
His clothes, a cheap ring with a chipped stone, a folding knife with a worn blade, a rasp, a thin book, something
wrapped in a cloth, a few coins.
Dinok set them aside as he unwrapped the bundle. It contained a slab of gray material six inches long, four wide,
three thick; a block of artificial stone which had been roughly carved into the shape of an idol.
"Rubbish." Dinok wasn't disappointed, those who traveled Low carried little else. "A hobby, I guess. It looks as if
he'd worked on it. Want it, Arishall?"
"No, nor this junk either." The engineer tossed aside the book. "It's all yours if you want it, Earl. You take the gear
and we'll split the coins. A deal?"
"I can use the bag." Dumarest lifted it, filled it with the idol, the book and other items. "I'll dump the rest."
"Talking about dumping, we'd better get on with the job. You'd better lift him, Earl, while I—"
"I've quit," said Dumarest. "Dinok can give you a hand."

***

The mist was slow in clearing. While it held, traffic would be scanty. A cafe beyond the gate sold a variety of
cheap food and drink. Dumarest bought a mug of coffee and sat nursing it, looking at the few others the
establishment contained. It was early yet. Later it would fill with workers, transients, crews assembling and killing a
little time, agents on the lookout for cheap labor. All potential sources of information. Now there was time for
thought.
Leon was dead and his knowledge had died with him. He must have awoken back at the hotel, finding himself
alone, rejected, searching town and field for the man he had believed to be a friend, finding the familiar vessel and
booking the only passage he could afford.
A boy who had lied as to the planet of his origin. Shajok, not Nerth, and yet under the primitive truth drug he had
stuck to that name.
The name—so tantalizingly similar. And the creed of the Original People, that strange cult which believed in a
common world of origin for all the diverse races of mankind. A hidden, secret group who sought no converts but who
could, perhaps, hold information of value.
Two scraps of succulent bait for anyone setting a trap—and Dumarest had sensed a trap. But the boy was dead
and, by his death, he had proved his innocence.
Dumarest sipped at his coffee and then examined the items he had taken. The clothing was exactly what it
appeared to be, cheap materials, the seams welded, unbroken. He ran fingers over every inch, finding nothing hidden
there. The ring was a tawdry adornment, probably bought to use as a primitive knuckleduster. Dumarest held it up to
the light, turning it as he examined the stone, the interior of the band. Holding the metal he struck the stone forcefully
against the surface of the table, checking it as it vibrated from the impact. Nothing.
The worn knife, the rasp and bag were what they appeared to be. The block of artificial stone from which the idol
was carved was dense, the surface yielding reluctantly to the touch of the rasp. Dumarest examined it, found the
surface uncracked, the mass obviously solid. Setting it down, he picked up the book.
It was a thin publication with plastic covers, the pages crammed with a mass of condensed information. A variety
of facts and figures, mathematical formula, chemical compounds, astronomical data, the coordinates of a thousand
worlds, a list of survival techniques to be followed in hostile environments. A book which would be the pride of any
adventurous youngster. A thing which a new traveler might think of as essential.
Dumarest flexed the covers, narrowed his eyes as he felt an inconsistency. He lifted the knife from his boot and
carefully slid the razor-sharp edge along the interior binding. The point slipped into a narrow opening, lifted it to
reveal what had been tucked into the pocket thus made.
A photograph. One showing a smiling woman with a strongly boned face, deep-set eyes of a peculiar amber, pale
blonde hair drawn back from her face and held with a metal fillet. Her garb was masculine, pants and tunic of dull
green. An elder sister, perhaps, or a relative of some kind. But it wasn't the woman who held Dumarest's interest.
She had been shown standing before a wall topped with a peaked roof, a house or repository of some kind. On it,
visible against the dull stone, rested a peculiar design.
Dumarest stared at it, narrowing his eyes, following the lines which joined nodules of brightness, as if fragments
of broken glass had been joined and incorporated into a symbolic representation.
A fish. Bright points glinting by reflected light, so that the design gained an added impact.
The fish with shining scales!
Dumarest lowered the photograph, leaning back, barely conscious of the increased activity within the cafe. A
coincidence, it had to be, one more to set beside the rest—and yet coincidences happened. Leon could have
belonged to the Original People—that strange, hidden, quasi-religious cult. They could know of the exact
whereabouts of Earth. The design could be a visual part of a mnemonic which had once been told to him on a distant
world.
The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins, and next the Crab, the Lion, the Virgin, and the Scales. The
Scorpion, the Archer, the Goat, the Water Bearer, and the Fish with shining scales.
The signs of the zodiac. Twelve symbols, each representing a portion of the sky running in a complete circle.
Once he found a world surrounded by those signs, he would have found Earth.
A stellar analogue could do it, patterns set up by a computer, constellations arranged as seen from any viewpoint.
Once he could feed in the patterns of stars comprising the zodiac the thing would be done, the long search over.
But first he needed to know just what those stars were, their numbers and disposition. Leon's people could
provide the answer. And Leon had come from Shajok.

Chapter Seven
It was going to be a good day. Bhol Kinabalu felt it the moment he woke, the feeling reinforced as he drew back
the curtains and looked through the window. The wind was brisk from the plains, the pennons set on poles above
each house standing steady as they pointed towards the mountains. Opening the window he sniffed at the air, crisp,
clean, carrying the scent of ulumen. The harvest promised to be exceptional this year; with only a modicum of luck
he would treble his investment.
"My lord." His cheerfulness was contagious. The girl in the bed smiled as she stretched, then sat upright, the
covers falling from her naked torso. "Did I find pleasure in your eyes?"
A slight thing, young, yet with a feral determination to survive. Kinabalu could appreciate that as he could
appreciate other things; his house, his fortune, the enterprises in which he was involved. He turned from the window,
a thick-set, stocky man, his ebon skin glowing with good health. A Hausi, caste marks livid on his cheeks.
"You slept well?"
"Deeply, my lord." Her arms lifted in invitation, falling as, smiling, he shook his head. "No?"
"No." He saw the sudden fear in her eyes and quickly eased her fears. "You please me, girl, but the sun has risen
and there is much to do. Hurry now and prepare breakfast. Vinia will tell you what to do."
Vinia who would undoubtedly be jealous, but who was mature enough to recognize that a man needed novelty in
his sensuous pursuits. She would train the girl, teach her that there was a time for indulgence, others for food and rest.
Demarcations of the day which left the greater proportion of it to the affairs of business.
Business—the very stuff of life to all who belonged to the Hausi.
The meal was simple, tisane, bread toasted and drenched in butter, a portion of sweet compote, a handful of
dried fruits. Kinabalu ate slowly, enjoying the tastes and consistency, sipping at the pungent tisane. A good time in
which to recall the pleasures of the night, the things needed to be done during the day.
The harvest—it would do no harm to send a man to examine the crop. The farmers were basically honest, yet
there always was the temptation to cheat. A little theft was to be expected, but a man sent to check and investigate
would keep it to a minimum. Kinabalu made a note and turned to the next item.
The shipment of tools from Elg would arrive today on the Zandel. As agent, he must arrange for their
transportation to the Shagrib Peninsular. Mayna Chow would arrange it, but there would be haggling over the cost.
Mar Zelm at the warehouse was a little too generous in his pricing of the things brought in for trade. Delia Ogez was
late in her payment. True, trade had been poor, but such delay must not be encouraged. The tavern at the end of
Quendel Street—Kinabalu sighed as a knock heralded the entry of Vinia.
"What is it?"
"An urgent call from Jalch Moore, my lord. He insists that you speak with him."
 "You should have told him that I was out."
"I apologize, my lord, but—"
"Never mind."
Kinabalu rose from the table, conscious of a flaw in the day. Vinia had done it deliberately, of course, a minor
revenge for his having brought another woman into the house. A mistake, perhaps, but one now made and to be lived
with. As Jalch Moore had to be lived with—but why was the man so persistent?
He glared from the screen, a thin face with deep-set eyes, hair the color of sun-bleached straw, a thin mouth, a
chin which sported a tuft of beard.
"Kinabalu!" His voice was an angry rasp. "I've been trying to contact you. Where have you been?"
"Busy, my lord."
"On my affairs, I hope. How much longer must I wait?"
Kinabalu masked his irritation. The man was a pest, but his money was good. An agreement made had to be kept.
He said, quietly, "My lord, we have been over this before. The equipment is ready and waiting, but it would be
most unwise of you to leave without protection."
"We have arms."
"True, but there are other considerations. You need a guide and a guard, one at least. I have suggested many men
who are capable."
"Fools," snapped Moore. "I can read a man as well as most. All you've sent me are idiots who will be more trouble
than they are worth. Surely you can find a man of the type I need? Or are you telling me that, on all Shajok, there are
nothing but spineless characters hoping for free food and easy pay?"
The man was being unfair and must know it, yet Kinabalu had to admit that he had a point. But what man in his
right mind would agree to join such a crazy expedition? They knew of the dangers if Moore did not. A thing he had
already explained a dozen times, to no avail.
"The Hausi have a reputation," said Moore bitterly. "I placed all arrangements in your hands with the promise that
I would receive satisfaction. I do not think your guild would be happy to learn of my disappointment."
A threat, a minor one, but a threat all the same. The guild would not take kindly to any complaint of such a
nature. The failure of one reflected on the abilities of all. Even though Shajok was a relatively unimportant world, any
complaint would create an unpleasant situation.
Kinabalu said, soothingly, "My lord, be assured that I am doing my best. I personally guarantee that you will be
able to leave very soon now."
"Soon? Just what the hell does that mean?"
"Soon, my lord."
"A day?" Moore was insistent. "Two? Give me a time, man. I have to know."
"Two."
A gamble, but one which had to be taken. Two days to find the right kind of man, one who would satisfy Jalch
Moore. If necessary he would offer a bonus—a lost profit, but a maintained reputation. But it need not come to that.
The Zandel was due in at noon.

***

It was a small ship operating a regular route, embracing a handful of worlds. Small cargoes and few passengers,
but it contacted Vonstate where other ships landed. Aside from occasional free traders, it and one other were the only
vessels touching Shajok.
Kinabalu was at the field when it landed, hearing the crack of displaced air from above, watching as it settled in a
haze of blue luminescence from its Erhaft field. From force of habit he studied the others waiting. Wen Larz eager for
tourists, Zorya hovering in the hope of making a private deal with the crew for anything they may have carried, Frend
who needed cheap labor for his mine, Chaque who had nothing better to do.
He nodded to Kinabalu. "How's the new acquisition making out, Bhol?"
An indiscreet question and one in the worst possible taste. The Hausi ignored it.
"Why are you here, Agus?"
"Looking." The man turned towards the vessel, the opening port. "Have you managed to satisfy Moore yet?"
He knew too much, his questions were too pointed, but that was to be expected. A dilettante with time to kill and
curiosity to be satisfied. Kinabalu looked at him, studying his reached hair, the face which seemed to be prematurely
old, the lines too deep for the youthful skin and eyes.
"I'm working on it."
"And with success?" Chaque parted his lips in silent laughter as the other made no comment. "You'll have to work
harder, my friend. Sirey has taken a job with a harvester. I thought that you would like to know."
The guide! Kinabalu thinned his lips. The man had promised, but had obviously broken his word. That, or he had
been bribed away. Two men to find now instead of one—and guides were scarce.
"Of course," said Chaque casually, "a replacement could always be found if the price was right. The price or the
prospect of satisfaction."
"You?"
"Perhaps."
"What do you know of the mountains? Moore wants good men. He'd discover you for what you are in a matter of
minutes."
"And what am I, Bhol?" Turning, Chaque looked the other man in the eyes, his own surprisingly direct. "I've
hunted and I know the area. I've spent as much time in the foothills as any of your vaunted guides. Just because I
can't see the sense in making more money than I need doesn't make me a fool. There are other values. And I'll be
frank, the adventure appeals to me. At least it will break the monotony."
The adventure and other things, Iduna Moore for one. A beautiful woman despite her mannish ways. A challenge
to anyone like Chaque, with his enhanced self-esteem. He would fail, of course, and failing perhaps turn ugly, but that
would be Moore's problem, not his.
"You know, Bhol, you don't really have much choice. Sirey probably recognized his folly and who else could you
find? I think you should consider my offer."
"The decision is Moore's."
"True, but he has less choice than yourself." Chaque smiled, confident of his position. "Of course you could wash
your hands of the deal, but I don't think you'd like to do that. Right?"
Kinabalu said, "The pay is—"
"I know what the pay is. I want an increase of fifty percent."
"You'll take what's offered." The Hausi was firm. "And you'll have to talk Moore into accepting you. That's the
best I can offer, Agus. Personally I don't think you stand a chance, but I won't speak against you."
A problem solved if the man agreed. Kinabalu felt an inward relaxation as Chaque nodded. The guide was
replaced at least, which left the situation as before. He glanced at the ship. Two women were moving down the ramp,
sisters he guessed, come to see the harvest. Wen Larz moved quickly toward them, smiling. The smile grew wider as
others appeared, a couple with a small boy, a matron who sniffed disdainfully as she saw the town.
"So this is Shajok. I don't think much of it."
"You haven't seen the best yet, my lady." Larz bustled about as he collected his party. "That is yet to come. A vista
of unequaled splendor which will stun the eye and fill the nostrils with almost unbearable delight. You have arrived at
the best time. The fields are superb. Is there anyone else to take the tour? No? Then if you will all follow me, I will
guide you to your accommodation."
To the rooms in the hotel of which he was the part owner. Later, they would take rafts and head towards the
plains to camp and inspect the crop. Mile upon mile of ulumen, the plants all in full bloom, pods swollen with volatile
oils. They would see a blaze of color stretching as far as the eye could reach. They would live, breathe, almost bathe
in the perfume which hung over the area like a cloud.
Kinabalu ignored them, now looking at the ramp leading down from the open port. Zorya was talking to the
handler, haggling over something he held in his hands, probably narcotics or a few semi-precious stones. Frend
walked past, scowling, barely nodding a greeting. No one, obviously, had ridden Low. His mine would lack the cheap
labor he'd hoped to obtain.
There seemed no reason to wait, and yet the Hausi lingered. Hoping.

***

Dumarest was late in leaving the ship. Shajok was a bad world. He could tell, almost smell it as he descended the
ramp. A planet which had little in the way of industry, a backward world on which it would be hard to find work, to
earn enough to build a stake. It was too easy to become stranded in such a place, waiting, working for food if work
could be found at all.
A road led from the field towards the town, a cluster of beggars at its side. Crippled men and a few crones, their
eyes dull, waiting, hoping for charity which would never come. Winter would kill them off like flies, but more would
take their place in the spring.
The town itself had the grim appearance of having once been a fortress. The houses were fashioned of solid
stone, the roofs sharply pitched, the windows narrow and barred. Only the pennons gave a touch of gaiety, long
streamers of brilliant color, all pointing towards the distant loom of the mountains. Dumarest studied them, looking
for emblems or symbols, seeing nothing but a jumble of hues.
The square was fringed with open-fronted shops selling a variety of local produce; dried meats on skewers,
woven carpets, basket work. There were masses of fruit dried and pounded, then compressed into blocks, things of
stone and wood and metal to be used in any household. A smith was busy at a forge, the sound of his hammer
strident over the hum and bustle of the crowd. In a corner of the square a woman fashioned pottery.
She was old, stooped, hair a wispy tangle over small, bright eyes. Her arms were bare to the elbows, hands
grimed with a grayish clay. Dumarest paused, picking up a bowl, looking at the material of which it had been made. A
gray, stone-like substance which he had seen before.
As he set the bowl down the woman said, "Anything special you're after, mister?"
"A few words."
"For free?"
"For pay." He dropped a few coins into the bowl. "Do you fire this stuff ?"
"No." She came towards him, wiping her hands. "It's ground levallite mixed with a polymer resin. Leave it stand
and it sets as hard as a rock. Why?"
Dumarest said, "Did you have a boy working for you once?"
"I've had a lot of people working for me. They come and they go. Why should I remember?"
More coins made metallic sounds as they joined the rest in the bowl.
"His name was Leon Harvey. Young, slightly built, probably came from a village somewhere. His face was a little
peaked, if you know what I mean. He wanted to move on and see the galaxy."
"I remember." Wispy hair straggled as she nodded. "He came to me starving and I gave him a bowl of stew. Made
him work for it, though. He hung on and I fed him, gave him a little money from time to time. Then he upped and
vanished."
"Just like that?"
"They come and they go," she said. "I guess he found his way around, then made his move. It happens."
"Did anyone come looking for him?"
"No—are you?"
"He's dead," said Dumarest flatly. "I was hoping to take word to his folks. He left a little something I thought they
might like to have. Where can I find them?"
Her shrug was expressive. "Why ask me?"
"He worked for you. He must have talked, mentioned his home, his family. No?" Dumarest deliberately scooped
the coins from the bowl. "Too bad—I guess we both wasted our time."
"Now wait a minute!" Her hand gripped his arm with surprising strength. "We made a deal."
"Sure, I pay and you talk, but so far you've done no real talking."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"No?" Dumarest's voice lowered, became savage. "A youngster, tired, hungry, working for barely nothing. A
stranger, and you say he didn't talk? Hell, woman, he'd have to say something. You were the only one he knew."
"He was on the run," she admitted. "I guessed that, and was sure of it when he ducked under the counter one day.
A group was passing, some men from the mountains, I think. He took one look, then ducked."
"Nerth," said Dumarest. "He told me he came from there. Where is it?"
"I don't know."
"A commune." Dumarest jingled the coins. "A village, maybe." He saw the blank look in her eyes. "The Original
People then? Damn it, woman, don't you know your own world?"
For answer she took a mass of clay, slammed it on the counter, gouged it with her thumbs.
"Shajok," she snapped. "At least a part of it. Here are the plains, here the field, here the town. And here," her
fingers mounded the gray substance into a range of peaks, "here are the mountains. And in the mountains—" Her
hand slammed down, fingers clawing, digging, leaving deep indentations. "—valleys. Places where God alone knows
what is to be found. Maybe people calling themselves by a fancy name. Maybe communes of one kind or another. I
don't know. I'm no hunter and I've more sense than to stick my head into a noose. And, mister, if you'll take my
advice, neither will you. See those flags? When they fall, get under cover and fast. Get into shelter and stay there until
the wind blows again."
"Why?"
"Because, mister," she said grimly, "if you don't, you'll stop being human, that's why."

***

The interior of the tavern was dark, a place of brooding shadows in which men sat and talked quietly over their
wine. Too quietly, but much about Shajok was less than normal. The flags, the town itself, the odd atmosphere of the
field. A place besieged, thought Dumarest. Or, a place which had known siege. No wonder that Leon, after a taste of
normal worlds, had sworn that he would never return.
Leon, whom the old woman had known in more ways than she had admitted. The boy must have turned thief to
gain the price of his passage. But the money couldn't have come from her. Somewhere else then, that was certain, but
from where? Home, perhaps. It would be logical for him to have stolen before running away, but in that case why
work for the woman at all? And who were the men who had frightened him?
Questions which waited for answers, but at least one problem could be solved now.
Kinabalu grunted as Dumarest dropped on the bench at his side. "My arm!"
"Will be released as soon as I know why you have been following me."
"You noticed? Good. Is that why you came into this place?"
"It serves." Dumarest tightened his grip. "The answer. Why are you interested in me?"
"Please!" Sweat shone on the Hausi's face. "The bone—you will break it! All I wanted was to offer you
employment."
"Your name?"
Kanabalu rubbed his wrist as he gave it. Beneath the fabric of his blouse he knew that welts would be forming
bruises which would make his flesh tender.
"Earl Dumarest," he said. "The handler gave me your name. I took the liberty of following you. That woman—
why do you wish to find this place you call Nerth?"
"If she told you that, she must have told you the rest."
"And why not?" Kinabalu shrugged, fully at ease. "She knows me and knows of my discretion. Also, I was able to
buy a few things for later delivery. Money, as you must know, has many uses."
"And?"
"I offer you the chance to earn some money. More, the chance to find what you are seeking. A fortuitous meeting,
my friend. We must celebrate it in wine."
He ordered, waited as a girl poured, followed the movements of her hips with his eyes. A sensualist—or so a less
observant man would have believed. Dumarest knew better. Knew also that a Hausi did not lie. He might not tell all
of the truth, but his word was to be trusted.
"You followed me from the ship," Dumarest said. "Were you waiting for me?"
"No, not you, not as an individual. I hoped that someone would land who would fill a need. I think you are such a
man. Some wine?"
Dumarest accepted the goblet. He said, dryly, "What's so special about this need of yours?"
"The need? Nothing. A job which any of a hundred men could do. To act as a guard and protector, to take care of
a camp, to be able to survive in a hostile environment and, above all, not to be afraid. But the man who offers the
employment is another matter. A man almost impossible to satisfy. On the face of it the commission was simple, to
equip a small expedition into the mountains. To provide a raft, supplies, a guide, and a man. All is ready and waiting,
only the man needs to be found. It could be that I have found him. You are open to a proposition?"
"I could be."
"That depends."
"On the pay, certainly, that is understood. But Jalch Moore will be generous."
"Moore," said Dumarest. "From where?"
"Does it matter?" Kinabalu sipped at his wine. "His money is good even if his temper is short. But, if you are
interested, he once mentioned Usterlan. I have never been to that world. Have you?"
"No."
"He is, I think, a little mad. The mountains are best left alone. You see, I am honest with you. I will add to my
honesty—there is even a chance that you may be killed."
"By whom?"
"The wind, my friend, a fall in temperature, a vagary of heat. The mountains are dangerous for any raft. Thermals
are unpredictable. A drop in the wind can create vortexes, a rise the same. And the local conditions are much of a
mystery. Few venture deeply into the hills; some hunters, a scattering of prospectors, some seekers of gems. They
leave, sometimes they return, sometimes they do not."
"And yet there must be caravans," said Dumarest flatly. "Traders who venture far to sell and buy."
"True."
"Are they proof against dangers?"
"No man is proof against death when it comes," said Kinabalu. "And it can ride on the wind."
"The wind," said Dumarest. "The pennons?"
 "Signals, as the woman told you. While the wind blows all in the city are safe. If it should fall, there is nothing to
worry about providing the calm does not stay too long. If it does—but why worry about such things? The wind never
fails."
"But if it did?"
"Probably nothing." Kinabalu drank more wine. "A superstition, my friend, a sop to the credulous. A rumor
circulated by tavern owners, for where can a man be sure of shelter and welcome if not in a tavern? But, seriously,
the danger is exaggerated. Nothing could possibly come down from the mountains against the updraft from the
foothills. But we digress. Are you interested in taking the position?"
A journey into the mountains, to look for—what? Nothing of interest, perhaps, but the expedition offered
transportation and a chance to learn of what lay in the valleys the old woman had mentioned. They only way,
perhaps. One he would have to take if ever he hoped to find Leon's home.
Dumarest said, slowly, "I'm interested, but I need to know more."
"The pay for example. The cost of a High passage, that I can promise. As for the rest—" Kinabalu finished his
wine. "—that Jalch Moore will explain."

Chapter Eight
There was something odd about the man. He moved with the restless pacing of a hungry feline, his head jerking,
hands twitching, eyes never at rest. His room at the hotel was littered with papers, maps, scrolls, moldering books,
items of equipment. A dagger with an ornate hilt and engraved blade lay beside a small statuette of a weeping
woman. In a crystal jar an amorphous something turned slowly, as if imbued with sluggish life. An illusion, the thing
was dead, preserved, the motion the result of transmitted vibration.
"Dumarest," he said. "Earl Dumarest. From?"
"Vonstate."
"And before that?" The thin, angry tones sharpened a little. "The planet of origin, man. Where were you born?"
"Earth."
Dumarest waited for the expected reaction, the incredulity, the conviction of a lie. None came and he looked at
Moore's hand, the small instrument it contained. A tonal lie detector, he guessed. The recorded vibrations of his
voice tested by electronic magic to reveal the truth. An unusual tool for an explorer to carry.
He said, flatly, "And you? Usterlan?"
"Yes."
A lie. Dumarest knew the world despite what he had told the Hausi. The people of Usterlan were dark, their hair
a kinked ebon, a protection against the fury of a sun radiating high in ultra-violet. His eyes slid to the woman sitting
quietly beside the window. She wore masculine garb, her russet hair cropped short, her face devoid of cosmetics. A
strong face, the bones prominent, the lips firm, the bottom pouting a little. Her eyes were up-tilted, a pale gray, the
lids thickly lashed. Her hands were broad, the fingers long, the nails neatly rounded.
Iduna, Jalch Moore's younger sister.
"My lord," Bhol Kinabalu bowed a little, his hands extended, palms upward. "This is the man for whom you have
been waiting. He will suit your requirements—if not, I must cancel the commission and answer to my guild."
An ultimatum, despite the appeal of the hands, the deferential bow. Moore grunted, dropping the instrument he
carried, his hand moving towards the dagger, to snatch it up, to hurl it with a sudden gesture. A bad throw. Left to
itself it would hit the wall close to where Dumarest stood, denting the plaster with its hilt.
He caught it, spun it to grip the point, threw it all in one fast motion. Metal tore as the blade ripped into the lie-
detector, inner components ruined, its discharged energy flaring in momentary sparkles.
"Fast." The woman's voice was deep, musical. "A test, Jalch? If so, the man has passed. At least his reactions
leave nothing to be desired."
"The instrument—"
"Is ruined, but he could have buried the steel in your throat had he wished." She rose, tall, a little imperious, the
curves of her body betraying her femininity. "Have you been told what it is we want you to do?"
"No."
"No?" She frowned, glancing at the Hausi. Again Kinabalu spread his hands.
"I have explained the basic duties, my lady, but the details must come from you. To guard, to protect, these things
are vague. Only a rogue would promise to deliver what he cannot supply." Pausing he added, "The guide?"
"Has been accepted."
"And this man?"
 "We shall see. You may go." As the door closed behind the Hausi she said to Dumarest, "Have you been engaged
in such employment before?"
"Yes."
"And yet you are not satisfied with what has been told you?"
"No." Dumarest met her eyes. "If I am to be efficient I need to know what dangers to anticipate. This enterprise
you propose, what is it's purpose? To hunt? To map a region? To trade? To search for minerals?" The pale gray orbs
did not flicker. "What?"
"Does it make a difference?"
"It could." Dumarest looked at the scattered maps, the scrolls, the moldering books. "How many will be on this
expedition?"
"We two, the guide and yourself if you agree to join us."
"A small party."
"But large enough," snapped Jalch harshly. "Sister, let me explain." His hand touched a scroll, moved to a book,
lingered on the statuette. "We are chasing a legend," he said abruptly. "Shajok is an old world and must have been
settled many times. In the mountains are valleys which could hold the remnants of previous cultures. One of them
could be the life that was native to this planet in ages past. From what I have been able to discover they were unique.
You have seen the pennons?"
Dumarest nodded.
"You know their purpose?"
"A warning."
"The product of imagination—or so most insist. And yet, should they signal the ceasing of the wind there would
be panic." Jalch moved restlessly about the room. "Why should that be if there is no danger? Superstition? I think not.
The product, perhaps, of myths enlarged by active fears. Yet, each myth holds within itself the core of truth. Once
there was a real danger. Once men were strangers here and had to fight in order to survive. The original people could
still exist. If they do I hope to find them."
"The Original People?"
"The natives of this world." Pages rustled as Jalch opened a book. "Look at this, a report made by Captain Bramh
centuries ago. He made an emergency landing close to the mountains and lost two-thirds of his crew to something he
failed to describe. A local phenomenon he called it, which caused them to desert. And here, an item culled from the
secret archives of Langousta. A ship which was forced to land on Shajok. A distress signal was picked up and a rescue
operation mounted. They discovered the wreck, but found no trace of the crew and passengers it had carried. A
mystery. Even the log was incomplete, food on the tables, everything as it should be, but of the people—nothing."
A book fell, a scroll rolled to the floor, a paper traced with lines of faded color was unrolled.
"And here, more proof if more were needed. A priest of the Hyarch sect was summoned to the bedside of a
dying man. Under the seal of secrecy he was told of Shajok and the thing the man had found there. A form of life
which—tell me, have you ever heard of the Kheld?"
Dumarest shook his head.
"A supposed creature of legend, the ancient writings mention them often. Things of strange powers and peculiar
abilities. They have many names and have been recorded many times. Intangible life-forms which can grant powers
beyond imagination to their owners. A name, and names change, but the basics remain. Here, on Shajok, we could
find the Kheld."
Jalch moved towards the window, stood looking out at the bright pennons straining at their poles, his face
traversed with bars of shadow.
"The Kheld," he whispered. "The Kheld!"
Iduna said quietly, "Earl, do you understand?"
A madman or a man obsessed, certainly not a man wholly sane. Jalch Moore had taken the stuff of rumor and
built it into an imagined fact. Fragments of legend whispered in taverns and enhanced with the telling. Like the myths
of vast accumulations of wealth to be found in hidden places, the deposited treasures of dying races, of imaginary
pirates, of votive offerings.
Dumarest had heard them by the score—but this was something new. The mysterious beings which would grant
to a man they acknowledged as their master the absolute fulfillment of his dreams and ambitions. And Jalch hoped to
find them on Shajok.
A paranoid—that much was obvious from his use of the lie-detector. A mystic in his fashion, a primitive in his
application of the crude ritual of the thrown dagger. Yet, he had money and equipment, and the urge to explore the
hidden places of the mountains. The valleys, in one of which could be those whom Dumarest sought. The place from
which Leon had come.
 Nerth. A commune, perhaps, of the Original People. A chance he couldn't afford to miss.

***

They left two hours before dusk, lifting high and riding the wind, the note of the engine a soft purr as it fed power
to the anti-gravity units incorporated in the body of the raft. It was a small, general purpose vehicle, the controls
protected by a transparent canopy, the body open to the sky. A thing used to transport vats of ulumen oil, the
structure redolent of the exotic perfume.
Jalch Moore handled the controls, the guide at his side, pointing at times to the mountains looming ahead.
Dumarest sat in the open body, cramped by the bales of supplies and equipment, the woman at his side.
Without looking at her he asked, "What are you, his nurse?"
"His sister."
"I didn't ask your relationship. How long has he been insane?"
"Is he?" She moved to sit before him. The setting sun threw long streamers of light across the sky, their
reflections catching her eyes and accentuating their color. "He has a dream, a conviction, and who are you to say that
he is wrong? A man who claims to come from a mythical world. Earth!" She made the word an expression of
contempt.
"I did not lie and you know it."
"Because of the instrument used by my brother?" Her shrug emphasized the shape beneath the masculine tunic.
"It would have registered the same, no matter what you had said. We had waited too long, Jalch was getting too
strained. A word misplaced, a doubt, and you would have been rejected. Another failure—and I did not want to see
him disappointed again."
"So you fixed the detector. Was that wise?"
"You think I fear you, or any man?" Iduna smiled, white teeth flashing between the parted lips. "Or that I need a
machine in order to determine character?"
"No," he admitted. "But your brother—"
"Could be wrong, I admit it. But, then again, he could be right. The pennons are there for a reason. There could
be an unusual life-form still existing in the mountains. It could be what Jalch suspects. The old records could have
told the basic truth. Legends," she mused. "How quickly they are built. A hero who has killed a handful of men is
credited with a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand. A woman notorious for her passion has her prowess
enhanced to ridiculous proportions. Old cities claimed to be veritable paradises have become, on inspection, the
yearnings of lonely men. And yet the hero was real, the woman also, the cities exist. Are we to discount them because
of exaggeration?"
"No, but equally, we need not consider them as true. There are other explanations."
"Such as?"
"Let us discuss what we know. The town could have once faced actual enemies, the construction of the houses
proved that. Strong, squat, narrow windows which can be sealed with shutters. The pennons?" Dumarest gestured
towards the mountains. "A simple warning system. Volcanic activity could have produced fumaroles, spilling a lethal
vapor. A steady wind would have prevented it from reaching the city and plains. If there had been eruptions there
could have been hot ashes, a reason for sealing the windows. Once indoors, the population would have been
protected."
"And if there were no volcanoes?" Her eyes were steady on his own. "What then?"
"A native form of life, perhaps. Predatory birds attacking in swarms. Again the wind would have kept them at bay,
the houses given protection."
"Neat," she commented. "You have an agile mind, Earl. Without any supporting evidence, whatsoever, you have
provided two explanations for what you have seen."
"And your brother a third."
"No, his is the same as your second one. You differ only as to the nature of the assumed threat. Birds or Kheld,
basically they are the same. And you forget the reports, the beliefs held by the inhabitants of the town. A fear of
something handed down by generations. They have forgotten, but it could still exist."
He said, bluntly, "Do you believe in the Kheld?"
Her silence was answer enough. Dumarest looked at the sky, the mountains ahead. Already the foothills were
thick with shadow, only the peaks retaining a sparkling brightness. The wind, steady until now, had fallen a little. Soon
they would be flying into the dangers Kinabalu had mentioned, the upward gusts, the vagaries, the atmospheric
turmoil.
Dumarest rose, moved carefully towards the two men at the controls. The raft, small, slow, heavily loaded, was
unstable.
"We'd better land and make camp," he said. "Before it gets too dark."
"Not yet!" Moore was impatient. "We still have far to go."
"Chaque?"
The guide shrugged. "You are right, Earl. At night the winds are treacherous. In any case, we need to plan the
next moves. There!" His arm rose, pointing. "There is a hollow and a stream. A good place to spend the night."
"A few more miles?"
"No," said Dumarest. "We land."

***

Iduna cooked, boiling meat and vegetables in a pot suspended over a fire built of scrub and brush; green wood
which smoked and sent a wavering plume high into the air. There were tents, one for her, another for her brother, a
third to be shared by Dumarest and the guide. The grounded raft formed the remaining side of an open-cornered
square. The mouths of the tents faced the fire in the center.
Dumarest checked the raft, examining what it contained. Food and some water, enigmatic instruments in strong
containers, a mass of papers and maps. Some large metal boxes were fitted with lids which would snap shut if
anything touched the bottom, or closed by remote control.
Containers to hold the mysterious Kheld, he guessed, and wondered how Jalch Moore had estimated their size.
Other bales held trade goods; axes, knives, spades, picks, brightly colored fabrics and an assortment of cheap
adornments. One box held weapons.
Dumarest picked a rifle from its nest and examined it in the dying light. A semi-automatic, the magazine holding
twelve rounds. He checked the action, the bolt making a crisp clicking sound, then loaded it with cartridges from a
box. A simple weapon, but one as effective as a laser if used with skill and far more reliable in the field.
"You like it?" Iduna had joined him.
"It will serve." Dumarest lifted it to his shoulder, felt the balance and heft, noted the way in which it fell into line.
"You've hunted." She had watched, pleased with what she'd seen. "For sport, or for a living?"
"For food." He glanced towards the tents. Jalch Moore and Chaque were in the one to his right, their silhouettes
thrown sharply against the fabric by the light of a portable lantern. They were, he guessed, studying maps. "And
you?"
"For specimens. I was the field supervisor for the Glatari Zoo before—well, never mind."
"Before your brother fell ill?" A delicate way to put it, but he had no desire to be cruel.
"Yes—you could call it that."
"What happened?"
"We were together on Huek. It is a strange world containing odd forms of life, most of them utterly vicious. The
natives are little better, regressed savages who have forgotten any culture they might have owned. We paid tribute,
but it wasn't enough. A party caught Jalch when I was away. When we found him—" She broke off, and he heard the
sharp inhalations, sensed the remembered hurt.
"And?"
"They had—hurt him. His eyes, his hands, the things done to his flesh. Horrible! At first I thought he was dead,
even hoped that he had died, but life still remained. It took a long time for him to recover—regrowths, slowtime,
amniotic tanks, the best skills which money could buy. But his mind was never the same."
"And now he wants revenge," said Dumarest. "Is that it? If the Kheld are what he thinks, they could do what he
cannot. Kill and destroy those who had hurt him. Is that why he wants to trap them?"
"I don't know."
"I think that you do." His voice was flat, hard. "A waste, Iduna. You shouldn't spend your life nursing the delusions
of a sick mind."
"It's my life, Earl."
"Your life, your time, your money," he agreed. "When will the food be ready?"
"Soon. You'll eat with us?"
"No. I'm going to look around."
It was dark when he returned, stars scattered thinly in the sky, the crescent of a moon hanging low on the
horizon. A large moon, silver as Leon had said. But this world wasn't Earth despite the moon, the limited stars.
The fire had died to a red glow and he squatted beside it, scooping some of what the pot contained into a bowl,
eating with a spoon.
It was good food, rich in nourishment, tastily spiced. Chaque joined him as he reached for a second helping.
 "What do you think, Earl?"
"About what?"
"This." Chaque's gesture embraced the tents, the raft, the darkness beyond. "Jalch Moore's crazy. He had me in
his tent for hours, going over maps which almost fell apart as you touched them. I tried to tell him that the deep
interior is anyone's guess, but he wanted facts and figures which can't be supplied. Tomorrow he wants to head into
the Marasill Gap."
"And that is?"
"A fissure split between two mountains. You'll see it soon enough. A bad place for any raft. We'll have to fly high
and pick our time." Leaning forward, he touched the rifle Dumarest had set down at his side. "There was no need for
this. We're safe enough here."
"And later?"
"We could need the guns." Agus Chaque was grim. "There are some predators I'd rather not run up against, and
the valleys could hold other kinds of danger. We don't know much about them, there's no need. We just let well
enough alone. A few hunters gather skins and furs and some traders try to earn a living, but that's about all. On
Shajok, the ulumen is the main crop and there is plenty of room in the plains."
Dumarest leaned back, watching the face limned in the dull glow of the fire, the lines, the shrewd eyes.
"You're a guide, Agus. You must know the area. Have you heard of a place called Nerth?"
"No, but that means nothing." Chaque threw a dried twig on the embers, blew it until it flared into a glow of
flickering brilliance. "You're thinking of the boy," he said. "I heard about it. A youngster, right?"
"Yes."
"Too young, maybe, to have been fully initiated into his tribe. It happens. These valleys are closed and have their
own ways. They use special names, even a special language at times. That name, Nerth, it could have been the one
used before initiation. Once he'd passed the test, he would have been told more." Chaque threw another twig on the
fire. "Have you anything else to go on?"
Dumarest handed him the photograph.
"Not the Zelumini," said Chaque immediately. "Their women are all dark. Nor the Branesch, they never wear
green." He hunched closer to the fire, squinting. "She couldn't belong to the Candarish because none of their women
ever dress like, that."
"The symbol on the wall," said Dumarest. "A fish. Do you know any commune who uses a decoration like that?"
"A fish? No." Chaque handed back the photograph. "Sorry, Earl, it seems I can't help."
Another dead end, but at least a little had been learned. Leon had been young—he would have been much
younger when he had left home. A few years spelled the difference between a child and a man. The name—Chaque
could be right. Had the fear of initiation sent the boy running from his people? The photograph, one taken by a
wandering trader, perhaps? A caravan he had chased and joined?
Dumarest rose, turning, the rifle in his hands as the night was broken by a sobbing cry. A sound which rose to a
scream, a frenzied shrieking.
"No! No! Dear God, no!"
Jalch Moore was tormented by nightmares. The flap of Iduna's tent opened and the woman, dressed in brief
underwear, ran to comfort her brother. Her voice, oddly gentle, soothed the yammering cries.
"Did you see that?" Chaque drew in his breath. "Who would have guessed that under the clothes she wears lies
such perfection? A woman who—"
"Is busy as you should be." Dumarest handed him the rifle. "We'll stand watches, turn and turn about. Wake me in
two hours."

Chapter Nine
Dawn came with a flush of golden light, reds and ambers gliding the mountain peaks. The air was still, the smoke
from the cooking fire rising straight as if drawn with a crayon against the sky.
At noon they reached the foothills, gliding over rugged terrain, naked rock showing through patches of scrub.
Thickets of bushes, a few thorned trees, their branches twisted, ruby leaves edged with silver gray.
"Watch out for those," warned Chaque. "The spines carry poison."
They ate in mid-air, cold food washed down with water, and two hours later reached the Marasill Gap.
It was vast. The result, Dumarest guessed, of some ancient convulsion which had split the range, parting the hills
as if with the blow of a gigantic axe. A narrow stream ran along the bottom, vanishing into an underground cavern, a
blur of spray masking the entry. The walls were sheer, matted with vegetation. The air was heavy with a brooding
stillness.
"Up," said Dumarest to Jalch at the controls. "Keep us high."
"Too high and we'll see nothing. There should be signs, a scar—"
"Which must have long since been overgrown. Up, man! Up!"
The raft lifted as Moore obeyed. Turbulence caught them as they topped the fissure, the vehicle veering, tilting as
currents fought the controls. A moment and the danger had passed.
"Close!" Chaque wiped sweat from his face and neck. "If we had crashed then—" He broke off, shuddering. A long
fall and no hope of survival. "I warned him against using the Gap, but he wouldn't listen."
"What lies beyond?"
"The valley of the Candarish. We'll camp there tonight."
It was small, sealed, the crest of the slopes topped by a tangled mass of thorn-bearing trees, the slopes
themselves scored by terraced fields. On the level bottom horned cattle cropped at lush grass, the animals attended
by boys. The village was a cluster of low houses built of stone and turf, the roofs gabled, the windows open slits
which could be closed with curtains of leather.
A cluster of inhabitants came forward as the raft landed; men wearing rough garments of fabric and leather, the
arms and shoulders of their jackets ornamented with tufts of colored fur. The women wearing long loose robes which
trailed in the dirt, their heads covered, their faces veiled. Children, pot-bellied, dirty, their hair oily and lank, watched
with enormous eyes.
"My friends!" Chaque jumped down from the raft and stood with both hands uplifted. "We come in peace, to
trade, to bring gifts, to learn of your wisdom. Who is chief among you?"
"He stands before you." A wrinkled oldster, his eyes filmed with cataracts, his mouth wet with spittle, took one
step towards the guide. "Are you known to us?"
"My gifts are my welcome. Tools of metal and cloths of bright colors."
"A trader." The old man nodded. "You are welcome. Come into my house and we shall talk."
He turned, walked away, Jalch Moore and the guide following him. From where she stood at Dumarest's side
Iduna said, quietly, "The depths to which men can sink. They live in dirt and ignorance. Yet, only a relatively short
journey away, lies the door to the stars."
"A door that can't be reached." Dumarest looked at the crest of the valley. The setting sun caught the leaves,
turned them into a barrier of flame. "What does your brother hope to learn here?"
"A clue, perhaps a rumor, something to lead him to the Kheld." She jumped down from the raft. "Shall we walk a
little? See what is to be seen."
Dumarest hesitated, looking at the men who stood, still watching them. They carried knives, but little else. One
had a spear, another a crossbow, two more holding staves with rounded ends. From the feeding cattle came a soft
lowing and, without a word, several women turned and headed towards them.
"Earl?"
It seemed to be safe enough, yet he knew that nothing could be taken for granted. A display of weapons might be
taken amiss, yet to leave them behind was to beg for trouble.
A raft loaded with goods, four people, one a woman—a temptation the Candarish might not be able to resist.
"Go if you want, Iduna. I'll stay here."
She was back within the hour, her boots soiled, grime on her hands and face. Without a word she washed, using
water from a canteen. Then, picking up a rifle, checked the load.
"Trouble?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle. A young buck thought he had the right to touch me."
"And?"
"I taught him differently." She smiled at his expression. "Don't worry about it, Earl. I only hurt his pride."
Perhaps the worst thing she could have done, as she should have known. Dumarest picked up his rifle.
"Stay here," he ordered. "Don't leave the raft until I return."
A fire had been lit before the houses, a great pile of brushwood which had been set to dry in the sun. It threw a
ruddy, dancing glow in which the feeble, oil-burning wicks within the houses were dimmed to pale splotches of
luminescence. Dumarest headed away from the fire, moving in a wide circle, eyes narrowed, ears tense for the
slightest sound. He caught the pad of naked feet, the inhalation of breath and dropped, the rifle lifting.
The sounds died, but instinct warned him that he was not alone. He moved, carelessly silhouetted against the
glow of the fire, dropping as something flashed out of the darkness towards him.
A spear which sliced the air above him, to land with a dull thud in the dirt behind. Another came, held by a pair of
hands, the point stabbing where he lay. He rolled over, slammed the barrel of the rifle against naked shins, rose as the
man fell, screaming.
 "Earl?"
He ignored the woman's call. With his back to the fire, he retained his night-vision. Those who faced him would
lose it. Against that he made a clear target, trusting to his speed to defeat any attack.
It came immediately. Two men, young, strong, faces bathed in the firelight, rose from the ground to leap towards
him. One held a club, the other a staff. One attacking high, the other low.
Dumarest fired, aiming to kill, dodging as the staff aimed towards his skull. He fired again, running as the man
fell.
"Iduna! Lift the raft! Lift it!"
"What's happening?" Chaque appeared at the door of a house, Jalch Moore peering over his shoulder. "What's
going on?"
"Get to the raft! Move!"
Dumarest fired again as figures appeared on each side of the men. One fell, blood gushing from his mouth, his
lungs ripped by the missile. The other, luckier, spun and fell nursing a broken shoulder.
"An attack?" Chaque was quick to grasp what was happening. "The raft, quickly!"
Dumarest covered them as they ran, men pouring from the houses to go after them, spear-points glinting in the
firelight. One hit the guide on the forearm, cutting into flesh before the spear dropped free. Then he reached the
hovering raft, had flung himself over the edge, Moore following close behind.
"Earl?"
"Coming!" Dumarest ran forward, emptying the magazine, throwing the rifle into the raft, leaping to grab the edge
as it rose. Within seconds, he was aboard.
"What happened?" Moore looked stunned. "We were talking quietly when we heard a scream, then shots. You,
Earl?"
"Yes."
"Have you gone mad? Do you realize what you did? I was about to learn something, a fact of great importance,
and you ruined everything. Iduna! Return at once. We can smooth things out."
She said nothing, increasing their height, the fire now a distant point below.
Nursing his arm Chaque said, "Be careful, girl. Set us down as soon as you can. It would be stupid to run from
spears and smash into a mountain."

***

They landed in a shallow dell in a place high and far from the valley, Iduna setting down the raft gently, guided by
the blazing glow of a flare. By the light of a lantern Dumarest examined the guide's arm, finding only a shallow gash,
binding it with materials taken from a medical cabinet. Jalch Moore was harder to please.
"You ruined everything," he accused. "Why did you have to fire at shadows? I trusted Hausi and I trusted my own
convictions. In both cases, apparently, I was wrong. Or is there some reason why you don't want me to find the
Kheld?"
Paranoia, trembling on the brink of complete insanity. Dumarest said, patiently. "It was a trap. They intended to
surprise us. While you two were kept in conversation, we were to have been killed. I anticipated them, that's all."
"I don't believe it! Chaque?"
"It's possible," admitted the guide. "A small party carrying a fortune in goods, yes, it's possible. We wouldn't have
been the first expedition to be lost in the mountains."
"But the information he was going to give me—"
"Words." said Dumarest. "Empty talk to keep you occupied. You underestimate the old man. He only told you
things you wanted to hear."
"No!"
"You were with him for over an hour. What did you learn? Nothing. An entire hour—that alone made me
suspicious. With people like the Candarish you trade first and talk afterwards." A thing Chaque should have known,
but Dumarest didn't mention that. There was no room for recrimination in such a small party. "We'll eat," he decided.
"Eat and rest. In the morning, we'll figure out what to do."
"There is no question about that," said Moore coldly. "We go on."
"To where?"
"Here!" Moore unfolded a map and tapped it with his finger. "Towards the east and upwards to this plateau. There
is mention of it in the Eldrain Saga. There could be signs, symbols, evidence of the Kheld. The Candarish could have
helped us—but it's too late for that now."
And perhaps too late for many things. Thwarted, Jalch Moore could turn vicious. Dumarest had noted the bulge
under his blouse, the weight of a laser. Defied he would use it, killing without consideration, damaging the raft beyond
repair, stranding them all. And Earl still had to find the object of his own search.
"If the Kheld exist we'll find them," he promised. "Now, Iduna, how about that food? Chaque, you'd better check
the raft while I look around."
The dell was set on the summit of a pinnacle of stone, a dead vent which had become blocked and filled with
wind-blown soil. The vegetation was springy, tough fibers matted into a compact whole. A place safe from any but
airborne attack—one during which they would starve if anything happened to the raft.
Later, as he sat watching the wheel of the stars, Iduna came to sit beside him.
"Earl, it was my fault, wasn't it."
"The attack? No."
"I've been thinking. If I hadn't rejected that young buck—but I couldn't bear that he touch me."
"He was anticipating," said Dumarest. "If you hadn't fought he would have taken you, hidden you safely away
somewhere."
"For later use," she said bitterly. "For him and his friends, and any other man who chose to use me. Animals!"
"You were strange. A female who dressed like a man. He'd probably never seen a woman's naked face before."
"Savages! Beasts!"
"Primitives," he corrected. "With a rigid culture and elaborate customs. You were outside the framework of his
experience. Dress like a man—be treated like a man. Had we been killed and you kept alive, the women would have
stoned you to death. To them you would have been unnatural. Dangerous. A thing to be destroyed."
She said, oddly, "Do you think I'm unnatural, Earl?"
"No."
"Some men do. They wonder what I look like when naked and hint that my interest lies only with other women.
They don't understand."
A lonely child, perhaps. A father who had wanted only sons, an elder brother to emulate. And, if she had worked
in the field as she had claimed, then the clothes would have been an elementary precaution to have diminished her
attraction.
"It's late," he said. "You should get some rest."
"Sleep while you stand guard?"
"It's what I'm paid to do." He wished that she would leave him, sensing her feminine curiosity, the desire to probe.
From behind the raft Chaque coughed, a harsh rasping sound in the stillness. Within the vehicle itself Jalch Moore
turned, restless in his sleep.
"Earl!"
He turned as she came towards him, her arms lifted, embracing his neck, her hands pulling him close to press her
lips against his own. For a moment he felt the demanding heat of her body. Then, as Jalch turned again, muttering,
she drew slowly away.
"My brother—he needs me."
"Yes."
"Goodnight, Earl."
"Goodnight."
The night grew old. Dumarest woke Chaque to stand his turn at watch, then settled down to sleep. He woke with
the sudden alertness of an animal, one hand reaching up to the shadow looming above, the other lifting the knife.
"Earl!" Chaque clawed at the hand which gripped his throat, recoiling from the knife which pricked his skin.
"Don't! It's me!"
"What's wrong?"
"Something. I don't know what. Listen."
It came from above. A thin, eerie chittering, a peculiar stridation, like the rasp of chitinous wings. Dumarest rose,
the rifle in his hands, eyes narrowed as he searched the sky. He could see nothing but the glitter of distant stars, the
band of the galactic lens a pale swath low on the horizon. There was no wind, the air like glass.
"I was sitting, dozing I guess, then I heard it," whispered Chaque. "It swept over me and seemed to rise. But I
could see nothing. Nothing!"
It came again, apparently nearer. A thin, nerve-scratching sound which filled the night with a peculiar menace.
And then, as Jalch screamed in his nightmare, it was gone.
"Earl?" Chaque was shaken, his face ghastly in the starlight. "Was that one of the things we're looking for? One of
the Kheld?"
"I don't know."
"If so, I hope we never find them." The guide glanced to where Iduna was soothing her brother. "We remain
silent, right? We tell him nothing."
A sound in the darkness, an impression—what was there to report? Yet, to Jalch Moore it would be proof of the
existence of what he sought. He would insist on remaining in the dell, setting up his traps, waiting, risking all their
lives. And Dumarest had no interest in finding the Kheld.

***

The days became routine. Waking to eat, to drift deeper into the mountains, to camp at night, to eat again. Twice
more they found isolated communities, trading, listening to vague rumors. A mass of conflicting and contradictory
stories which sent them on a random pattern of search. And daily, Jalch became more deranged.
"Well find them," he muttered, crouching over his maps. "Here, perhaps? Or here? We must head for the higher
peaks." He snarled like an animal as Chaque protested. "You claim to be a guide—why are you so irresolute?"
"Because I have a regard for my skin. The higher we go, the greater the danger. The winds—"
"Do you suggest we return?"
"No." Dumarest leaned over the map. It was rough, inaccurate, the product of speculation and surmise, but some
things he recognized. "Here." He rested his ringer on a valley, one to the east. "We could try there."
"A valley, we need the heights!" Jalch Moore was impatient. "The fools know nothing. We must climb high and
search the peaks."
They lifted too soon in the day, thermals catching the raft, sending it spinning dangerously close to an overhang.
"He'll kill us," said Chaque as he clutched at the raft's edge. "Earl, can't you take over? Stop him?"
"He's a good pilot." That, at least, was true. Jalch could handle a raft, and to argue now was to invite disaster.
Dumarest leaned over the edge, looking below, seeing a snarled jumble of crevasses, ridges, naked stone wreathed
with massed thorn. He felt the presence of the woman at his side, the warmly soft impact of her arm against his own.
"What are you looking for, Earl? What do you hope to find?"
"Here?"
"Anywhere. You're a traveler, always moving, always looking. Why?"
"Why do you hunt specimens in the field?"
"A job."
"Which could be done as well by others." He turned to face her, catching the speculation in her eyes. "To each
their own, Iduna. You have your ways, I have mine."
"You're hard," she said. "Hard and cold. While I wish I didn't, I do admire you. Envy you a little, perhaps. Has any
woman ever owned your heart?"
She frowned as he made no answer, recognizing his silence for the barrier it was. Since the night on the dell, she
had made no further advances and he had invited none. A thing which perturbed her, offended her femininity.
"You have loved," she decided. "And you have been loved in turn. What happened, Earl? Did she die? Did you
leave her? Does some lonely woman sit on some world, waiting for you to return?"
"Does some man wait for you?"
"No, or if they do they are fools. But no man has ever been really close to me. Always there is something, a
barrier, between those who want me and those whom I want." She leaned a little further over the edge of the raft.
"What was that? An animal?"
There was nothing, or if there had been it had vanished. A diversion, Dumarest guessed. Something to break the
trend of the conversation, to shift it from what she could have considered dangerous ground. He felt the raft shift a
little as Chaque came towards them.
"Iduna, you've got to stop him." His head jerked to where Jalch sat at the controls. "He wants to climb to the
summit of the range, then quest along the entire area. He's mad."
"He is in charge of this expedition," she said coldly.
"Even so, he is mad. The winds—it has never been done before. He doesn't understand and won't listen. Please,
you must make him be more cautious. I—" Chaque broke off, cursing as the raft veered. "The fool! Why won't he
listen?"
Dumarest moved back from the edge.
"You're the fool," he said sharply. "You're unbalancing us. Get up to the front, quickly!"
It was too late. As the guide moved an updraft, combined with eddys thrown from the flank of the mountain, co-
joined to create a turbulence which spun the raft and sent it crashing against a ridge. A near miss, only the bottom
was affected, but it was enough.
"Quickly!" Dumarest gripped a bale, threw it over the edge, snatched at another. "Lighten the raft before we drop
too low."
 Drop into a natural chimney, the mouth of a natural funnel, the vortexes it would contain. The crash had ripped
some of the anti-gravity conductors from their housings. Overloaded, most of its lift gone, the raft tilted as it dropped,
spinning hopelessly out of control.
"Move!" Dumarest flung another bale over the side, followed it with some of the large metal boxes, a crate of
instruments.
"No!" Jalch abandoned the controls, lunging from his seat into the body of the raft, hands clawing at the cargo.
"You can't! I need these things! I need them!"
Dumarest struck him once, a hard blow to the jaw which sent the man sprawling and stunned. As Jalch fell
Dumarest lunged for the controls, gripped them, fought to steady the raft which was now pitching and tilting. He
heard Chaque cry out, saw the side of the chimney coming close. Then, they had hit with a grinding impact.
"The load—dump it!"
Chaque obeyed as the raft veered from the rock, lifting a little, dropping as it hit a mass of cold air, again hitting
the slope of the mountain. It turned almost on edge, skidded down a mass of rock, hurtled into space to slam against
a boulder lower down. Metal ripped with a thin squeal, and a gush of acrid smoke rose from the controls. Bared wires
touching, energy short-circuited, the engine itself falling silent as they fell.
Fell to land in a shallow ravine, the impact cushioned by matted vegetation, which lay in and around the
wreckage of the raft.

Chapter Ten
Chaque groaned, rising to nurse his arm, his head. The skin had broken over one temple, blood smearing his
cheek. His hair was filled with torn leaves and his blouse was torn at the back and side.
"Earl? Earl, where are you?"
"Here." Dumarest stepped towards the guide. Bright flecks showed on the scratched plastic of his tunic and his hands
were grimed. "How are you?"
"My head!" Chaque felt it, wincing as he probed his temple. "Nothing broken, I think, but it aches like hell."
"Can you move?" Dumarest watched as the man took a few steps. "Good. Let's find the others."
Iduna lay to one side, her face pale, a cheek stained green and brown from dirt and leaves. She stirred as
Dumarest touched her, his hands searching for broken bones. One leg of her pants had split, the cream of a thigh
showing through the vent. As his hands moved over her waist she sighed and opened her eyes.
"Earl. What happened?"
"We crashed." His fingers ran through her cropped hair, finding a bump, but nothing more serious. "We were
lucky."
"And Jalch?"
Jalch Moore was dead. He rested high on a slope, cradled in the twisted branches of a thorn, ruby leaves framing
his face, silver spines embedded in his cheek, his neck. His eyes were open, glazed, his hands raised, the fingers
curved as if, at the last, he had tried to clutch something and hold it close.
A dream, perhaps, a forgotten happiness. At least his nightmares were ended.
"Jalch!" Iduna strained against Chaque's holding arm. "I must go to him."
"Be careful, girl," snapped the guide. "Touch those spines and you'll regret it."
"But my brother—"
"Is dead. His neck is broken." Dumarest looked back towards the ruin of the raft. "He must have been thrown out
before we crashed. We'd better look around and see what we can find."
"But, Jalch? You're not leaving him like that?"
"Why not? I told you, he's dead. What does it matter to him where he lies?" Dumarest stepped before her as she
tore herself away from Chaque's hand. "You want to rip yourself to shreds trying to get him down? And then what?
Can we bring him back to life? Have some sense, woman! We have more to worry about than Jalch."
She said, unsteadily, "I suppose you're right, Earl. It's just that, well, we were so close."
And now she was alone. Dumarest watched her as they moved down the slope. There were no tears, but her face
was hard, a firmly held mask. Inside she could be weeping, but if she was, nothing showed.
"Here!" Chaque had found a metal box.
"Leave it. We need food and the medical cabinet. Some fabric too, if you can find any. And the rifles." Dumarest
looked back at the dead man, at the laser he carried beneath his arm, but the risk was too great. "Look for the rifles.
Spread out and carry what you find back to the raft."
It wasn't much; a bolt of fabric, some compressed fruits, a crate of broken instruments, a canteen. Dumarest
lifted it and found it to be half-full.
"We could look again," suggested Chaque. "Spend the rest of the day searching."
"No." The area was too wide, the vegetation too thick. The bales and other things had been scattered when the
raft had almost overturned.
Iduna said, "Can't we repair the raft?"
"Impossible." Dumarest had examined it. The engine was ruined, the conductors ripped and useless. "And we
can't hope for rescue. Chaque, have you any idea of how to get out of these mountains?"
"Without flying, no," admitted the guide. "But I can tell you what to expect; crevasses we won't be able to cross,
walls we won't be able to climb. Predators and thorns and blind canyons. Earl, we need those rifles!"
"Look for them if you like, I'm moving on."
"Moving on?" The woman was incredulous. "But we need rest and—"
"We're bruised," he said shortly. "Later, we'll be stiff. The longer we wait around here the harder it will become."
Dumarest unrolled the bolt of fabric and cut off a length with his knife. "Wrap this around your leg—it will protect
your thigh. You too, Chaque, cover those rents."
As they worked, Dumarest went to the raft. With his knife he levered off a distorted panel, reached inside and
ripped loose a handful of wires. The control chair was covered in thick plastic. He cut it free, trimmed a small oblong
piece and punched holes in either end. Using some of the wire for thongs, he made a sling shot.
He tested it with a stone, sending the missile to land high on a slope.
"Here." He handed the woman his knife and the rest of the plastic. "Make a pouch and some gloves. Nothing
fancy, just to protect our hands from thorns."
She looked blankly at the articles. "How—"
"Cut thin strips from the plastic to use as thread. Use the point to make holes. The fabric will make a pouch and
strap to support it. Chaque, help me get some metal off the raft."
They managed to get three strips, each about a yard long, an inch wide, a quarter thick. Crude swords without
point or edge, but having mass which could be used as a club. The thorn trees were too spined, the branches too
twisted, the wood too hard to be of use.
Dumarest tore a panel from the wreck, stabbed holes in it, cut it to shape. The guards were crude, but they would
protect the hand from anything running along the rough blades.
"Cutlasses," said Chaque. "Or machetes—but they haven't an edge."
"Find me a grindstone and I'll give you one. That, or an anvil and hammer."
"Why not ask for a radio while you're about it. And a raft all set and ready to go?" Chaque lifted one of the
weapons, swung it, grunted as the end dug into the soil. "The hunters use high-powered rifles and lasguns," he
commented. "We haven't even got a decent sword. Earl, we've got to face it. We haven't a hope in hell of getting back
alive."
"Why not?" Dumarest looked at the guide, his eyes cold. "We can walk. We can navigate by the sun and stars. As
long as we keep going, we'll get somewhere."
"Not in the mountains. You don't know what they're like and—" his voice lowered, "that thing could come back.
You remember? The one in the dell."
"We'll worry about that when it happens," said Dumarest. "Ready, Iduna? Let's go."

***

He led the way, picking a trail up the southern end of the ravine, reaching the top to look down at an expanse of
thorn which fell gently to a sharp rim. An almost solid barrier of wood and spine which nothing living could easily
penetrate. He turned to the left and followed the edge of thorn to where it met a jutting outcrop; a sharp wedge of
stone which rose almost sheer, until it sloped up and back towards the flank of the mountain.
"A dead end." Chaque's voice betrayed his fatigue. "The mountains are full of them. We'll have to go back, Earl,
and try the other direction."
Miles of distance and hours of time wasted to no purpose. Energy squandered and fatigue enhanced. Dumarest
looked at the wall before them, noting its cracks, small fissures, clumps of vegetation.
"We'll climb," he said. "Move up and around."
"And, if beyond, there is more thorn?" Chaque slashed at the ruby leaves with his metal bar. "A slip and we could
fall into it. Once trapped, we could never escape."
A chance which had to be taken. Dumarest looped a wire around the handle of his sword and slung it from his
neck. The pouch, now filled with selected stones, followed. The gloves he tucked under his tunic and, without
hesitation, began to climb. Twenty feet up he halted and looked down.
 "Use my hand and footholds. Iduna, you come next Chaque, you take the rear."
"I'm no climber, Earl."
"You'll manage. Just look up and ahead, never down."
Dumarest climbed higher as they followed, fingers digging into cracks, boots resting on tiny ledges, the clumps of
vegetation. One yielded beneath his weight. He heard Iduna gasp as dirt showered about her, Chaque's muffled curse
as a stone hit his injured temple.
"Earl?"
"It's nothing. Just keep moving."
Up another fifty feet, and then he met an overhang under which he sidled like a crab. A gust of wind swept over
the thorn, stirring the leaves so they flashed with changing ruby and silver, spines lifting as if eager for prey.
The curve of the outcrop was smooth, worn with wind and weather. Dumarest edged around it as far as he could
go, then looked up and down. Ten feet below on the far side of the curve erosion had caused a mass of stone to fall,
leaving a scooped hollow above a ledge almost four feet wide. A safe place to rest if they could reach it, and there
was only one way to do that.
To swing, to jump, to land and, somehow, to maintain balance. To slip was to fall and land among the thorn.
"Earl? Is something wrong?" The woman sounded anxious.
"No. Just hold on."
Again, Dumarest examined the curve. It was bare, unmarred aside from a narrow fissure which ran in an almost
horizontal line. Reaching behind him Dumarest lifted the crude sword from his neck, probing ahead with the tip of the
blunt blade. It penetrated an inch then, as he turned it, slid within the fissure for half its length. He hammered it home
with the heel of his hand and then, gripping it, swung from his holds, dropping, landing with a thud on the ledge to
teeter on the very brink.
A moment of strain as muscles and reflexes fought the pull of gravity. Then he was safe, dropping on all fours, his
lungs pumping air.
"Earl?" Iduna was above, her face pale, strained as she looked at where he stood. He saw her lips tighten as he
told her what to do.
"Earl! I can't! I—"
"You've got no choice!" He was deliberately curt. "Grab the bar, swing and let go. I'll catch you before you can fall.
Hurry! Don't think about it, just do it!"
She hit the edge of the ledge, swayed and gasped as he swung her to safety. Chaque followed, unexpectedly agile.
Without pause Dumarest led the way down to where piled dirt made an easy slope, leading past the thorn to a ridge
running south, a rugged expanse dotted with scrub.
The far end terminated in a crevasse impossible to cross. Chaque looked at it, his eyes bleak.
"I told you, Earl. These mountains are difficult to fly over and impossible to traverse on foot. We'll never make it."
"You give up too easily." Dumarest looked around, studying the vegetation, the lie of the land. Already the day
was ending, reflected light flaring from the peaks, the crevasse filled with somber shadow. "We need to find water. My
guess is that it's over there."
"How can you tell?" Iduna followed his pointing hand.
"No thorn—it needs arid conditions. And see how those leaves reflect the light? What vegetation is that,
Chaque?"
"Frodar—if it were the season there would be fruits."
"And fruit needs water." Dumarest took the rough sword from the woman. "Let's go and find it."
They reached it at dusk after fighting their way through a cluster of thorn, hacking a passage with the strips of
metal. A thin stream ran between high banks to widen into a pool a few feet across. Dumarest held the others back as
they lunged towards it.
"No. We'll drink and wash lower down. I don't want to leave our scent."
Later, when he had immersed his entire body in the stream, laving his clothing and boots, he returned to the pool.
Moving around it he set snares made of looped wire, hammering pegs into the ground to hold them fast.
"Predators," said Iduna. "Of course, they have to live on something. Small game, Earl, is that what you're hoping
to catch?"
"Small or large, we need to eat." Dumarest took her by the arm and led her from the pool to higher ground.
Chaque, a blotch in the darkness, followed, stumbling with fatigue.
"Do we need to go so far?"
"Too near and our scent will warn off the game. How's your head?"
"Bad." Chaque grunted as he felt his temple. "I wish we'd found the medical cabinet. I could do with something to
ease the pain."
 "Try to sleep," said Dumarest. "It will help."
"And you, Earl? Don't you ever sleep?" Iduna dropped to the ground as they reached a point well away from the
water and the snares. "God, I'm tired. The way I feel, I could rest for a week. Do you think we'll trap anything?"
Two creatures were in the snares when they looked in the morning. Small things the size of rats, their skins a dull
gray, matted with fur, oily to the touch. Dumarest skinned and cleaned them, cutting them into portions with his knife.
Iduna looked distastefully at the pieces he held out to her.
"Aren't we going to cook them?"
"Raw meat gives more nourishment than when it's cooked. Chew it slowly and eat as we travel."
"Is there any point?" Her eyes were dull, her voice listless. "Isn't it only putting off the inevitable? What hope can
there be, Earl?"
"There's hope. A valley should lie to the east and south. There could be people. If we reach it, we can survive."
"Among beasts like the Candarish?"
"Among people. Now take the food and do as I say." His voice hardened as she made no effort to take the scraps.
"It's your choice, woman. Eat or starve!"

***

They followed the stream until it petered out, climbed a ridge and crossed a small plateau. That night they
huddled in the shelter of a clump of shrub, moving on foodless, the next day. A flight of birds appeared, wheeling.
Dumarest knocked down three with his sling, losing one as it fell into thorn, managing to save the others. They were
mostly beak and feather, the flesh gritty, hard to chew, distasteful to swallow.
The thorn thickened, met in a barrier a hundred yards thick, thinning on the other side to a rise topped by
pinnacles of naked stone. A barrier which ran to either side, as far as the eye could see.
From where he stood on Dumarest's shoulders Chaque reported, "It's no good, Earl. We'll have to go back."
"Back?" Iduna had slumped, sitting with shoulders bowed, her face drawn with fatigue. "You mean we've done all
this for nothing?"
She was dispirited, on the verge of defeat. To return now would be to break her will to survive. Dumarest frowned
as the guide dropped to the ground beside him. The mountains were like a maze, promising paths ending in
tormenting barriers. He watched as a gust of wind dried riffled the spined leaves.
A wind which blew from behind them, sweeping from the rising ground. If it lasted, they would have a chance.
Chaque watched as Dumarest knelt, fretting a piece of the gaudy fabric into a mound of scrapped fibers.
"If you're thinking of fire, Earl, it won't work. The thorn is slow to burn."
"Not the wood, the leaves." Dumarest selected a stone from his pouch, struck the back of his knife against the
flint. Sparks flew, some settling on the tinder, smoldering to burst into minute flame. "Get me something to burn.
Hurry!"
There was grass, sun-dried, still containing sap but releasing heat as well as smoke. Scraps of branch followed,
some ruby leaves which Dumarest tore free with his knife and gloved hands.
"Keep building the fire," he ordered. "Make it as hot as you can."
As Chaque crouched, coughing over the glowing embers, Dumarest examined the barrier. To walk through it was
impossible, but there had to be room at the foot of the boles and the small animals must have made trails. He found
one, another much larger, and he dropped to stare into it. The edges were thick with leaves, the opening low. Smoke
passed him, blown by the wind, streaming into the winding tunnel.
Dumarest piled fire into the tunnel mouth, watching as the silver spines curled and fell, the ruby leaves
smoldering and releasing an acrid smoke.
Without the wind the fire would die, the leaves and wood proof against the flame. But, as the gusts strengthened,
the flames grew, streaming back into the tunnel, sharp poppings coming from within. Iduna looked up as Dumarest
tore the rest of the fabric into strips.
"Earl?"
"Wind these around your head and neck. Make certain that no flesh is exposed. You too, Chaque."
The wind died, the fire with it, thin streams of smoke lifting to die against the azure of the sky. The ground was
barely warm, but the rim of spined leaves had gone leaving only blackened ash.
Muffled from head to foot Dumarest thrust his way into the tunnel, the crude sword extended, body flat, elbows
and knees edging him forward. Twenty yards and the effect of the fire ended. But here, deep in the barrier, the leaves
were relatively high above the ground. The gloom was intense, sunlight hidden by the massed leaves, the air filled
with a dim ruby suffusion.
He moved on, his body making a passage the others could follow, the leaves thickening as he neared the far side
of the barrier. He felt the rasp of leaves on his back and shoulders, spines tearing at the plastic, but unable to
penetrate the protective mesh. Some caught at the fabric around his head, tore the material around his eyes.
He rolled, thrashing, moving on, the metal strip probing. It touched wood, something which squealed and ran.
Then he had broken through, to roll, to turn and slash at the opening, to help the others through.
"We made it!" Chaque stood still as Dumarest unwound the fabric from around his head. The material was thick
with broken spines. "Earl, we made it!"
A trick they couldn't repeat. The fabric was ripped, useless, loaded with poison. Dumarest left it where it lay as he
headed on, up the rise, past the sparing pinnacles of stone to where a shallow canyon ran between sheer cliffs. It was
open at the far end, giving a vista of sky and fleecy cloud. A bleak place, dotted with huge boulders, the ground rough
and patched with thorn and scrub.
They were half-way along it when the predator attacked. It came from behind a boulder, long, low, limbs tipped
with sickle-like claws, the tail knobbed with a spine, the head plated, the jaws filled with curving fangs.
Dumarest saw it, a drab-colored shape which sprang from the top of a boulder, its fur the bleak reddish gray of
stone. A glimpse only, but it was enough to save his life, to send him lunging forward, to fall, his side numbed by the
blow which had ripped away the pouch of stones. He rose as the beast landed.
"Iduna! Get behind a boulder! Chaque! On guard!"
The guide was slow, fumbling with his metal strip, his face pale, mouth gaping. If the beast had attacked him he
would have fallen an easy prey, but the creature had mind only for its original target.
It crouched, a dry hissing coming from its open mouth, the knobbed tail lashing. The plates of bone armoring its
head provided a defense against the thorn. The eyes shone behind transparent lids, deep-set, overhung with bony
ridges. The shoulders were broad, the body tapering, thick fur matted over more natural armor. A wedge of savage
destruction intent on the kill.
"Chaque, help him! Help Earl!"
Dumarest ignored the woman, concentrating on the beast. He held the crude sword in his right hand, feet poised,
ready to leap in any direction. Had he the time he would have used the sling to try and blind the gleaming eyes, but
there was no time.
Without warning it sprang. It lunged forward with an explosion of energy, dirt lifting beneath the claws of its rear
legs, front paws extended, the claws gleaming like ivory. Dumarest darted to his right, the blade lifting, falling as the
creature passed, the metal bar slamming against the sloping side. A true sword would have cut, dragged, severed
tendon and bone, opened veins and arteries to release a fountain of blood. The bar hit, bruised, the jar stinging
Dumarest's hand and arm.
The beast landed, hissing, turned to spring again. A thrown stone bounced from its shoulder as it left the ground,
a missile too small and too weakly thrown to be of use. Dumarest dropped, ducking, feeling the touch of something
on his head as he swung the bar at a rear leg with all his force.
A crippling-blow, the best he could do. If he hoped to kill the beast, first it must be slowed down. He rose, blood
streaming from his lacerated scalp, the tip of a claw having sliced the skin as if it had been a razor. He threw the bar
from his right hand to his left, lifting the knife from his boot, holding it sword-fashion, thumb to the blade, the point
upwards.
A knife-fighter's hold, giving the opportunity to either slash or stab.
"Chaque! Move in! Hit when you can, but watch out for the tail!"
The guide said nothing, standing, the bar held limply in his hand.
"Chaque, damn you! Do as I say!"
There was no time to wait, to see if the man would help. Dumarest tensed, crouching a little, anticipating the
spring. The damaged rear leg would throw the beast to his left, lessening the distance, the height. The target would be
small and a mistake would cost him his life.
He rose as the beast sprang, his left arm extended, the bar held like a sword, firmly rigid. His aim was good. The
blunt tip vanished between the gaping jaws, plunged into soft, internal tissues, driven deeper by the creature's weight.
Fangs rasped as they bit, scraping as they ran along the metal to jar against the hilt. Dumarest released it, dropped,
feeling the wind made by raking claws as stabbed upwards at the unprotected stomach.
Blood showered as he dragged the bar free, hot, smoking, sliming his face, his body, mixing with the dirt which
plumed from beneath scrabbling claws.
The armored head turned, blood gushing past the bar, fangs denting the metal as they fought the cause of its
pain. Pain which filled the beast's universe, which sent it twisting to one side, entrails hanging from the cut in its flesh.
It was dying, as good as dead. Yet, life and the feral desire to kill still remained.
Dumarest yelled as Chaque suddenly ran forward.
"Don't! Keep clear, man! Keep clear!"
 The guide ignored him, lifting his bar, aiming for the point before the rear legs. He hoped, perhaps, to break the
back.
A dangerous point to hit, a position which placed him within reach of the lashing tail. It struck as the bar landed,
the knobbed end, moving like a whip, smashing against Chaque's side and his spine, knocking him down to scream as
a clawed foot ripped at his body.
To scream and writhe as Dumarest lunged forward, the knife lifted, falling like a glint of silver as it plunged into
the creature's heart.
"Earl!" Iduna came running towards him. "I tried to help," she panted. "I threw stones. Earl—is it dead?"
"Yes."
"And Chaque?"
Chaque was dying. He looked up from a face smeared with dirt and blood, his eyes filled with agony. His back had
been broken, the claws had bared the bone of his ribs, revealed the spongy mass of his lungs. Already they were
filling, drowning him in his own blood.
"Earl!" He coughed, spat a mouthful of crimson. "Too slow," he whispered. "I was too slow."
"You killed it." A lie, but perhaps it would give comfort. "You saved my life, Agus."
"I'm glad, Earl." Incredibly, the man smiled. "Now, at least, you'll have something to eat. And Earl, the woman—"
He coughed again, spraying blood. "The woman, Earl, she—"
"He's raving." Iduna stooped, her hands touching the tormented body. "It's all right, Chaque," she said gently. "It's
all right."
"The pain!" His face twisted. "God, the pain!"
Agony which bathed him like a flame. Torn nerves and sinews relaying their message, now that the shock had
passed. Agony which could last for minutes, each second an eternity of suffering.
"Earl! Please! The pain! For God's sake help me! I can't stand the pain!"
"All right, Agus," said Dumarest gently.
And drove his knife into the heart.

Chapter Eleven
Phal Vestaler, High Rememberancer and, by virtue of that office, Head of the Council, stood before the
Alphanian Altar and communed with the past. A solemn moment which he stretched to the full before turning, hands
upraised, to face the score of boys now undergoing initiation.
A portentous moment in their lives—after the full completion of the ceremony they would never be the same.
The days of boyhood would be over. They would adopt the raiment of a man, undertake the duties of a man, accept
the responsibilities. They would marry the women chosen to be their mates and take full part in the ceremonies. They
would listen and they would learn and, in due time, they would teach. So it had been from the beginning.
Vestaler looked at them from where he stood on the low dais. Already they showed signs of the adults they would
soon become. Faces young but solemn, old for their age, the eyes tense, the lips firm. If they knew fear, they hid it
well.
And they must know fear—the terror of the unknown, rumors enhanced by whispers, imagination multiplying
dire fancies. They knew it as he had known it, now so long ago. Then, as they did now, he had stood trembling on the
brink of mysteries, half-tempted to run, only the shame of displaying his fear holding him fast.
Others had not been as strong. They had worn the yellow until they had been given a second chance. And even
then—
Vestaler mentally shook himself, recognizing the trend his thoughts were taking. To brood was useless, to regret
the same. None had accused him, yet he felt his guilt. He should have known. To him the responsibility—to him the
blame.
"Master!"
A junior was at his side, the carved bowl filled with water in his hands. A discreet reminder that time was passing
and there was still much to do. The instruction, the warning, the blessing. And, afterwards, the journey to the place of
ordeal. His voice held the tones of an organ.
"You are at the threshold of becoming men. To be a man is not simply to grow. A man is not a large child. He is a
person who has proven his right to exist, to help, to serve. He has gained the right to perpetuate his line in the
production of children. Yet, how to prove that you have reached the state of manhood? To take your rightful place
among us? To share as all share in the fruits of the soil, the common labor?"
A pause as a gong throbbed, soft thunder accentuating his words, engraving them on memory.
 "You are to be taken to the high places. There, yon will be left in solitude for the duration of the night. Those who
are weak of will, have guilt in their hearts, are unfitted to join the community as men, will not return. If any of you
hold doubt as to your fitness, now is the time to speak."
Another pause, another beat of the gong. Those who spoke would be removed, given further instruction, another
chance. Men grew old at different speeds—sometimes they never achieved true maturity.
Now it was time for the blessing. He gave it, dipping his hands in the scented water, scattering limp droplets. A
symbolic rain coupled with an actual washing, an act which absolved him and all from any taint of guilt.
Should any fail they would be innocent of blood. And some would fail. Always, there were some who failed.
The gong throbbed for the last time, soft thunder echoing within the chamber, dying in murmurs as it was muted
by the artifacts, the walls. In answer to the signal the doors opened, armed men standing outside, the escort waiting
to conduct the initiates.
Vestaler watched them go, looking from a secluded window. The parents also would be watching, remaining
equally unseen, but others had no reason to hide. Men grown old and others new to the estate. Boys almost touching
the age of selection, and others with still many years to go.
Boys and men, but no women, no girls. They had their own ways, and each at such times remained apart.
At the side of the column Varg Eidhal set the pace. He was a big man, prone to easy laughter, one fond of sport
and wine. The ceremonies irked him, and he was bad in the fields—two things which had persuaded the Council to
grant his request to patrol the far slopes.
It was a job he liked. There was opportunity to hunt and to escape routine duty. Time had given him command
and mostly, he enjoyed the life. Only at times like this did he tend to become short with his men.
"Keep in step there!" he rapped. "Armand, lengthen your stride! Lambert, shorten yours! That's better. Left! Left!
Left, right, left!"
One of the boys stumbled.
"Easy, lad." Eidhal was unexpectedly gentle. "Just keep your head up and your eyes straight ahead. Just
remember that tomorrow, you'll be a man."
A man or a memory—a tear in a woman's eye, a hardness in a man's expression. Eidhal didn't like to think about
it.
The houses fell behind as they marched through fields thick with well-tended crops. A figure rose to stare towards
them, a man dressed in gray, his face blank, his hands hanging limply at his sides. A ghost, a thing Eidhal didn't like to
look at or think about. He ignored the call from the figure which came shambling towards the column.
"Wait! I wanna come. I wanna…"
The gray figure stopped, one hand lifting to finger its mouth. The hand fell as, like an automaton, it turned away
to resume the endless task of weeding.
"Sir!" One of the boys had heard the call. "Why can't he—"
"Keep moving, boy!" Eidhal snapped the command. "Later, you will understand."
The fields passed and now the end of the valley could be seen in greater detail. Slopes narrowing, rising, the ruby
of thorn thick at the crests. A path led upwards toward the high places, kept clear by continual labor, another of the
gray ghosts vanishing as they approached.
The pace was slower now. The sun, while low, was still high enough to grant a little slack and Eidhal was not a
man who took pleasure in the discomfort of others.
Armand came towards Eidhal as he called a halt on a level space.
"You want me to go ahead Varg? Just in case?"
The lift of his spear was eloquent. There could be predators lying in wait—the boys had to have the best chance
they could get.
"Go ahead. Take half the men with you and be careful. Yell if you see anything." Eidhal glanced at the sun. "I can
give you the best part of an hour. Move ahead, but don't go past the crescent."
He sighed as they raced up the path to the crest, wishing he were with them, but command held duties and they
could not be ignored.
"Sir! Could you tell us what to expect? Give us a hint?"
"What's your name, boy?"
"Clem Marish, sir. I—"
"You should have known better than to ask." Eidhal remembered him now. He had worn the yellow for a period,
no blame in that, but blame enough now that he had broken the rule.
"Yes, sir. I know, sir. I'm sorry." Terrified, afraid of what was to come.
"Just stay calm," said Eidhal, quietly. Safe advice which he must have received already. No father would remain
wholly silent, despite the tradition. "Keep your head, stay where we put you and be resolute."
 The boy nodded, unconvinced, and Eidhal remembered something else. An older brother who had failed to return
—no wonder the lad was scared.
"Up," he ordered briskly. To delay now would be cruel. Fear was contagious. "Up and on our way!"
Beyond the crest, a fan of cleared thorn ran up a gentle slope which rose abruptly into a mass of slender
pinnacles of jagged stone. They ran in an uneven curve for the distance of a mile, the remains of an old ridge which
had been shattered and eroded in eons past. Rocks were heaped at the foot of the spires, clumps of grass and scrub
clinging to the detritus. A section had been cleared—the high places of the ordeal.
Eidhal led the way towards them, walking straight, seeing the figures of Armand and his men looking small as
they quested among the rocks.
Dumarest watched them come. He leaned against a pinnacle, the woman slumped at his feet. Iduna was close to
exhaustion, her hair soiled, her clothing grimed, her eyes bruised hollows in the pallor of her face.
"Earl!" she muttered. "Earl?"
"Men," he said. "Men and boys." He added, comfortingly, "It's all right, Iduna. We're safe now."
"Safe? With animals like the Candarish?"
"With people."
He moved, feeling the nagging ache of bruises, of muscles overstrained. The laceration on his scalp was a
festering burn. Despite his reassurance, he was being cautious. If these men were from the valley he had searched for,
they could have a short way with strangers. A people who wanted to remain secret could not afford to arouse
curiosity. He stepped behind the pinnacle as Iduna rose to stand beside him.
"Boys," she said wonderingly. "Why are they here, Earl? What are they doing?"
The party had halted before one of the cleared fingers of stone. As they watched a boy climbed it, reaching the
top to cling awkwardly to the jagged summit. Once settled, the others moved away to another pinnacle well away
from the first.
"Earl."
"A rite," he said. "An initiation. Those boys will have to stay up there all night. They will have to stay awake,
hanging on, wait until the dawn. They could be up there for days."
"But why?" She had spoken without thinking, too tired to correlate facts into an answer. "What is the point?"
"A tribal custom. Once they have passed the test, they will become men." Dumarest glanced at the party, the
questing scouts. As yet they were unobserved. "We've arrived at a bad time."
"Will they kill us?"
It was possible. Strangers, in a sacred place, observers who did not belong. It would be better to hide, to wait until
night. But even so, there could be guards and certainly there would be predators of one kind or another. Beasts
waiting for tired hands to slip, young bodies to fall, easy feeding in this savage wilderness.
"Madness," she said, too numb to follow her question, to demand an answer. "To treat children like that. Why do
they do it?"
To weed out the unfit, to test courage, to make manhood a prized estate. A crude method, perhaps, but one which
worked. Dumarest had seen it before, tests by fire, water, the ability to go without food and to live off the land. A
means to ensure physical stamina, to eliminate destructive genes from the line.
No small community could afford to carry the burden of the handicapped. No sensible culture would permit
destructive variations in the gene plasm to survive.
Had Leon refused to participate? Running, a victim of his own terror? It was possible—if he had come from the
valley which lay beyond. If the valley was Nerth.
"Earl!"
He spun at Iduna's cry, seeing a multi-legged thing, spined tail up-curved, mandibles champing. A scorpion-like
thing a foot long, which scuttled forward towards her foot. It squelched beneath the impact of his heel, but the
damage had been done.
"Eidhal! Here!"
Armand came running, spear leveled, men at his back. Dumarest stooped, picked up two stones, fist-sized rocks
which he held in each hand. He threw one to either side, waiting until they fell, their rattle distracting the guards.
Then, as they hesitated, he stepped forward, hands uplifted, palms forward in the unmistakable sign of peace.
Armand threw his spear. It was a slender shaft five feet long, the tip cruelly barbed. Sharp metal which glinted as
it flashed, straight and fast towards Dumarest's chest. His hand dropped, caught it as he turned, continuing the
movement so that he spun in a complete circle, running as he faced the man before him.
"Eidhal!"
Armand stepped back, caught his foot on a stone, and fell as Dumarest lunged towards him. He saw the face,
tense, smeared with dirt and dried blood, the vicious tip of the spear flashing towards his throat. He felt the sharp
prick as it came to rest touching his windpipe.
"No!"
"Hold!" Eidhal came running toward. "Don't kill him! You men there! Hold your spears!"
He halted close to Dumarest, looking at the man on the ground, the drop of blood showing beneath the point of
the spear.
"Press on that shaft and you die! I swear it." His eyes lifted, saw Iduna, took her for a man. "Both of you die."
"You would kill a woman?"
"A woman?" Eidhal looked again, caught the swell of breasts beneath the stained tunic, the curve of the hips.
"She too, if you kill Armand. You hold three lives in your hand."
Neatly put—and he meant it. Dumarest looked at the ring of guards, the scared and wondering faces of the boys
yet to climb the pinnacles. They were well-trained, not one had moved, and guards had remained at their station.
"I came in peace. I showed empty hands, yet he tried to kill me. Why?"
Armand swallowed as Dumarest lifted the spear from his throat a little.
"I saw movement. There are predators—and you wear gray."
The mark of a ghost, he was not to blame. Eidhal glanced at Dumarest, saw his face, remembered the incredible
speed with which he had avoided the thrown spear. No ghost this, no matter what he wore.
One of the guards cleared his throat.
"Varg, the boys?"
A timely reminder, already shadows were gathering in the hollows. Unless the initiation was canceled, they would
have to move fast.
"Continue. Split up the men and work at speed." Again Eidhal studied Dumarest and the woman. Strangers—and
the rule was clear. But the boys would be watching and, as yet, they were not men. "Where are you from?"
"That way." Dumarest jerked his head as he stepped back, still holding the spear.
"From there? The north?" Eidhal was incredulous. Nothing human could have come from that direction.
"We were on a raft and had an accident. Three survived. One died when we were attacked by a beast."
Eidhal sucked his his breath as Dumarest described it.
"A tirran! And you killed it?"
"Killed it and lived on its flesh." Dumarest looked at the pinnacles, the young, watching faces. "Don't you get them
here?"
"Rarely. The last one I saw was years ago, and I counted myself fortunate that it did not attack." Eidhal looked at
the pair with respect. "Here we get codors—smaller, but just as vicious in their way." Too vicious, but he did not like
to think of that. And his duty remained to be done.
Down towards the valley, he decided. On the level place in the path. The boys would not be able to see the swift
execution, and the bodies would have vanished by dawn. A pity, the man held strength, and the woman could provide
healthy children. The rule was sometimes hard.
"You had best come with me," he said. "The boys must wait alone. Armand, your spear."
Dumarest retained it, looking from one to the other, judging distance. He could kill at least two, perhaps more, but
if he fought now the end would be inevitable. And there could be no need to fight. He looked at Eidhal, the green he
wore.
"A question, you will answer it?"
"Yes." A man, soon to die, should be treated with courtesy.
"I am looking for Nerth, have I found it?" He saw the blank expression and felt a momentary unease. Yet, if these
were the Original People they would be reluctant to admit it. He said, quickly, "I come bearing a message from Leon
Harvey. You know him?" Without waiting for an answer he produced the photograph. "I will give it to her."

***

There was a comfort in the Council chamber, as if time itself had been halted and trapped in the thick stone of
the walls, the massive beams of the roof. Thick laminations of wood constructed with loving care. Signs of the
ancients were on all sides, faces carved in timber which seemed to move and shift in the dancing flames of lanterns,
to smile, nod and, sometimes, to frown.
A fantasy, Phal Vestaler knew. Inanimate things could not pass judgment, but if the stones could speak surely
they would protest now. The thud of his gavel demanded silence.
"Gentlemen, you will please remember that you constitute the Council. We are not at festival, but at deliberation.
Aryan, you may speak."
The man took his time. A skilled orator he knew the value of suspense and, thought Vestaler grimly, had much
support from others less gifted.
"Aryan?"
"With respect, Master, I was assembling my thoughts." Rising, as custom demanded, so that all could see every
play of expression Aryan cleared his throat. "The matter, as I see it, is basically simple. In fact, I am surprised that the
Council has been convened to deal with it at all. Strangers are not allowed. All coming within the vicinity are to be
destroyed. These two are strangers. Therefore, they should have been destroyed. Varg Eidhal failed in his sworn duty
and should be punished." Pausing he added, "It is the rule."
Aryan knew the value of brevity in making a telling point. As he sat Vestaler said, "Croft?"
"I agree with all that Aryan has said." Croft, a small man, was eager to gain height by backing what he thought
was the winning side. "The purpose of the rule is to ensure our isolation. Only by secrecy have we managed to
remain apart and able to follow our ancient traditions. Once that is broken we will be subject to disruptive influences,
the extent of which we can easily imagine."
"Usdon?"
"It seems that certain members of the Council are missing the point. We are not here to determine Eidhal's guilt,
or to determine his punishment. Personally, I think the man acted with intelligent appreciation of the situation. The
failure to kill is an error simple to rectify. The main object of concern, surely, is the man Dumarest and the message
he claims to be carrying."
Sense at last, and Vestaler allowed himself to relax a little. Aryan and his supporters were evidence of a
disturbing trend, an inward-turned concern with minutia and tradition. Blinded to the fact, though isolated, Nerth still
existed in a larger universe than that of the valley.
Forgetting, too, the import of the message Dumarest might bear. If he had met Leon, and if the boy had—but
that was to hope for too much.
He glanced at the photograph lying before him on the table, the smiling face. Zafra's face, younger than it was
now. He hoped that she would be spared more hurt.
"Master?"
It was Byrute. He rose at Vestaler's nod.
"Why can't we summon the man and demand that he gives us the message?"
"He insists on giving it to one person only."
"We could demand—"
"And be refused." Vestaler was sharp in his interruption. "We are dealing with no ordinary man. The mere fact of
his survival is proof of that."
"He could have lied," said Byrute stubbornly. "There may have been no raft, no crash as he claimed."
"I have considered the possibility, but how else could he have reached us? And there is no denying the physical
condition of both of them. The woman was so near to collapse that she had to be carried on a litter. Dumarest was in
need of medical attention, and the state of his body proves that he had suffered in a manner consistent with what he
says happened. To question him now would gain us little. Therefore, I propose that both he and the woman be
granted a limited freedom until a final resolution can be made as to their fate."
The vote was carried as he knew it would be. The entire session had, in a sense, been a waste of time. Yet, the
formalities had to be observed. A commune worked, not on dictatorial lines, but on common agreement. No one man
could ever be allowed to become truly the master. The title he had won was by courtesy, not by right.
Later Usdon joined him, entering the Alphanian Chamber to walk towards the altar, to stand looking at what it
contained.
He said, for no apparent reason, "Three failed, Master."
"I know."
"One of them was my daughter's son."
The extension of his line, a metaphorical continuation of his body. Vestaler remembered the boy. Sharp and
bright and impatient to become a man. His pinnacle had been empty at dawn.
"He wasn't weak," said Usdon fiercely. "He wasn't full of guilt. There was no reason for him to have failed."
Vestaler remained silent. At such times there was nothing to say.
"I wish—" Usdon reached out and touched the artifact before him. "Now I wish that—" He shook his head, a man
hurt, helpless to ease his pain. He found refuge in a greater hurt, a more poignant loss. "Do you think it possible that
Dumarest can help?"
The odds were against it and yet, hope still survived. Hope, but Vestaler could only be honest.
"I doubt it, Marl." His hand fell to the shoulder of his friend. "I can't see how he could."
 Chapter Twelve
Dumarest stretched, remembering. There had been food and drink, hot water in which to bathe, a cup of
something pungent, a bed in which to fall. And there had been pain, a searing agony in his scalp, hands which had
held him fast, a voice which had murmured soft instructions.
His hand lifted to touch his scalp, the fingers resting on a patch of something smooth.
"Don't touch it," said a voice. "You will aggravate the wound."
Dumarest sat upright, looking at a room he barely remembered. Small, the walls of stone, the window heavily
barred. A door of wooden planks held the grill of a Judas window. The bed was solid, the mattress firm, the covers of
thick, patch-work material. Reds and greens and diamonds of yellow. Blue and amber squares, and triangles of puce,
purple and brown.
"We had to clean and cauterize," said the voice. "The infection was deep."
She sat on a chair set hard against the wall, a position beyond the range of his vision until he turned. A woman no
longer young, one with blonde hair held by a fillet of metal. The eyes were amber, the face strongly boned.
"I am Zafra Harvey."
"Leon's mother?"
"Once I had a son." Her voice was distant, as if she spoke of another life at another time. "You claimed to have
something to tell me. A message."
"It can wait." Dumarest rose higher in the bed. He was naked. "Did you take care of me?"
"Yes, I am skilled in healing."
"A doctor? A nurse? How is Iduna?"
"Your woman is well. She was suffering only from exhaustion. Now that she has eaten and slept, she will be fine."
"She isn't my woman," said Dumarest. He looked at Zafra's face, seeing the mesh of tiny lines at the corners of
the eyes, the aging of the lips, the neck. "How long has it been since that photograph was taken?"
"A long time. In happier days."
"Here?" And then, as she made no answer. "In the town? Do you often leave Nerth?"
"Nerth?"
"The valley. Do you?"
"We call it Ayat. No, we never leave."
The name they would use to others—and the woman had lied.
She said, "Please. The message?"
"Later."
"But Leon—"
"Your son?" Dumarest nodded as he caught her faint inclination. "What happened to him? Why did he run?"
"He is dead. We do not talk of him."
A symbolical death perhaps attended by appropriate ceremonies, his name stricken from any records there might
be, his very memory erased. A name that should not be mentioned. A custom with which Dumarest was familiar, one
with which he had no patience.
But she was a woman, a mother, and he had no reason to hurt her.
"I knew him," he said. "We worked together, traveled together. He told me of this place. He said that you could
help me." A lie, but barely. The photograph had told him that and Leon had carried it. He added, gently, "I am sorry to
tell you that he is dead."
She sat as if made of stone.
"What happened?" he urged. "Did he fail his test? Run because of shame?"
"The shame was not his. He wore the yellow, but that was understood. But then, when the time came again, he
was not to be found."
"He ran," said Dumarest. "But how? With whom?"
"None went with him."
"A raft? A trader?"
She made no answer and he knew he would gain no further information at this time. Rising he stood, fighting a
momentary nausea, then moved to a table which stood against a wall. It held his things, the knife, the idol he had
carried tucked beneath his tunic, other things, his clothes. They had been cleaned and dipped into something which
had left a purple film. He rubbed it, seeing it leave a mark on his thumb.
"Gray is the color worn by ghosts," she explained. "Green, those who are here by right. The purple will save you
from embarrassment."
"That's considerate of you." Dumarest picked up the knife and scraped casually at the idol. "Am I under restraint?
If so, it will give me an opportunity to work on this."
"You are free to move at will among the houses and immediate fields. No work will be demanded of you. You
may eat with the single men and widowers."
"No guards?"
"You will be watched. And now, if you please, give me the message you claim to have brought."
"You've had it, a part of it at least. Leon is dead. I thought you would like to know. He died bravely, a hero to
those who knew him." An unqualified lie this time, but one which could do no harm and could give comfort.
Dumarest followed it with another. "He died in my arms. He mentioned you and asked me to bring you his love. The
rest of what he told me is for other ears than your own."
"Did he mention—" She broke off as if conscious that she was asking too much. That she could be abrogating the
authority of others, demanding more than was her due.
"You were saying?"
"Nothing." Rising, she moved towards the door.
"Take care of your wound. If the pain should increase, let me know at once. If you feel fevered or dizzy, the same.
It would be wise for you to conserve your strength for the next few days."
Good advice, and he might follow it—if he was allowed to live that long.

***

It was late afternoon, and Dumarest guessed that the drug he had been given had made him sleep for thirty hours
or more. A long rest which he had needed, and now he was hungry.
He ate in a hut with a score of others, men who watched but said nothing. Not even the youngsters who, at least,
must have been curious. The food was good, a steamed mass of beans and meat flavored with herbs. A pudding of
nuts and honey, dark with small, crushed bodies. Insects perhaps, or seeds, or even maggots bred to give added
protein. Dumarest ate without worrying about the nature of the food.
The meal ended with a mug of tisane, hot water which had been steeped with acrid herbs. A crude, medicinal
compound, but one which apparently worked. The men he could see looked healthy as had the boys, the guards. He
nodded at a familiar face.
"Hello. Are you one of my watchers?"
Varg Eidhal grunted, hesitated for a moment, then moved to plump down on the bench at Dumarest's side.
"You ate well," he commented. "That is good. A fighting man needs to build his strength."
"The boys, how many failed?"
"Three." Eidhal was grim. "Two who vanished and one who will be a ghost."
"Three—is it always that high?"
"Sometimes more, rarely less. Never is there a time when all return."
"And you don't mind?"
"It is the rule."
The rule, the law, the custom which governed their lives. One of a skein of such regulations, and Dumarest could
only guess at what they were.
He said, "If you are to watch me, you had better stay close. You can show me around."
A guide in more senses than one and, perhaps, an ally in case of need. A small hope, the conditioning of a
lifetime would not be thrown aside in a moment, but Dumarest could not afford to neglect any opportunity.
The houses were interesting, strongly built, solid, patterned on those he had seen in the town. All carried some
form of decoration, a bow, a bull, the design of a crab, others. From a smithy came the sound of hammering, a
brawny man nodding as Eidhal halted in the open doorway.
"The spear-heads will be ready soon, Varg. Now I must fashion knives for the new men."
"Couldn't they wait?"
The smith grinned as he swung his hammer. "Remember your own time, Varg. Could you?"
A knife, the badge of manhood, edged and pointed steel worn proudly in the belt for all to see. Dumarest had
wondered why he had been allowed to retain his own weapon. Now he knew.
They moved on, past houses closed and snug, others with open fronts in which women sat spinning, turning
pottery, grinding grain into flour with the help of men who sweated as they turned the heavy millstones. A busy,
active community in which all shared the labor and the reward.
Dumarest looked thoughtfully at a long, low, heavily-shuttered building which stood apart from the others.
"What is that?"
"The Alphanian Chamber."
 "And that is?"
"The special place where ceremonies are conducted. Where the past is remembered."
Where records would be kept, and items rendered sacred by rarity and time would be housed. Alphanian…
alpha… a word Dumarest knew meant the beginning.
"Varg, what do you people call yourselves?"
"We are of Ayat."
"And?" Dumarest pressed the question as the man remained silent. "Are you the Original People?"
"I—let me show you the fields."
Not an admission, but admission enough. And yet, a mystery remained. The name, Ayat, a cover perhaps. But
why had Leon claimed he came from Nerth?
The fields were well kept, the rows of beans clear of weeds. Others held ripening grain, root crops, bushes
yielding nuts and fruit. Domestic animals would be kept at the lower end of the valley. Dumarest watched as boys and
young girls shooed away birds. Only when older, and puberty exercised its demands, would they be kept apart.
Eidhal paused as a man came shambling down the path. He was tall, big, shoulders wide beneath the drab gray of
his smock. His face was vacuous, the eyes empty of intelligence, his mouth wet with spittle. The lips twisted into an
inane grin as he halted before Dumarest.
"Give… you give…"
"He wants something sweet," said Eidhal. He rummaged in a pocket and found a dried fruit. "Give him this."
A splayed hand snatched the morsel and thrust it into the slavering mouth.
"That's all, Odo," said Eidhal as the hand reached out again. "Get back to your work."
"Give… you give…"
"No! To work now!"
"Odo want…"
"Odo will be beaten if he does not do as he is told." Eidhal was firm, but gentle. "Come on, now, back to work."
Dumarest stood to one side as the guard conducted the idiot back into the fields.
"A ghost," Eidhal explained as he returned. "A child who will never be a man."
"How did it happen?"
"It happens." Eidhal was grim. "Sometimes a boy grows in body, but not in mind. He is given every chance, as
that one is there." He pointed to where a boy wore a yellow sash. "If a lad thinks he is unready for the ordeal, he is
allowed to wait and no shame comes to him, or to his parents. If still he refuses, then he wears gray."
"Do many refuse?"
"In my lifetime, only one. He was sent to clear thorn and live in isolation. He died by his own hand."
"And Odo?"
"He was a bright lad, smart, keen and eager to become a man. The pride of all who knew him. I was on duty at
the time. When dawn came, he was as you see him now." He added, bleakly, "It would have been better had he
vanished."
An idiot condemned to a life of unending labor, castrated to avoid the continuation of his line, a man who had
become little more than an animal. Despised, rejected, yet needed as an essential source of labor. A ghost.
And yet, Eidhal had been kind. Dumarest wondered if there was some relationship between them. It was more
than likely; in any closed community blood-ties had to be plentiful. His son, perhaps, or the son of a sister, a cousin.
Kind—yet he would have been more merciful had he thrust his spear into Odo's heart.

***

Iduna was waiting as they returned. She ran forward, eyes anxious as they looked at the dressing on Dumarest's
scalp.
"Earl! I was so worried. Your head?"
"Is fine. And you?"
She had lost the ghastly pallor of exhaustion. Her hair was a smooth russet helmet about her skull, the eyes clear,
her skin carrying the faint sheen of health.
Like himself she wore purple, new garments which accentuated the lines of her figure.
She fell into step beside him, Varg Eidhal discreetly falling back. He, like them all, thought her to be Dumarest's
woman.
"I've been listening," she said. "The woman talked when they thought I was asleep. Earl, they don't intend to let us
go!"
"Did they say that in so many words?"
 "They didn't have to. They talked of what I could do, and how I could be fitted into their community. They even
speculated on a probable mate." Her voice carried undertones of disgust. "As if I had been a brood mare—good only
to provide new children. My body used to increase their numbers."
And to provide a new source of genes. A cross would produce healthy offspring.
"Earl, what are we going to do?"
"We wait."
"For how long? Don't you understand what I'm saying? They spoke of me—not you. Whether I had any skills in
weaving, pottery making, cooking, sewing of skins and cloth. All day they've been at it, questioning, probing, and
never once did they mention you. They don't need you, Earl. I think they intend to kill you."
And, probably, her. The women had been gossiping, speculating, but the decision would not be theirs.
He said, "When they talked, did they mention a name?"
"A name?"
"That of this valley. Nerth."
"No." She was positive… "I asked them where we were and they wouldn't answer. But later, I heard one tell
another that these were exciting times in Ayat." Her fingers tightened on his arm. "Earl, I'm afraid. We must escape
before it is too late."
Escape into a wilderness without food, a map, or weapons. A short start with guards following, ready with their
spears.
"We have to wait," he said patiently. "Take each thing as it comes. When our chance comes, we'll take it."
Empty words, but they seemed to give her courage.
"Wait," she said, brightening. "Yes, Earl, we must wait. But be careful. Don't let them hurt you. Promise them
anything, do anything, but stay alive!"
An unexpected reaction, but he could guess at her latent hysteria. As a bell began to toll from the Alphanian
Chamber, Eidhal edged forward.
"The curfew," he said. "And the summons. It is time for you to return to your quarters."
Them, but not others. Dumarest watched with interest as a stream of men and women made their way towards
the enigmatic building. To participate in ceremonies, perhaps. To dwell on the beginning, if the name of the place
meant what he suspected.
Later, he stood at the window of his room and looked at the stars. It was late and he could hear no sound of
movement outside. The bars were firm and resisted his tug. The door was locked—a pail had been provided for
natural needs. Only the roof remained.
Dumarest examined it as he stood on the end of the upturned bed. Thick rafters were crossed by thinner
members, supports for the tiles which closed the building against the sky. With his knife he eased one free, set it
gently on the floor, climbed up to remove others which he set outside. Within minutes he had a hole large enough to
pass his body through, one which he could seal again from within.
A weakness in his prison, but those accustomed to regarding only doors and windows as a means of egress
would have overlooked the obvious. And any prisoners, held in this place, would provide their own mental chains.
He jumped from the roof, landing as lightly as a cat, freezing, crouching to spot the silhouette of any guard
against the sky.
He saw nothing. Either there were no guards, or they were on the other side of the building facing the door.
Rising, he ran quickly towards the Alphanian Chamber. It rested as a somber bulk beneath the stars, a fitful gleam
of yellow light showing through the cracks of shutters, the join of the great double door.
It was held by a simple lock which yielded to the point of Dumarest's knife and he pushed one of the leaves open,
slipping inside to close it behind him.
Turning, he looked at a museum. A church. It held something of both.
There were alcoves in which were painted designs fashioned of gleaming points, joined and surrounded by a
tracery of lines. The depiction of animals, a woman, scales, a scorpion. Twelve of them, each faced by a thin stream
of incense rising from bowls of hammered brass.
There were cases in which rested ancient books, strange artifacts, rocks and scraps of fabric. There was what
could only be an altar, a high place set to the rear of a low dais. A painting of a woman, weeping. Another of fiery
destruction. A third of something bright and wonderful emerging from a shattered egg.
The wall behind the altar was covered. The curve continued as it rose to merge into a smooth dome, a
hemisphere broken only by the main part of the chamber. Beneath it, set in precise relationship to the apex of the
dome, rested a squat construction which gleamed with polish.
Dumarest gave the place one quick glance, found it deserted of life, and moved around the walls studying the
designs. The figures matched the mnemonic he had learned so long ago, the Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins… the
Crab, the Lion… The signs of the zodiac.
The thing for which he had been searching. And useless.
They were too abstract, the points which could only have been stars, too numerous and devoid of true
relationship. He had hoped for set constellations easily remembered, signposts in the sky which would point the way
to Earth. Instead, he looked at artistic impressions which could have no association with reality. Again he walked
along the walls, looking, studying, trying to remember.
Had there been an archer in the skies? A man with the body of a horse drawing a bow? A woman emptying a pot
of water? A pair of twins. A set of scales? A crab?
Not actual representations, but a pattern of stars, bright points which if followed with a marker would have left
such designs. He remembered nothing, and such rudimentary portraits could not have been forgotten.
Impatiently, Dumarest moved to the books within the cases. The doors were closed and he forced one, leafing
through a volume which smelt of mold. The pages were faded, stained. A record, as far as he could see, of names,
births, deaths, matings. Another held details as to plantings, yields, types and varieties of vegetation. A third held
rough designs of primitive, hand-operated machinery, grinders, scrapers, a potter's wheel.
He replaced it, closed the doors, moved towards the altar and the odd device it contained. Here, perhaps, he
would find the answer. The lost but all important coordinates by which Earth could be found.
As he neared it he heard the sound of muffled voices, the creak of the opening doors. Dumarest looked upwards,
searching for a place to hide, but the dome was unbroken.
To run was to fight. To fight at this time was to die. When Phal Vestaler entered the Alphanian Chamber attended
by a score of guards, he found Dumarest kneeling before the altar, his head bowed, hands clasped in an attitude of
supplication.

Chapter Thirteen
"Communing?" Aryan's voice held incredulity. "It isn't possible! He is unaware of the Mysteries." He sat at the
table, annoyed, irritable at having been summoned so late. "It was a pretense, a ruse to save his life."
The truth, but Dumarest didn't like to hear it stated so dogmatically. He stood at the end of the table, uneasily
aware of the guards at sides and rear. To them, he had committed an unpardonable crime. They would not hesitate to
move in should the word be given. His life, he knew, hung on a thread.
And yet, he had an ally. From where he sat at the head of the table Vestaler said, quietly, "I told you what I had
found. Nothing had been disturbed."
He had said nothing about the matter of the forced bookcase.
"And what if you hadn't sent for him? Discovered his escape?" Aryan flung the accusations like missiles. "And
why did you send for him at all, Master?"
The question Vestaler had been expecting. Aryan would not take kindly to the intention of a private talk with
Dumarest, but the man did not know what Zafra had reported. The hope her words had aroused.
A mistake, he thought, but one done now and impossible to ignore. Yet, if he hadn't sent for Dumarest,
discovered him missing and gone with the anxiety of experience directly to the Alphanian Chamber—what then?
His rank and title, certainly. His position and all that went with it. Shame and punishment, reduced to menial
labor, shunned and despised as if he had been a ghost.
All that, if the man had lied. If he could not convince the others that he had entered the chamber for reasons
other than to rob.
"Kill him!" snapped Aryan. "Kill him and have done."
"Wait!" Usdon's hand slammed against the table. "At least, let us hear what he has to say."
"He will spill lies," sneered Croft. "He knows nothing and—"
"You are certain of that?" Dumarest's voice rose to fill the chamber as he stepped forward, halting as his thighs
touched the edge of the table. A calculated move designed to demand attention. "Do you think you are alone in the
universe? The only ones who hold the ancient beliefs?" His voice deepened, grew solemn. "From terror they fled to
find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united." The words
he had heard from Leon, words he had heard before.
He fell silent, looking from face to face. Aryan, Croft, Vestaler, Usdon, Barog who as yet had said nothing. An old
man who watched and voted, but who rarely spoke.
Now he said, slowly, "Do you claim to be one of our number?"
"Of your number, no. Of your following, yes. Do you think you are the only ones with such a creed? There are
others on a host of worlds. Do you regard it as impossible that I am one of them?"
 Croft said, sharply, "We are the true Original People. Others may claim that, but they lie. They use machines."
"You have a forge using bellows," said Dumarest. "You grind corn with the aid of a millstone, weave with a loom,
fashion pots with a wheel. These things are also machines."
"But they do not use the demon of power."
"And so you consider yourself justified. A peculiar interpretation of the creed. The cleansing mentioned has a
deeper significance."
"You dare to condemn us? You?"
Aryan said, "You have still not told us why you entered the Alphanian Chamber."
To take the opportunity before it was too late. To learn what he could while he was able, but Dumarest couldn't
tell him that.
"I am far from my people," he said quietly. "A stranger—and I know the rule. In my position, wouldn't you have
done the same?"
A good answer, thought Vestaler, but Croft wasn't satisfied. He leaned forward on the table, still brooding over the
imagined insult, the sense he had received of being corrected. Machines were the product of evil; because of them
Man had become diversified. How could anyone who followed the creed believe otherwise?
He said, curtly, "I still think you lie."
"An easy thing to say when you sit in Council backed by your guards," said Dumarest. "Would it be as easy if we
stood face to face outside? But then, of course, you don't believe in personal combat. Leon told me that."
"Leon Harvey! That renegade? That coward!"
"Coward?" Dumarest shook his head. "Call him what you like, but never call him that. Consider what he did. He,
alone, left the valley and ventured through the wilderness to the town. A boy doing that and more. He found work,
kept himself, gained money, traveled to another world. Coward?" His voice took on a chilling note of contempt.
"From where I stand, it is you who are the coward, not he."
"Master!"
"You provoked him," said Vestaler shortly.
"But Leon—"
"We know what Leon Harvey did. There can be no excuse, that I agree."
"And yet this man defends him!" Croft was repulsive in his anger. "They are two of a kind. Has he come here to
rob us further? A man who claims to have befriended a boy? That is enough to condemn him. I say he is a criminal
and deserves to die. The rule demands it!"
The rule, always the rule, the iron barrier which Dumarest had yet to break. Croft was a fanatic as was Aryan, but
hope could lie with the others. At least they had not demanded his life.
He said, slowly, "Have any of you ever stopped to think why Leon ran?"
"Can there be any doubt?" Usdon spoke before Croft could further vent his anger. "He could not face the ordeal."
"The ordeal," said Dumarest. "To climb to the summit of a pinnacle, to sit there during the night, afraid to sleep in
case of falling, listening to the predators below, the things which climb and sting. A healthy lad should have no
trouble in staying awake. A fit one to hang on. Agreed?"
Usdon nodded.
"Then why, always, do some fail?"
"Guilt," snapped Aryan. "Fear. A knowledge of their own weakness. A proof that they are unfit to survive."
"No!" said Usdon sharply. "My—" He broke off, unwilling to mention his own recent loss.
A reluctance Dumarest recognized. A fortunate circumstance which would back his gamble.
"We spoke of cleansing," he said to Croft. "You sneer at others who believe as you do, but who use machines. Use
them, but are not dominated by them, that is the important difference. Power, in itself, can do no harm. It is like a
spear which, in itself, is a useful tool. It is the man using it which makes it evil. A spear, a knife, a gun, all tools, all
forms of power. Any form of power can be misused. The ordeal is a form of power. The power you have over the
young. A power you have misused."
He heard the sharp intake of breath, the instinctive protest at what they considered to be an insanely unfair
accusation. Bluntly he pressed on.
"A boy ran from the only home he had ever known. He left his mother, his friends, his people. He plunged into the
unknown—and yet some of you call him a coward. You never even considered that he might have a reason. And
none of you seem to care about the boys who vanish, or the ones who are found turned into ghosts. Do you want to
continue sacrificing your youngsters? Do you enjoy the tears of their mothers? The misuse of your power?"
"It is a test," rapped Aryan.
"An initiation. We have always had it," echoed Croft.
Barog, more observant than the others, less blinded by pride said, "You misjudge us. We are not evil men."
 "You know," said Usdon. He looked at his hands, they were trembling. Too late, he thought bleakly. No matter
what happened now, it was too late. Sham was gone—nothing could bring him back. Nothing. And yet, others could
be saved if Dumarest had not lied. If he could prove his accusation to be just. "You know," he said again. "Know what
happens to the boys, what robs their brains."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I know and I will tell you—for a price."

***

Iduna shivered as she stepped from the door of the house, a reaction caused less by the chill than the sight of
armed men looming in front of her in the starlight. The waking had been abrupt, a touch and a whispered command,
her demand for explanation ignored. Perhaps, now, she was to be taken to some secluded place, there to be quietly
disposed of, speared to death and buried.
Varg Eidhal's voice was a rumbling reassurance.
"Don't worry, we mean you no harm. It is just that you are wanted in the Council Chamber."
"Why?"
"Just walk beside us."
To a mockery of a trial, questions which could have no answers. A sentence which, somehow, she had to avoid.
She stumbled a little as she entered the warmly lit chamber. Eyes, accustomed to the outer darkness, unable to
see detail immediately. Then she saw men seated at a table, more guards, the tall figure of Dumarest.
"Earl! What—"
"It's nothing serious, Iduna." He was, she saw, relaxed, apparently in command of the situation. She drew a deep
breath of relief. "I just want you to answer some questions." He nodded to where Vestaler sat at the head of the table.
"The truth now, there is no need to lie."
He watched the ring of faces as she verified what he had already told the Council. Yes, she had accompanied her
brother on an expedition. They had crashed. He had died in the crash and their guide had also been killed. By a
beast? Well, yes, in a way.
"In what way?" Aryan was quick to note the hesitation. He frowned as she explained. "So Dumarest killed him.
Are you accusing him of murder?"
"No, the man was badly hurt, dying, in great pain. There was nothing else we could do."
"We?"
"He, Dumarest, he was merciful."
A type of mercy to which they were unaccustomed, and Vestaler frowned. Yet, the point was not worth pursuing
at this time.
"Tell us of the Kheld."
"The Kheld?" She glanced at Dumarest. "Why, we, that is my brother, thought they could be found in the
mountains. An ancient form of life native to this world, which at one time had threatened the town. My brother," she
added, "was suffering from strain."
"He was deranged?"
"No."
"Deluded, then?" Vestaler rapped the table as she hesitated. "You must answer the question. Was your brother
wholly normal?"
"Yes. It was just that he had this determination to find the Kheld."
"Did he?"
"No."
"Have you any proof, any kind of proof whatsoever, that such creatures exist?"
Again she hesitated, not knowing just what to say, wondering what the assembly was all about. To lie and perhaps
damn herself and Dumarest, or to tell the truth and perhaps do the same.
"Shall I repeat the question?"
"No, that will not be necessary." The truth, Dumarest had said. For want of a better guide she obeyed. "No, I have
not."
"You have never seen them? The Kheld, I mean."
"No."
From where he sat Croft said, harshly, "A lie. I knew it. Another to add to the rest."
A logical summation, but Usdon wasn't satisfied. A stubborn hope, perhaps. A confidence in the boy which had
never been shaken. Sham could not have failed. There had to be an explanation.
Dumarest gave it.
 "Iduna did not share my experience," he said. "She was asleep at the time. I told you that, but you insisted on
questioning her."
"With reason," said Aryan. "Your story is preposterous. An invisible something which you heard, but did not see.
The stuff of legends, stories to terrify children. If they exist, why haven't we seen them?"
"Or heard them?" said Croft, triumphantly. "Answer that if you can."
He was trapped, thought Vestaler bleakly. Dumarest had bargained well. His life and that of the woman, to be
spared for the sake of his information, the proof. The information he had given, the lack of proof would snap shut the
jaws of a trap of his own making.
"You haven't seen them," said Dumarest, quietly, "because if you had, you would have become a ghost. As for
hearing them, perhaps you have. Think," he urged, "remember. You have all undertaken the ordeal. Did none of you
hear a thin sound in the air then? A chittering? Feel an impression of menace?"
He waited for an answer, but it was too long ago. Even if they remembered, none would admit it. Perhaps with
cause. To be the first to back his claim would be to share his implied guilt.
"The Kheld are old," he said. "Perhaps now very few in number. They must be an aerial form of life, and so would
never enter the valleys. The updraft would be too strong. The pinnacles are high, ideally placed for the creatures to
reach. On them you set boys, easy targets for such predators. They come, take what they need, leave without trace."
"If what you say is true, then why are not all the boys affected?"
A shrewd question, Barog was no fool.
"I said they were few," reminded Dumarest. "Perhaps they maintain a territorial area, perhaps each boy provides
food for more than one. Frankly, I don't know. But I can guess what happens. The boys are lone, afraid, each a prey to
his own fears and imagination. And then the Kheld draw near. I have heard the sound. It numbs, clogs the brain—and
I am a grown man. A boy would be terrified. Perhaps the very emotion induced by the Kheld is what they feed on.
That, or some form of nervous energy—again I am not sure. But there is a way to find out."
"And that is?"
"You are all grown men. Prove it."
Usdon sucked in his breath, quick to understand.
"Prove it," snapped Dumarest. "Do what you demand children do. Undertake the ordeal." His finger rose to point
at Aryan. "You!" At Croft. "You!" At the others, one after the other. "Prove that you are men—if you dare!"

***

Eidhal was a boy again, a child who clung to the summit of his pinnacle and tried to forget all the rumors and
inflated tales, the fears, the memories of those who had undertaken the ordeal and had not returned. A young lad,
alone and frightened, as he watched the wheeling of the stars, heard the soft sough of the wind as it rose from the
valley.
An illusion, he was not a child and he was not alone. Aryan sat on the finger of stone to his right, Croft beyond,
Dumarest to his left. Two other volunteers from the guards further down, Usdon beyond them.
A bad place but he had insisted, insisted too that there be seven of them, the smallest number to undertake the
initiation. The others of the Council were admitted to be too old. Barog would never have managed the climb,
Vestaler had been overruled.
A scrabble and Eidhal kicked, a multi-legged body falling to the ground. Trust the ilden to scent prey. A nuisance
more than anything else, but a sting could burn, cause a hand to slip, a body to fall. Below, the codors would be
waiting.
He relaxed, forcing himself to ease an inner tension. There was nothing to worry about. He had done this before
and remained unscathed. True, four others of his batch had failed and another had turned into a ghost, but that had
been years ago. Yet, they had been as strong as he. Had he survived only because of the luck of the draw, as
Dumarest had suggested? One of those who had not been attacked by the mysterious Kheld? Would he have survived
if he had?
Odo, he had been strong too, a virile lad with a zest for life, quick at games, the delight of his mother, the pride of
Chart. He had died a year later, slow to lift his spear, wanting to find a clean end, perhaps. Lyd also had not lasted
long. She had mourned her husband and then had gone to walk among the predators which had taken him. Eidhal
had followed her, too late. She had died in his arms, his only sister—why was life so unfair?
He stiffened as he heard a faint sound. The wind? It was possible. The soft breeze could play tricks with a
straining ear. He listened again, concentrating, hearing a thin, high cluttering which died as soon as it registered. A
familiar sound, one he had forgotten, his skin prickling as he recalled the past. Even then he had not been sure,
dismissing it as a figment of imagination, remembering the advice he had been given.
 "Remain calm, keep your head, be resolute." Advice he had passed on.
A puff of wind and again the weird, eerie sound, this time accompanied by another. The soft impact of climbing
boots, the rasp of a human breath.
"Varg—can you hear it?"
Dumarest, clinging to the stone, looking upwards, his face dim in the starlight.
"I'm not sure. I—"
"Come down. Quietly. You can handle the predators?"
"Yes." Glad of action Eidhal climbed down the high pinnacle, stood at Dumarest's side. "What is it?"
"Over there. Where Croft is. Don't make a noise."
He moved to the right, soundless, Eidhal like a shadow at his side. He had expected the ground to be thick with
codors, but none were in evidence. A chitinous body crushed beneath his foot, proof of their stealth. The things were
normally wary.
"Listen!"
Dumarest had halted, looking upwards to where Croft sat perched on his finger of stone. The man was visible
only as a blur against the stars. A blur which moved as the air filled with a faint stridulation, a chittering which grew
stronger, lowered, seemed to hover over the dim shape, to engulf it.
Croft moaned. It was a sound barely louder than a sigh. A release of breath from constricted lungs, a prolonged
exhalation. The chittering increased in volume and then, abruptly, stilled.
"God!" Eidhal felt his stomach contract, his skin crawl as he looked upwards. "What the hell's happening?"
On the pinnacle, something was feeding. It was diaphanous, a thing of gauzy membranes which caught the
starlight and reflected it in wispy shimmers. A web of near-invisible filaments which could ride the wind, falling as it
condensed, rising as it extended. A web which was formed of a diffused kind of life, alien to human experience.
"Croft! We must—"
"No!" Dumarest held the man fast. There was nothing they could do—and a point had to be proven. "He's gone,"
he said. "It's already too late. If he doesn't fall and kill himself, he'll be a ghost."

Chapter Fourteen
"Croft." Vestaler shook his head, conscious of his guilt, his relief that it had not been Usdon. Wine stood on the
table and he poured himself a measure, sipping, his eyes thoughtful as he stared over the rim of the goblet. "Why?" he
demanded. "Why Croft?"
"He was afraid," said Dumarest. "His own fear killed him."
His own terror, the sweat of fear perhaps, attracting the Kheld to its scent. Usdon's face darkened as he
remembered what he had seen. It had been a mercy the man had fallen, crushing his skull as he landed, to lie helpless
for the predators.
They had been denied their prey. The body was taken, buried now with all honors. A ceremony Croft had
deserved. By his death, he had saved the lives of others. No longer would the ordeal be held in the high places. The
initiation would be changed, young lives saved, the uneasy presence of the ghosts eliminated for all time.
Usdon poured wine, handed Dumarest a goblet, lifted his own in salute.
"For what you have done, we thank you," he said with formal courtesy. "May your life among us be long and
pleasant."
The next barrier was to be surmounted. He and Iduna were safe, but still confined to the valley. A problem to be
solved, but Dumarest said nothing as he returned the salute.
The wine was strong, rich with flavor, comforting to his stomach and easing his fatigue. The journey, the vigil, the
return—and his full strength had yet to return.
"How did you know?" asked Vestaler. "Did Leon tell you?"
"No, he betrayed none of your secrets. But what must have happened was obvious. He was curious and must
have sneaked close to the high places to watch the ordeal. He saw something, or heard something, and it frightened
him. He wore the yellow to gain time and, when it ran out, he could do nothing but run." Dumarest lowered the
empty goblet. "In his way, he was very brave."
"You liked him," said Usdon with sudden understanding. "He reminded you of someone, perhaps."
Of himself when young, traveling, working, moving on. A little bewildered and unsure, a stranger in a constantly
changing world. But Leon had lacked the one thing Dumarest possessed, the luck which had enabled him to survive.
There, but for the grace of God, went I! A sobering thought.
"What I can't understand is how you managed to escape the Kheld the first time you experienced them," said
Vestaler. "When you were on your journey."
"There were four of us," said Dumarest. "We were close. Chaque and I were awake and able to give each other
strength. And I have met odd life forms before."
"And you are not prone to fear," said Usdon. "Your courage saved the others."
"Perhaps." Dumarest helped himself to more wine. "But I think Jalch saved us. He was dreaming, experiencing a
nightmare, and he woke. Perhaps his thoughts, his hate—who can tell?"
"Yet you went to the high places knowing what could happen. The act of a brave man." Again, Usdon lifted his
goblet in salute. "You and your woman will breed fine children. They, in turn, will add to the strength of others."
"She is not my woman."
"Not of the Original People?" Usdon frowned, then shrugged. "It is not important. She can be indoctrinated into
the mysteries, taught the things we know, the past which has to be remembered. It is unusual, but it can be done. We
owe you that and more."
There would be a house and a position, rank which would gain in stature as the years passed. There would be
work to engage his hands and mind, boys to train, men to teach. He would tell them stories of other worlds and
expand their horizons, far beyond that of the valley. Given time he could change their ways, introduce machines,
encourage trade. Give them life.
Already they were too inbred, young faces bearing a similar stamp, lines of weakness lying close beneath the
surface. Fresh blood would revitalize them, his own and that of others. The mountains could hold minerals and gems,
the predators could provide skins and furs. Even the Kheld could be snared and sold to zoos. A worthy task for any
man and here, maybe, he would come as close as he ever would to home. To Earth.
A temptation. A snare loaded with enticing bait; authority, respect, security, the power to manipulate lives, to
guide the destiny of a people. Iduna.

***

She entered the chamber as if at a signal, coming directly towards him, her hands extended, features radiating
pleasure.
"Earl! I've been so worried! Thank God you're alive and well!"
"And you?"
"They kept me within a house. There was a loom and some of the women tried to teach me how to use it Earl, it's
not for me."
He said, flatly, "They say that we have to stay here. You will have to weave, bake bread, make pots, do what the
other women do. Mate with me," he added. "Bear my children."
"Earl!"
"Does the prospect horrify you?"
"No, why should it?" Her eyes were candid as they met his own. "If we have to, then we must."
"Your body against mine," he said deliberately. "Hot as we mate, your womb filled with child, growing, swelling,
later to feed the new life. And not just once, Iduna, but many times. We shall eat together, sleep together. Your body
will provide my pleasure, my hands—" He broke off, eyes narrowed, searching. "You do not object?"
"No." She swallowed, then managed to smile. "Of course not. You are a fine man, Earl. No woman could ask for
better. We can be happy here, you and I. The valley is a nice place, the people kind. When—"
"Now! Today!"
"You mean that tonight—?" Again, she swallowed. "But why the hurry? Earl, you must give me a little time, a few
days at least. My brother—I can't forget Jalch so soon."
"He was your brother, Iduna, not your husband. I shall be that."
"Yes, Earl, of course. Even so, I need a little time." Her laugh was strained. "You don't understand. I—you will be
the first. Please, Earl! Please!"
She sagged as he nodded, her relief obvious. As she left Dumarest said, dryly, "As I told you, she is not my
woman."
"But she will obey." Vestaler had watched from where he stood against a wall. "She must obey. There is no
alternative."
"I disagree," said Dumarest quietly. "We could always leave."
"That is impossible. No one can leave the valley!"
"No?" Dumarest looked from one to the other, from Usdon to Vestaler. "Like Zafra, you lie. Men left the valley to
go searching for Leon. He saw them and they frightened him. That's why he took passage on the first vessel he could
find."
 "He—"
"Ran," interrupted Dumarest. "We know why, but he did not leave empty handed. He took three things with him.
A map which he had to have in order to find his way from the mountains. Something of value which he could sell in
order to obtain passage money—what was it?"
"An ancient seal," said Usdon bitterly. "Made of precious metal and gems. It has been with us since the
beginning."
"And the photograph," said Vestaler. "The one you brought with you. It is of no importance."
Dumarest said, quietly, "I wasn't counting the photograph. There was something of far higher value. A safeguard
in case he should be caught. With it, he could bargain for his life."
"The Eye!" Usdon turned to Vestaler. "Master, he is talking of the Eye of the Past!"
He knew! He had to know. For a moment relief made Vestaler giddy, so that he had to clutch at the table for
support. The brooding, the regret was over. Now, at last, he could sleep easily at night instead of spending endless
hours in self-recrimination. He should have known, suspected. But how to even imagine the possibility of such an
event?
For a boy to act so! The very concept was incredible.
He said, fighting to control the tenor of his voice, "You know? He told you?" And then, as Dumarest remained
silent, he shouted, "If you know where it is, man, tell us! I beg you!"
"I will," said Dumarest. "The moment I reach the town."

***

The price—always there seemed to be a price. First, his life and that of the woman. Now, the demand to leave the
valley, to travel safely under escort to the city. To be taken to the field where ships landed and departed for other
worlds.
A danger. A thing contrary to the rule—yet how could he refuse?
Vestaler felt that his world had overturned, conscious that he dealt with a man accustomed to things beyond his
experience. One who had early learned to take advantage of every chance life had to offer, to gain any edge in order
to survive.
"The Eye, Phal," urged Usdon. "The Eye of the Past."
The most sacred object they possessed. One which had been stolen and now, by an incredible series of events,
could be regained.
If Leon hadn't met Dumarest. If he hadn't died. If Dumarest himself had died in the crash, or in the mountains—
surely fate had guided him.
Or—had he lied? It was possible. Vestaler strained his mind, trying to remember if he had given any clue, any
hint which could have been caught, inflated and bounced back as a boy would bounce a ball against a wall. The
photograph? Three things, Dumarest had said. Had the photograph been originally one of them, the story changed as
he dismissed its importance? Had Usdon spoken too quickly? Provided the essential clue?
Vestaler groped for the wine, filled a goblet with trembling hands, wine spilling as he lifted it to his mouth and
gulped it down. How to be sure?
"The Eye, have you seen it?"
Dumarest remained silent.
"How large is it, then?" Usdon was more devious. "You can see that we need proof of what you say."
"It isn't very large—and you need no proof. I will deliver it once I reach the town."
So it was on Shajok! Again Vestaler reached for the wine, halting his hand as it touched the jug. Now was the time
for a clear head, and he regretted what he had already taken.
"So it is in the town," he said. "You could tell us where it is and, when we have recovered it, you will be free to
leave."
"No."
"You doubt my word?"
"It's my life," said Dumarest harshly. "Too many accidents could happen on the journey. We do it my way, or not
at all."
An impasse, but Usdon had a suggestion. "The woman, are you willing to leave her behind?"
"To join me later? Yes."
A possible way out, yet would Dumarest really care if she joined him at all? A chance they had to take, and there
would be armed men accompanying him with firm instructions to kill if he should attempt to elude them, or fail to do
as he promised.
 "Very well," said Vestaler. "Let us make the arrangements."
Iduna glanced at them as they left the house. She stood several yards away, facing the end of the valley away
from the mountains.
She stiffened as Dumarest touched her.
"Earl! You promised—"
"To leave you alone and I shall. I'll be leaving soon. You will follow in a few days."
"Leaving? No, Earl, you can't! You mustn't leave me here alone!"
"You'll be safe, Iduna." His voice hardened at her expression. "There's no help for it. It has to be this way."
"You could wait another few days."
"Wait for what?"
"For—" Her eyes moved from his face, focused on the sky, grew alight at what she saw. "For that, Earl. For that!"
A raft which dropped quickly to the ground, to settle close. A raft which held two figures dressed in flaming
scarlet, one holding a laser, both adorned with the great seal of the Cyclan.

Chapter Fifteen
Hsi dominated the Council chamber. He stood like a living flame at the end of the table, the acolyte at his side.
The cyber's voice was a careful modulation, only the words held an implacable threat.
"I have a device buried within my body. Should my heart cease to beat a signal will be sent and received by those
to whom I belong. They will know when and where I died. If it is in this valley, then total destruction will follow.
Every man, woman and child, every plant, every animal will be burned to ash."
"You wouldn't dare," said Vestaler. "You haven't the power."
"It would be a mistake for you to think that," said Hsi evenly. "I have no concern for you in this valley—once I
depart you may continue your life as before. My only interest lies in Earl Dumarest."
And he had him, finally caught, unable to run, prevented from killing by his concern for others. A weakness which
no cyber would be guilty of. Hsi felt the warm satisfaction of mental achievement, the only real pleasure he could
know.
"You followed me."
"Of course, Once you had been located on Tradum, your capture was inevitable. Did you really think you could
continue to elude the Cyclan?"
"The boy," said Dumarest. "You found him."
"A simple prediction. He was an innocent, a dreamer who tried to get close to you by the use of a name. Nerth—
there is no such place, but the name was close enough to another to arouse your interest. He must have picked up a
rumor, or overheard you talking, the details are unimportant. The drug sold you by the apothecary was useless. A
harmless sedative. Your use of the raft to gain access to the field was ingenious."
Dumarest said, dryly, "I was in a hurry."
"With reason. You would have been caught within the hour. As it was, Captain Shwarb knew what to do."
Bribed, as every other captain had been bribed.
"You told the boy what ship I was on," said Dumarest harshly. "He came aboard after I did. And you paid Dinok
and the engineer to lie about his planet of origin. Leon had to be killed, of course—you red swine!"
"He was expendable."
"You sent me to Shajok," said Dumarest bitterly. "Offered me a bait I couldn't refuse. I should have guessed."
"Every man has a weakness," said Hsi. "And no man can have the kind of luck forever which has saved you so
often. The accident of chance and circumstance which, coupled with your quick thinking, has enabled you to escape
the Cyclan until now."
"Why did you wait so long. You know where I was headed. You could have had a reception committee waiting at
the field."
"Time was against us. Ships few and far between. And precautions were taken."
"Yes," said Dumarest. He looked at the woman. "What did they promise you, Iduna?"
"Earl?"
"At first I suspected Chaque. Your brother was too obvious and the Cyclan are never that. Chaque was a last-
minute replacement. Then, when he was dying, he tried to tell me something about you. What happened? Did he see
you using a radio in your tent one night? Spot something else when he was watching you undress? Threaten to betray
you unless you saw things his way?"
"I don't understand." She looked at him, puzzled. "Earl, what are you saying? We were to be married. You know I
wanted to be with you. You know that I love you."
"Like hell you do!"
She cried out as his knife flashed, cut, the material of her blouse falling apart to reveal high, full breasts held and
molded by delicate fabric. He cut again and drew the severed band from around her waist. A thin belt, barely an inch
wide. Metal showed at the cut ends.
"A signal beacon." Dumarest threw it to one side. "You knew help would be coming. That's why you insisted on
waiting. But you're a bad actress, Iduna. You can't pretend what you don't feel. And you can't mask what you do feel.
That's what made me certain."
Her recoiling when he had touched her, her expression when he had described their future, the deliberate crudity
and detailed anticipation.
"And Chaque?"
"He was an animal," she snapped. "He wanted to use me."
"And you suffered him. You had no choice. Why, Iduna? Did the Cyclan promise to heal your brother? Was Jalch
that important to you?"
"He was insane! A fool!"
A man who, incredibly, had been right, but Dumarest didn't mention that. Nor the kiss she had given him, the
proof that she sometimes could act.
"What then?" he urged. "To give you the body of a man?" He caught the betraying flicker of her eyes. "So that
was it. To rid you of the female flesh you wear. The body you hate. A pity, you could be beautiful."
"Beautiful!" She almost spat, her face ugly, distorted by anger. "A thing to be used by men for their own, selfish
pleasure. God, why was I born a woman? I can do anything a man can do, and do it better than most. Yet because I
have this—" her hands touched her naked body, "I am considered to be an amusing novelty. A toy. Can you guess
what it is like to hate what you are? I would do anything, anything to be a man."
She was insane, he realized, like her brother obsessed. Yet, where he had been proven right she was demonstrably
wrong. Her conviction of inferiority was a product of the paranoia which had turned her into a sexual cripple.
He said, cruelly, "Are you so sure they can deliver what they promised?"
"What?" Iduna glanced to where the cyber stood, tall, impassive, the acolyte watchful at his side. "They must!
They will!"
"Why should they? Yon heard what Hsi said about Leon, the boy was expendable. And, now, so are you. You've
done your job, guided him to me. From now on, you are unnecessary."
His voice was a hammer beating at the weak fabric of her mind, feeding the paranoia she shared with Jalch.
"Can't you see they have used you? Promised more than they can deliver? Played on your weakness? You will
never be a man, Iduna. The life you hoped for is a dream."
"No!"
"Tell her, Hsi. Be honest. A cyber has no need to lie. You can't do what she wants and you know it. Tell her!"
Hsi said, evenly, "The thing can be done given time. You know that."
"Time?" Iduna faced him, taking a step forward, madness in her eyes. An animal poised and tense, ready to
spring, to tear and kill. "You lied," she said thickly. "Damn you—you lied!"
"Ega!"
The acolyte fired as she sprang, the beam of the laser hitting her between the eyes, searing a hole through skin,
flesh and bone into the brain beneath. One shot and then the acolyte was falling too, equally dead, the hilt of
Dumarest's thrown knife a red-rimmed protrusion in the socket of an eye.
"Earl! No!"
Dumarest ignored Usdon's shout. As the blade left his hand he sprang, hand lifted, stiffened, falling to slam
against the cyber's temple. As the man slumped he tore at the wide sleeves of the robe, ripped free the laser he had
known would be there.
"You've killed him!" Vestaler stared his horror, shocked by the sudden death which had entered the chamber. "The
valley!"
"He isn't dead. Now fetch Odo and hurry!"

***

Hsi stirred, sitting upright on the table on which he had fallen. The blow had barely stunned, and he felt no pain
from the bruised flesh. For a moment he remained silent, looking at the two dead figures, at Dumarest now alone in
the chamber.
"That was unnecessary," he said. "You would not have been harmed."
 "No?"
"Your life is important to us, as you must know."
"My life, yes," admitted Dumarest. "But your definition of harm and mine are not the same. You could have
burned my legs, my arms. Because my brain would remain undamaged, to you there would have been no harm. My
brain and the knowledge it contains."
"Knowledge we must have. It is ours, stolen from the Cyclan. The affinity twin was developed in our laboratory."
"Old history," said Dumarest. "Possession, now, is all that counts. I have it and you do not. That makes me the
master."
"A fool. Give us the correct sequence of the fifteen units and you will be rewarded. That I promise."
"Money, a place in which to live, luxury, good food, men to obey me, security—for how long? No, Hsi. We both
know that I remain alive only because you need me. Once you have the secret, I will follow others. Derai," said
Dumarest bitterly. "Kalin, Lallia—I have reason to hate the Cyclan."
Hate, an emotion unknown to the cyber as were all others. Love, fear, pity, greed, ambition, hope—all things
which weakened lesser men.
"Mistakes have been made," admitted Hsi. "You were an unknown factor incorrectly assessed. Those who failed
have paid the penalty. But I shall not fail. I have you and you cannot escape."
"No?"
"You cannot kill me, your concern for the inhabitants of this valley prevents you. You cannot escape—my raft will
respond only to my personal control. You could cripple me, but what will that serve? No, Dumarest, for you this is the
end. The very people you protect will hold you prisoner in order to save their lives. Logic, surely, dictates that you
accept the inevitable."
The summation of known facts which, to the cyber, led to only one conclusion. Dumarest would not kill, he could
not run, he could only wait. Soon now he would be held in a secret laboratory, his brain probed, the essential
sequence of the units discovered.
"Logic," said Dumarest. "The cold calculations of a mechanical mind. Well, perhaps you are right. We shall see."
He moved down the chamber, turning, fumbling beneath his tunic, fingers busy at his belt. When he turned, he
held something in his hand. A small metal tube, the walls thick, strong.
"The affinity twin," he said. "You wanted it—yon may have it."
"The sequence—"
"Is something else." Dumarest raised his voice. "Odo?"
He stumbled as he entered the chamber, Vestaler at his side, Usdon at his rear. Catching his balance to stand, he
was drooling, eyes blank as he looked at the dead.
"Odo want," he mumbled. "Give Odo something nice."
Dried fruits which he stuffed into his mouth to stand chewing, spittle dribbling over his chin. Vestaler was uneasy.
"Earl, what do you intend to do? If you kill the cyber, we shall all die. If you do not—"
"He could have lied," said Usdon. "Did he?"
"No."
"Then, if he dies, we shall all be destroyed?"
"Yes."
"So it is in your interest that I be kept alive," said Hsi evenly. "More, that I be obeyed. Dumarest must be held fast,
firmly bound and guarded. You will do that. He will be placed in my raft, together with men to watch him." He rose
from where he sat at the end of the table. "I shall leave immediately."
Usdon glanced at Vestaler. "Master?"
"We have no choice," said Vestaler bitterly. "I am sorry, Earl, but we have to do as the cyber says."
Do as he had predicted, but the achievement was minor, the mental pleasure small.
Dumarest said, "Wait. There is another way."
"The valley—"
"Will not be harmed. That I promise." The metal tube parted in his hands, revealed two small syringes, one tipped
with red, the other green. "Red," he said, showing it to Hsi. "The submissive half of the affinity twin."
"So?"
"You wanted it—here it is!"
Dumarest moved with a sudden release of energy, crossing the distance between them before the other realized
what he intended, the cyber's hand lifting, touching the syringe now buried in his neck.
"No! You—"
"Have solved the problem," said Dumarest harshly. "Think about it, cyber—if you can!"
If the man could still think at all. His intelligence was trapped by the biological unit now nestling at the base of
his cortex, totally divorced from the control of his body, the machinery of his mind. Aware, perhaps, as if in a dream.
Lost in a timeless limbo.
"He isn't dead," said Dumarest as the others moved towards him. "Think of him as a cup waiting to be filled." He
moved again, this time towards Odo, the green syringe plunging into the idiot's flesh. A moment and it was done.
"Odo!" Vestaler looked at him, the limp body supported by Dumarest's arms. "I don't understand," he said blankly.
"What has happened?"
"Odo is asleep," said Dumarest. "You must take good care of him. He can be fed, washed and kept warm, but he
can do nothing for himself." He lowered the heavy body to the ground.
"And the cyber?"
Hsi looked at his hands. He turned them, peering, mouth open, slack in the skull-like contours of his face. His
eyes were empty, vacuous, the blank windows of a deserted house. From his lips came a thin drone.
"Odo wants… give Odo… Odo good…"
The intelligence of the idiot now dominant in the body of the cyber. The transfer of ego which was the magic of
the affinity twin. Dumarest handed him a scrap of dried fruit.
"What happened?" Usdon was baffled. "I saw—what happened?"
"They changed," said Vestaler. "The cyber became Odo. Is Odo. Earl!"
Dumarest caught the note of fear, recognized its cause.
"You have nothing to worry about," he said. "Hsi's body is alive and well. No signal will be sent and no retribution
turned against you. I'll take him with me when I leave in his raft. The body of the acolyte will be dumped in the
wilderness."
Dumped, but his robe retained. Wearing it Dumarest would accompany the apparent cyber to the city, take
passage on a vessel, leave the pathetic creature on some far world. He would be found, taken care of—the Cyclan
looked after its own.
But before that happened Dumarest would have vanished, moved on, losing himself in the infinity of space.
Vestaler said, dully, "And the Eye? The Eye of the Past? I suppose all you said about that was just a lie in order to
escape."
"No," said Dumarest. "It wasn't wholly a lie."

***

He had left the idol in his room, going to fetch it, returning with it in his hand to the Alphanian Chamber where
the others waited. For a long moment Dumarest looked at the designs, the scraps of various materials in the cases,
the books. Then he faced the others where they stood before the altar, the idol in his hand.
"Leon carried this," he explained. "A hobby, perhaps, but I never saw him work on it. The material is the same as
was used by the woman potter for whom he worked in the city. A convenient substance to cover something he might
have wanted to hide. Something he could have stolen."
"The Eye?" Vestaler's hand trembled as he touched the crude depiction. "In there?"
For answer Dumarest lifted it, smashed it hard against the stone floor. It shattered, lumps splitting apart,
fragments flying, a heap of granules dull in the yellow light. Among them, something gleamed.
"The Eye!" Vestaler's voice was a shout of joy. "The Eye of the Past!"
It was small, round, a lens of crystal filled with a blur of formless designs, flecks of color blended in wild
profusion. Vestaler snatched it up, wiped it clean, tears of thankfulness running over his withered cheeks.
The Eye returned! Once again in its rightful place! The impossible achieved! His mind swam with a giddy relief.
"What is it?" said Dumarest. "What is it for?"
The man had a right to know—without him the ache would still exist, the hurt remain. Fate must have directed
him, the ancient ones striving in their immutable fashion, How else to explain it?
Usdon said, quietly, "Phal, he has earned the right."
The initiation, the safety of the valley—yes, he had earned the right. More than earned it, yet tradition must be
maintained.
Vestaler said, formally. "Usdon, do you propose that Earl Dumarest be shown the inner mysteries?"
"Master, I do."
"And you, Earl Dumarest, soon to leave us, do you swear that never, ever, will you betray to others what you are
about to see?"
"I swear."
"You are with us, if not of us. We of the Original People accept you. Now come with me, watch and be humble."
Vestaler turned and approached the enigmatic machine set in the floor beneath the dome. He stooped over it as
Usdon moved softly about the chamber, extinguishing the lanterns. When only one remained at the far end of the
chamber, he came to stand beside Dumarest.
"Now," said Vestaler. "Witness the glories now lost to us. The past we must remember."
He touched something and, suddenly, light and color filled the dome.
A pattern.
A scene.
A part of ancient Earth.
Dumarest knew it, felt it, sensed that it could be nothing else. It was all around him, streaming from the machine,
light directed through the Eye, the lens which held holographic images.
A park, neatly cropped grass, trees, birds which hung like jeweled fabrications. In the foreground, a soaring
monument of weathered stone. An obelisk with a pointed tip.
A blur, another scene. A bridge which seemed to float above a river, strands like those of a spider's web. In the
water, the shapes of assorted vessels.
The faces of solemn giants carved on the side of a mountain.
A vast canyon.
A great waterfall.
Oceans, ice, deserts, endless fields of ripening grain. Massive pyramids, cities which stretched to the horizon,
soaring buildings which reached for the sky.
Scene after scene, each filling the dome, all building to a culmination of awesome majesty.
One planet to have held so much!
Earth!
But not the world Dumarest had known. Here were no signs of dreadful scars, the arid bleakness he had known
as a boy. No gaping sores—this was a world at peace, bursting with energy and life, a planet in its prime.
He blinked as the scenes ended, darkness closing in, momentarily disoriented.
"The things we must remember," whispered Vestaler. "Our ancient heritage, lost to us because of heinous ways.
One day, when we are cleansed, it will be ours again."
Dumarest turned to move away, felt Usdon's grip on his arm.
"Wait. There is more."
A flicker and the dome shone with stars. Blazing points overlaid with names and numbers—Sirus 8.7, Procyon
11.4, Altair 16.5, Epsilon Indi 11.3, Alpha Centauri 4.3…
Signposts in the sky! Dumarest stared at them, impressing the data on his memory. Names and numbers which
had to be distances. A relationship could be established by a computer, the common center determined, the modern
coordinates found.
"Earl?" Usdon was beside him, his voice anxious. "Your face—is anything wrong."
Dumarest drew a deep breath. The raft was waiting, soon he would be on his way. Now, it would be only a matter
of time before his search was over.
"No," be said. "Nothing is wrong."

JACK OF SWORDS

Chapter One
At sunset the sky of Teralde was painted with vibrant swaths of brilliant color; minute crystals of air-borne dust
refracting the light so that the entire bowl of the firmament looked as if some cosmic artist had spilled his palette in a
profusion of inspired genius. An eye-catching spectacle but one which, for Dumarest, had long ceased to hold charm.
He walked through the streets gilded with dying light, past tall houses fashioned of stone, the windows small, the
doors thick and tightly barred. Even the shops were like small fortresses, their wares jealously guarded, reluctantly
displayed. The field, as usual, was empty, the barren dirt devoid of the weight of a single vessel. The gate set into the
perimeter fence was unmanned, a sure sign that no ship was expected.
"Nothing." The agent, a Hausi, leaned back in his chair. His ebony face, scarred with the caste marks of his guild,
was bland. "Ships will arrive eventually, of course, but Teralde is not a commercial world. Only when the beasts have
been processed and shipments are available will the traders come. Until then all we can hope for is some tourists."
 Luxury vessels carrying jaded dilettantes, the rich and curious with money to burn and time to waste. But
Dumarest had no time—unless a ship arrived soon he would be stranded.
He said, "I need work."
"Work?" The Hausi shrugged. "My friend, on Teralde the desire is not enough. You need to own special skills.
Your profession?"
"I can do most things which need to be done."
"Of course. Do I reveal doubt?" Yethan Ctonat selected a comfit from an ornamented box and crushed the
candied morsel between strong teeth. "But, you understand, I represent my guild. To place a man who cannot
perform the skills he claims to own would reflect on my reputation. And demand is small. Are you a master of
genetic manipulation? A physician? A veterinarian? I tell you frankly, we have no need of gamblers."
"Do I look a gambler?"
"A man who travels is always that," said the agent smoothly. 'To drift from world to world, never certain of what
he will find, what else can such a man be? Especially if he travels Low. The fifteen-percent death rate is a risk none
but a gambler would take. And you have traveled Low, have you not?"
To often, riding doped, frozen, and ninety percent dead in caskets designed for the transportation of animals.
Cheap travel—all that could be said for it.
"I will not deceive you," said Yethan Ctonat. "As you must have discovered, there is no hope of normal
employment on this world. You work for the Owners or for those they tolerate or you do not work at all. And for
every vacancy there is a host of applicants." He added, casually, "For a man like you there is only one way to survive
on Teralde."
Dumarest was curt. "To fight?"
"You have guessed it. Blood has a universal appeal. If you are interested—" The agent broke off, reaching for
another comfit. "It's all I can offer."
And all Dumarest had expected, but the attempt had had to be made. The colors in the sky were fading as he
walked through the city and toward the wilderness at the edge of which sprawled the slums. Lowtowns were always
the same and in his time he had seen too many of them. Sometimes they were huddles of shacks, tents, and shelters
crudely fashioned from whatever materials were at hand; at others as on Teralde, they were simple boxes built of
stone and set in neat array. But shacks or buildings the atmosphere was identical.
A miasma compounded of despair and poverty, the reek of a world which held no pride, no hope, nothing but the
bleak concentration of the moment, the need to survive yet one more day, one more hour. The refuge of those
without work or money. Had they been slaves they would have been fed and clothed, a responsibility to their owners.
As it was they formed a pool of cheap labor which cost nothing, the only expense being the warren in which they
lived and bred and died.
"Earl!" A man came running toward Dumarest as he entered one of the buildings. "Earl, have you decided?"
Cran Elem was small, thin, his cheeks sunken, the bones prominent. Beneath the rags he wore his wasted flesh
and bone gave him the fragility of a child.
Dumarest made no answer, climbing the stairs to the flat roof there to stand and look at the sky. Dusk was
thickening and would soon yield to night, the darkness heralded by the glitter of early stars.
Stars like the eyes he had seen too often in the shadows surrounding a ring. The avid, hungry eyes of those eager
for the sight of blood and pain. Their coldness was the chill of naked steel, their gleam that of razored edge and
point. To fight, to kill and maim, to win the price of a meal so as to live to fight again. He had done it before and
would again if all else failed, but there could be a better way.
To Cran he said, "Assemble and warn the men. We leave in an hour."

***

The storm broke at midnight with a sudden flurry of lightning followed by thunder and a driving rain. Crouched
beneath the fronds of stunted vegetation Dumarest felt its impact on his head, the deluge filling his mouth and
nostrils so that he had to bend his face in order to breathe. On all sides the gritty soil turned into an oozing, alluvial
mud.
"Earl!" From the darkness Cran edged close, his voice strained, echoing his despair. "Earl! It's a bust!"
"Wait!"
"It's useless. We tried but this is hopeless. We'd best get back to town."
A flash illuminated him, thunder crashing as Dumarest reached out and caught an arm. Beneath his fingers he
could feel the stringy muscle, the stick of bone. In his grip the man was helpless.
"Wait," he said again. "This storm could help us."
 "Help?" Cran almost sobbed in his disappointment. "With mud up to our ankles and rain in our eyes? The storm
will have unsettled the beasts and they're bad enough at the best of times." His voice rose to the edge of hysteria. "I
thought we'd have a chance but the luck is against us. Damn the luck. Damn it all to hell!"
He cried out as Dumarest's hand slapped his cheek.
"Earl!"
"Control yourself." Dumarest freed the arm. "Get the others."
"You're going back?"
"Just do as I say."
They came like ghosts, revealed in stark detail by the intermittent flashes, the dirt which had stained faces and
hands gone now, washed away by the rain. Like Cran they wore rags, torn and discarded garments salvaged from
garbage, broken shoes and naked feet wrapped in layers of rotting cloth. Their hair, plastered close, accentuated their
skull-like appearance. Starving men who would be dead soon unless they obtained food.
Among them Dumarest looked solid, reassuring, his clothing scuffed but whole, the gray plastic of tunic, pants
and boots gleaming with a wet slickness.
He said, "Cran, how far to the compound?"
"A mile, maybe less, but—"
"This storm will help us. The guards will remain in shelter and the lightning will be blamed for anything affecting
the electronic system. The animals will be together and easy to take. Before dawn you'll all have bellies full of meat."
"Or be dead," said a man bleakly.
"Today, tomorrow, what's the difference?" said another. "I'm willing to take a chance if Earl will lead us."
"I'll lead you," said Dumarest. "And there'll be no quitting. If any man tries to leave I'll cut him down.
Understand?" He paused as thunder rolled and, as it faded, said, "We've no choice and the storm will make it easy.
Just keep down and merge with the ground. Freeze if a light shines your way. Work as a unit and we can't go wrong."
Words to stiffen their resolve, but a man had a question.
"When we reach the compound who goes in?"
"I will," said Dumarest. "Ready? Let's get on with it."
Cran led the way and Dumarest followed him close as they left the poor shelter. It was too early to move—later
the rain would ease a little, but waiting would rob the others of enthusiasm. What had to be done must be done fast
and they had to be gone long before dawn.
A blur of light and the compound came into sight. The rain lashed against the mesh of the high fence and the
lights ringing it, spraying and misting the installation so as to give it the insubstantial quality of a dream. A dream
shattered by the sudden, snarling roar of a beast as it slammed itself against the fence.
From a tower a searchlight threw a cone of brilliance, the beam tracing a path over milling shapes, settling on the
fence, dying as, satisfied, the guard killed the illumination.
Without hesitation Dumarest led the way to within feet of the mesh well away from the tower. At his orders men
vanished like ghosts into the rain to take up positions at either side. At intervals they would jar the mesh to create a
distraction.
"Cran!"
From within his clothing the man produced wire and a set of cutters. Quickly he hooked up a jumper-circuit, and
resting the cutters on the mesh, glanced at Dumarest.
"Now?"
"Wait until the next flash."
It came with a livid coruscation, closer than before, dirt pluming as electronic energy tore at the ground. As
thunder rolled the mesh parted in a narrow slit through which Dumarest thrust himself. Speed now was all-important
and as the searchlight stabbed to one side where a man had jarred the fence he dived toward the nearest animal.
It was as large as a horse, horned, the hooves like razors, the tail ending in a club of bone. A chelach, its eyes
small, set deep in ringed projections of bone; the mouth, open, showed teeth as sharp as chisels. A beast disturbed by
the storm and bristling with anger. For a second it watched and then, as Dumarest moved closer, it charged.
Its size belied its speed. An engine of bone and muscle weighing half a ton, it jerked from a standstill to the speed
of a running man in a numbing explosion of energy. Fast as it was Dumarest was faster. He sprang aside, his arm
lifting as it drew level, the knife he had lifted from his boot rising, stabbing, the edge slicing at the arteries of the
throat as he dragged it clear.
Blood fountained to splash on the ground, his body; carmine smears washed away by the rain but leaving its
sickly scent to hang on the air. As the beast halted close to the fence he struck again, the point driving deep between
the ribs, the hilt jarring against the hide as the blade dug into the heart.
"Earl!" Cran stared, incredulous. "How—I've never seen a man move as fast."
 "The rope. Quick!"
It came toward him like a snake, a thing of carefully woven strands of salvaged wire. Looping it over the head
Dumarest ran back toward the fence and, with the aid of others, hauled the carcass toward the gap. The rain helped
as he had known it would, the mud acting like an oil. He snarled with impatience as the animal jammed, and setting
his feet deep in the slime, threw the strength of back and shoulders against the wire. It grew taut, hummed like a
plucked string, stretched a little but held. With a sudden rush the mass passed through the opening and within
seconds was clear.
"Keep pulling," snapped Dumarest. "Hurry!"
They needed no urging, panting as they struggled against the weight, freezing as the beam of the searchlight
swept toward them. It touched the upper part of the torn fence, hesitated, then turned away as one of the men,
recognizing the danger, jarred the mesh.
Their luck was holding—but time was running out.
Dumarest strained, edged to the right, and found the hollow he had noted earlier. A final heave and the dead
animal rolled down the slope to come to rest in a pool of watery mud.
"Get the others, Cran. Be careful."
As the man slipped away Dumarest set to work, his knife plunging, ripping, blood flying as he flensed and
dismembered the carcass. Those watching snatched fragments of meat, gulping them like dogs, licking the blood
from their hands with a feral hunger.
"Here!" Dumarest handed out hunks of dripping meat, "Don't take more than you can easily carry. Leave as soon
as you're loaded. Wait for the next flash and freeze when the next one follows."
"The liver," said a man. "Don't forget the liver."
"We'll share it on the way and eat as we go. Cran?"
Like an eel he slipped into the hollow with his companions.
"Hurry," he panted. "The guards are suspicious and they could have spotted the torn fence. If so they'll be coming
to investigate."
Men with guns and portable searchlights who would not hesitate to shoot.
"Keep watch," ordered Dumarest. "Let me know if they come this way. The rest of you, get moving. Move, damn
you! Move!"
Minutes later he followed, wiping his knife and thrusting it into his boot before lifting his load. Together they
vanished into the darkness, shielded by the storm, invisible to the guards who finally came to investigate. They found
the cut fence, but rain had washed away the blood and filled the traces with oozing mud. It wasn't until the dawn they
made count and found the discarded bones, head, hooves, tail, and intestines of the slaughtered beast.

Chapter Two
Pacula had set the table, decorating it with fine glass and delicate flowers set in vases of crystal, little touches he
could have done without but which impressed the Owners who came to visit. Kel Accaus was openly envious and
paid unmistakable court to the woman, clumsy in his flattery.
"Pacula, my dear, your brother should be proud of you. Had I someone like yourself to act as my hostess I should
not spend as much time as I do in the field. Tien, your health."
A toast which Tien Harada acknowledged with a bare inclination of the head. He had no great love for Accaus
but had invited the man from necessity. Only a fool made an enemy of a man whose lands joined one's own, and yet
the way he looked at Pacula would, in other times, have been grounds for a quarrel.
"You are kind, Kel," she said. "But surely you should reserve your compliments for someone younger than I?"
"What has youth to do with beauty?" he demanded. "In you I see the epitome of womanhood. If I were a poet I
would compose a work in your honor. As it is, I can only state a simple truth in simple words. Your loveliness puts our
sunsets to shame. You agree, Chan?"
"How can I deny it?" Chan Catiua bowed, gracious in his gesture. "Tien, a most pleasant meal."
A comment echoed by the others present and, Tien recognized, a neat way to turn the conversation. Politic too,
while beautiful in her way, Pacula was no longer young and the excessive flattery could hold a tinge of mockery. Not
that Accaus was capable of such subtlety, but a man couldn't be too careful and shame, once given, could never be
erased.
Now, as the servants cleared the table and set out flagons of wine and bowls of succulent fruits, Tien Harada
looked at his guests. Owners all, aside from one, and he was of no account. Pacula's whim and one he had tolerated—
if the man could bring her ease, what right had he to complain? Yet sitting as he did, barely touching the food, a bleak
contrast in his brown, homespun robe, the monk looked more like a skeleton at the feast than a privileged guest.
Some wine would warm him, perhaps, and Tien gestured for a servant to fill his glass.
"Thank you, no." Brother Vray rested his hand on the container.
"You refuse my hospitality, Brother?"
"That, never, but a sufficiency is enough. And I have work awaiting me."
"The consolation of the poor," sneered Accaus. "A pat on the head for the unfortunate and a scrap of concentrate
to ease their labors. No man should eat unless he works for what he puts into his mouth."
"And if no work is offered, brother?" The monk's voice was gentle as were his eyes. An old voice, the eyes in a
face seamed and creased with years and deprivation. "You would be more commiserate if you were to remember
that, but for the grace of God, you would be one of their number. Charity, brother, is a virtue."
"Professed by many but practiced by few," said Catiua dryly. "And your charity has an edge, Monk, is that not so?
Before receiving your Bread of Forgiveness a suppliant kneels beneath the Benediction Light and is instilled with the
command never to kill. Am I right?"
"You are entitled to your opinion, my lord."
"Am I right?"
"And, if you are, what is the harm?" Pacula was quick to come to his defense, for which Vray was grateful. Chan
Catiua could be guessing, but he had stumbled on the truth. "Can it be wrong to prevent a man from taking the life of
another?"
"No," boomed Kel and then, with sly maliciousness, added, "A pity the restriction didn't apply to beasts, eh, Tien?"
Trust the fool for having mentioned it, and Tien felt again the anger he had experienced when staring at the
remains of the slaughtered animal. A rage so intense that it seemed impossible that whoever was responsible, no
matter where they might be, could not have been blasted by the naked ferocity of his hatred. His prize bull
slaughtered, a fortune lost, and himself held to ridicule. The guards—he felt the muscles jerk in his face as he thought
about them. Useless fools who had been asleep, careless, stupid, well, at least they had paid. Black-listed, they would
be lucky to get any job at all. To hell with them. Let them starve together with their families. His bull had been worth
a hundred such scum.
Casually, Catiua turned the knife. "Days now, Tien, and still no word of the culprits?"
"None." Tien's hand trembled as he poured himself wine. "But I will find them. They will pay."
"According to the law?"
"Yes." Tien met the other's eyes, cool, slightly amused. "They will pay," he said grimly. "No matter who they might
be or how high. This I swear!"
"You think an Owner might be responsible?" A man spoke sharply from where he sat at the table. "Do you, Tien
Harada?"
"The possibility has not escaped me, Yafe Zoppius." Tien was coldly formal. "It is being investigated."
"If Ibius Avorot's men came snooping around my land they will get short measure. That I promise. You forget
yourself in your suspicions, Tien." His tone softened a little. "That I can understand. It was a grievous loss. A prime
specimen of genetic manipulation which would have bred a new and stronger line. But you must not accuse your
friends."
Friends on the surface, competitors beneath, each jealous of the other's prosperity. Yet the facade had to be
maintained, unity shown, and a common face presented to the outside. The monk, for example—he could learn more
than he should. The Universal Church had friends in high places, and who could tell what gossip they carried? It had
been a mistake to permit his presence. Pacula, at times, went too far.
Later, when the assembly had departed, he spoke to her about it.
"The monk, sister—is it wise to advertise your friendship?"
"I look to him for help."
"Which will be given at a price, naturally. More money wasted on a futile quest. The girl is dead—can't you
accept that? Culpea is dead."
"No!" He saw the sudden pallor of her face, the lines suddenly appearing and betraying her age, so that, for a
moment, she looked haggard. Then, with an effort, she controlled herself, old defenses coming to the rescue. "You
mustn't say that, Tien. There is no proof. No—" she swallowed and forced herself to continue. "No body was ever
found."
"The raft crashed. Her nurse was discovered in a crevass. The guards were scattered and none alive to tell what
happened. But we can guess. Please, sister, accept the facts. It is better so."
"She could have been found," she insisted. "Taken by some passing wanderer. Such things happen. I must
continue the search, Tien. I must!"
Years now and still she hoped and yet he hadn't the heart to be ruthless. Even so, there had to be an end to the
money she squandered.
"You have tried the monks before," he reminded. "Your donations were more than generous, but to no avail.
Money is scarce, and with the bull dead, economies have to be made. I am sorry, Pacula, but my patience is
exhausted. Search on if you must, but don't look to me for further help."
"You deny me my right?"
"You have had that and more. There must be an end." Pausing, he added more gently, "One thing more I will do.
On Heidah are skilled physicians who can eliminate hurtful memories and replace them with comforting illusions. Go
to them, Pacula, have them eradicate this torment. Forget the child and gain a measure of peace."
"And you will pay for it?"
Relief at her acquiescence made him overlook the calculation in her eyes. "Of course. Tell me how much and it
will be yours. You have my word."
"Which has never been broken." Her smile was a mask. "I will consider it, Tien."
He did not see the hand she held at her side, the fingers clenched, the knuckles taut beneath the skin. Nor did he
observe the muscles tense beneath the smile which accentuated the line of her jaw. To him her words were enough.
"Have an early night," he urged. "You have been upset since the storm. And with reason," he added quickly. "That
I do not deny. But you are fatigued. A good sleep and you will feel better."
She said flatly, "Thank you, Tien, I will follow your advice. But later. Tonight I have promised to visit Sufan
Noyoka."
"That dreamer?" Tien made no effort to hide his contempt. "The man is mad."
"But harmless."
"Can madness ever be that?" He shrugged, expecting no answer and receiving none. "Well, do as you wish, but be
careful. You promise?"
"I promise."
He left her at that, satisfied, his mind busy with other things. The pain of his recent loss was a nagging ache
which left little concern for the lightness of a decision made. Let her visit Noyoka. Perhaps, in each other's company,
they could find a common ease. Madness had an affinity to madness and, reluctant as he was to admit it, his sister
was far from sane.

***

When a boy, Ibius Avorot had seen a man flayed and staked out in the sun as a punishment for the unlawful
killing of a beast. His father had been at pains to point out the necessity for such harsh treatment, his hand gripping
the thin shoulder, pain emphasizing the lesson.
An animal killed, in itself nothing if it had not been for the value, but what next? Once allow a threat against the
established order and there would be no end. Shops raided, men killed, a mass of starving wretches bursting from
their confines and demanding food as a right instead of a reward. Give it to them and where would be the power held
by the Owners? To be charitable was to invite destruction. To survive on Teralde a man had to be strong.
Logic which had confounded the boy as he was forced to watch the man die. Surely a man was of greater value
than a beast? And if hunger turned men savage, then why not feed them and eliminate the danger? Concepts which
his father had done his best to beat from his son and, when learning, Ibius had confessed his errors, had been
satisfied.
A hard man who had died as he lived, one respected by the Owners, who had not hesitated to elect his son to the
vacated position. And the years had brought a cynical contempt for those who begged for the food they could have
taken by right. That lesson at least he had learned, only the strong could survive—but never again did he want to see
a screaming creature wearing the shape of a man die in such a fashion.
And yet, it seemed, soon he would have no choice.
"Commissioner?" Usan Labria had entered his office and plumped herself down without invitation. Old, raddled,
the gems on her fingers accentuating the sere and withered flesh. Paint made her face a grotesque mask in which her
eyes, cold, shrewd, gleamed like splintered glass.
"My lady, this is an honor."
"An inconvenience, Commissioner. For once be honest."
Once, perhaps, he would have accepted the invitation, now he was not so foolish. "The visit of an Owner could
never be that, my lady. You have a problem?"
"We all have a problem. This bull of Harada's—when are you going to find who killed it?"
"Your interest?"
"Don't be a fool, man." Her voice, like her face, was a distortion of what a woman's should be. Harsh, rough,
strained as if with pain. "Harada suspects an Owner is responsible. Unless the culprits are found he will be tempted to
take action and the last thing we want is an internecine war. The last time it happened a third of the breeding stock
was destroyed and two Owners assassinated. That was before your time, but I remember it. I don't want it to happen
again."
"It won't, my lady."
"Which means that you've discovered something." Her eyes narrowed a trifle. "Why haven't you made an arrest?
How much longer will you keep us all in suspense? I insist you take action, Commissioner, and fast. If not, another
will take your place."
Another threat to add to the rest, but he could understand her concern. Her lands were arid, her herd small, a war
could wipe her out and end her power. For such a woman that was unthinkable.
He said quietly, "To take action isn't enough. There is the question of proof."
"Surely that can be found?" She edged closer to the desk, her voice lowered. "Who was it? Eldaret? Jelkin?
Repana? Who?"
Owners all, and her suspicions were proof of how they regarded each other. The bull, used, would have put them
all at a disadvantage.
She frowned at his answer. "Not an Owner! Man, do you realize what you are saying? It would have taken a rifle
to kill that beast, a laser even. Men would have needed a raft and lights to spot the target. Who but an Owner could
have arranged it?"
"Think of the facts, my lady."
"I know them." She was curt. "A beast killed and butchered—obviously done to avoid suspicion. The fence cut
and the animal removed so as to hide the real objective. Have you questioned the guards?"
"I know my business, my lady."
She ignored the reproof. "They must have been bribed. Question them again and this time be less gentle. It is
something you should have done before."
"And will the ravings and accusations of a man in torment provide satisfactory evidence?" With an effort he
mastered himself. Never could he afford the luxury of betraying his true feelings. "The problem must be solved to the
satisfaction of Tien Harada. Unless it is, his suspicions will remain as will the possibility of reprisal. I—" He broke off
as his phone hummed its signal. To the face on the screen he snapped, "What is it?"
"A report from Officer Harm, sir. A man was reported for trying to sell meat."
"Sun-dried?"
"Yes."
"And?" Avorot's voice reflected his impatience. "Speak up, man."
"He was suspicious and tried to run. Officer Harm had to shoot. The man is now in hospital."
"Dead?"
"Wounded, but critical. I thought it best—"
The screen died as Avorot broke the connection. To the woman he said, "My apologies, my lady, but this is
urgent. I must speak to that man before he dies."

***

He lay on a cot in a room painted green and brown, the colors of earth and growth, but one hue was missing, the
scarlet of blood. Avorot looked at the thin face, then at the doctor hovering close.
"Can he talk?"
"He is in terminal coma."
"That isn't answering my question. Can you give him drugs in order to make him speak?"
"He's dying, Commissioner. Your officer aimed too well, the bullet severed the spine and lacerated the lungs. The
loss of blood was intense and that, coupled with shock—"
"I am not interested in your diagnosis," snapped Avorot. "Nor in your implied criticism of my officer. The man is a
criminal who refused to obey an order. He holds information I must have. It is your responsibility to see that I get it.
Call me when the man can speak."
Outside the room Officer Harm was waiting. A big, beefy man with little imagination who stared unflinchingly at
his superior.
"What happened?" demanded Avorot. "Go into detail."
"I was on patrol close to the field, as you'd instructed, Commissioner. The news that a ship is expected had got
around and there was the usual crowd waiting for it to land. Scum, mostly, those with nothing else to do. You know
how it is."
 "Go on."
"Gilus Scheem sent me word by a man working for him. Someone was trying to sell him unlicensed meat. He was
gone when I arrived but I had his description and managed to spot him. I yelled at him to halt but he just kept going.
So I shot him."
And the fool had aimed to kill. A bullet in the air would have been enough, or a chase to run the man down, but
Harm wouldn't have thought of that.
"And the meat?"
"Here, sir. I thought you'd want to see it."
In that at least, he'd shown sense. Avorot took the package and ripped it open to reveal the strips of tissue inside.
He rubbed his fingers over a piece and held them to his nostrils. No scent of smoke, but that was expected. The sun
itself would have been good enough for a man who knew what he was doing. His tongue told him more; no spice,
nothing but the flesh itself. No commercial house would have turned out such a product.
"Let me taste that." Usan Labria had insisted on accompanying him. She grunted as she handed back the
package. "Not stolen from a warehouse, that's for sure, nor from a shop. And no processing plant would turn out such
rubbish. What is it, Commissioner?"
"Owner Harada's bull."
"What?" She was incredulous. "Are you telling me that animal was slaughtered simply for its meat? That men
came in the storm and killed it and—no!" Firmly she shook her head. "It's impossible. It couldn't be done."
For answer he held out the package.
"Meat," she admitted. "Unlicensed and poorly cured, but still not proof that it came from Harada's bull."
"From where, then? The slaughterhouses?" Avorot shook his head. "Every ounce is accounted for. I'll admit that
there could be some leakage from culled beasts and at times the sporting hunters grow careless. But this is the wrong
time of year for that. This meat has been recently cured. It is proof which could clear the Owners from blame."
And lead him to those responsible if the dying man could talk. Back in the room Avorot stared down at him, at
the pale face, blank now like a waxen mask, the eyes closed, only the slight lifting of his chest telling that he was still
alive.
"I've given him what I can," said the doctor quietly. "I guarantee nothing, but there could be a moment before he
dies when he might regain consciousness. You can talk to him then, but you will have to be quick."
"Any history?"
"None. My guess he is a stranded traveler—we have a lot of those living in the Warren. His hands are abraded
and his clothes were rags. I'd say he's been living in the wilderness for days at least." The doctor reached out and
touched the flaccid throat. "A fool," he said dispassionately. "He should have eaten the meat, not tried to sell it."
A medical judgment, but the man had wanted more than a full stomach. The meat would have fetched money,
had the dealer been less scrupulous—not much but enough for a stake at a gaming table and the chance to build it
into enough for a Low passage. A journey which would have killed him, but a desperate man would have been willing
to take the chance.
On the cot he stirred a little, a bubble of froth rising between his lips to break, to leave a ruby smear.
"Listen to me." Avorot leaned close. "Who was with you when you killed the bull? Who?"
"A ship… coming… a chance…" The words were faint, the rustle of dry leaves blown by the wind. "Move now
before-—God, the pain! The pain!"
"It will pass. Talk now and I'll order you the best treatment available. Who arranged it? Who led you?"
The lips parted to emit a thin stream of blood which traced a path over the pale cheek and stained the pillow. The
eyes, open, grew suddenly clear, the moment of full consciousness the doctor had promised might occur.
Quickly Avorot said, "I can help you, but you must help me. Who led you on your trip to kill the animal? What is
his name?"
"Help me?"
"The best of care. Food. Money for a High passage. I swear it. But the name. You must give me the name."
"I'm dying!" The man stared with glazing eyes. "Earl warned me, but I wouldn't listen. I was a fool."
"Earl?"
"Dumarest."
"What about him?"
"Fast!" The voice was slurring as the man slipped toward death. "The fastest thing I ever saw. Killed the beast with
a knife. Cut its throat and drove steel into its heart. Earl, I…"
"Who else?" Avorot was sharp. "Who else was with you?"
It was too late, the man was dead, but he had heard enough. Avorot closed the staring eyes and straightened,
conscious of the acrid odor of the woman, the stench of sickness.
 "You heard?"
"A name," she admitted. "And an attribute."
It was enough. When the ship landed he would have the man.

Chapter Three
It was a small vessel carrying a score of sightseers. They disembarked at noon and would stay a few days,
watching the sunsets and hunting selected beasts, returning with trophies of ears and tails, later to leave.
Dumarest watched them from the edge of the field, staying clear of the crowd, conscious of the attention the
guards were paying to those pressing close. Only when the crew made an appearance did he move toward the gate.
Casually he fell into step behind a uniformed figure following the man into a tavern. He was big, with a hard,
craggy face. He looked up in annoyance as Dumarest dropped into the seat at his side.
"Save your breath, the answer's no."
"The answer to what?"
"You asking for a free drink. You want charity, go to the monks."
"You move too fast, friend," said Dumarest mildly. "All I want is to talk. You the handler?"
"Yes."
"Where are you headed next?"
"Ephrine and then back to Homedale. I won't be sorry to get there." He glanced at the girl who had come to take
his order, then at Dumarest. "You buying?"
"I'm buying." As the girl set down the goblets and took the money. Dumarest said, "A bad trip?"
"I've had better. The ship was chartered to the Manager of Ralech—that's on Homedale and he wants nothing but
the best. Tourists are fine when it comes to tips but this bunch is something special. Complaints all the time and the
stewards are run ragged trying to please them. You a traveler?"
"Yes."
"I thought so, you can always tell. And I'm betting you want passage, right?"
"Can it be arranged?"
"No." The man sipped at his wine. "I'm giving it to you straight. The caskets are full of trophies and other junk and
we've no room for anyone traveling Low. Sorry, but there it is."
"How about a berth? I've worked on ships and can handle the job. A table too if I have to."
"We've got a gambler and he's good. You've money?" He emptied his goblet as Dumarest nodded. "Enough for a
Low passage, right? Well, it's just possible I might be able to fix something. You any good with a knife?"
"I can fight if I have to."
"Some of the young sports have a yen for combat. On Homedale a few scars win a man respect and they like to
think they're good. You'll have to use a practice blade, of course, and make sure you don't get yourself killed, but
that's up to you. If you're good you can handle it. With luck you could win a little money as prizes and there's always
the chance of tips. Some of the women could take a fancy to you." He looked at Dumarest's face. "In fact, I'd bet on
it. Interested?"
"Yes."
The handler looked at his empty goblet and smiled as Dumarest ordered it to be refilled.
"We could get along. Tell you what, I'll speak to the Old Man. If he agrees I'll let you know. Be at the gate an hour
before sunset."
A chance and he had to take it. As the sun lowered and the first traces of vibrant color began to tinge the sky
Dumarest walked toward the field. The guards, he noticed, were behind the fence and the gate was closed. Before it
stood a cluster of others, men who could have no hope of gaining a passage but who had been drawn by a hopeless
longing. Cran Elem was among them.
"Earl!" He came forward, smiling. "Do you think we've got a chance?"
"At what?"
"A passage, what else? They need stewards, no pay but a chance to get away from here. The officer—" He broke
off, frowning at Dumarest's expression. "Something wrong?"
"Who did you talk to?"
"The second engineer. He came out with the passengers. I took a chance and spoke to him."
"And he told you to be here an hour before sunset?"
"Yes." Cran was defensive. "I know you told us to stay hidden, but Aret came to town and I followed him. It's all
right," he added. "A beggar told me what happened. He was shot by a guard."
 "Killed?"
"He was dead when they took him to hospital. He didn't talk, Earl. He couldn't."
Or so the man believed. He wanted to believe as he wanted to hope in the chance of a passage, but on this ship,
without money, that was impossible. Then why had the officer told him to be at the gate? Him and, perhaps, the
others?
Dumarest remembered the handler, the man had seemed honest enough, but so would any actor playing a part. If
he had lied—Dumarest's face tightened at the thought of it, but there would be time later for revenge. Now he sensed
the closing jaws of a trap.
"Get away from here, Cran. Fast."
"Why?" Suspicion darkened the thin face. "You want to cut down the competition? Earl, I didn't think—"
"Shut up and move! I'm coming with you!"
There were more ways than one of getting on a field and, under cover of darkness, the fence could be scaled and
the handler faced. Now he had to obey his instincts, the ingrained caution which had saved him so often before.
Casually he edged from the gate, his eyes searching the area. Men stood in casual attitudes in a wide semicircle
all around, leaning on walls, apparently killing time, some talking, all dressed in civilian clothing. To one side a group
were having trouble with a chelach, a bull, scraggy, the hide scarred, the tip of one horn broken. It snarled as it was
driven with electronic probes, an animal being taken to slaughter—but why was it being driven toward the gate?
The trap closed before he had taken three strides.
Snarling, the animal reared, stung by electronic whips, goaded beyond the endurance of its savage temper.
Turning, it was stung again, back hurting still more, only by running could it escape its tormentors. And before it
rested the gate and the cluster of men.
They scattered as it came, some desperately trying to climb the fence, falling back from the mesh, which gave no
hold for hands and feet. Dumarest dodged, feeling the blow of a horn, the plastic of his tunic slit as by a knife, only
the metal mesh embedded with the material saving him from injury. Rolling where he fell he sprang to his feet, seeing
Cran running, to be caught, gored, tossed high, to fall with his intestines trailing from his ripped stomach, dead before
he hit the ground.
Barely pausing, the bull reared, pawed the ground, and then, like a storm, came directly toward him.
Again he dodged, the knife in his hand darting to draw blood from the scarred hide. A blow meant to hurt, not to
kill, to sting and not to maim. He backed, moving away from the gate, the helpless men crouched, watchful.
The eyes were too well protected, the head solid bone. He could slash the throat, but there was no storm to
confuse the beast, and too many were watching. The snout, he decided. The muzzle would be tender. Stab it and the
beast would flinch. Continue and it would turn and head toward the town.
Like a dancer he faced it, the knife glittering in his hand, darting, withdrawing as he sprang aside from the horns,
the tip now stained with blood, more smearing the muzzle, the lips drawn back from the gleaming teeth.
Again, a third time, then he heard the crack of shots, bullets slamming into the beast from the guns of uniformed
guards.
Guns which leveled on his body as the animal fell.

***

"You betrayed yourself," said Ibius Avorot. "I want you to understand that. I also want you to understand that I am
in no doubt that you killed the bull belonging to Owner Harada. It would simplify matters if you were to confess."
Dumarest said nothing, looking at the room to which he had been taken. It was bleak, relieved only by a bowl of
flowers, a gentle touch at variance with the stark furnishings, the desk, the men who sat facing him. A man still young
but with touches of premature gray showing at his temples. His uniform of ocher and green.
He was not alone. To one side sat a couple, the man older than the woman, Tien Harada and his sister Pacula. At
the other sat Usan Labria, who had insisted attending the interrogation as an impartial observer. A demand Avorot
could not refuse and to which Harada had been forced to agree. There must be no later suspicion of manipulated
evidence—the matter was too important for that.
As the silence lengthened Avorot said, "Your name is Earl Dumarest. You arrived on Teralde on the trader
Corade. From where?"
"Laconde."
"And before that?"
"Many worlds," said Dumarest. "I am a traveler."
"A drifter," snapped Tien Harada. "Useless scum causing trouble."
An interruption Averot could have done without. He said firmly, "With respect, Owner Harada, I am conducting
this investigation. You are interested, I am sure, in determining the truth."
"The truth," said Harada and added pointedly, "Not your interpretation of it. I am fully aware that it would be
most convenient if it was decided an outsider killed my bull."
An implied insult which Avorot chose to ignore. Glancing at the folder lying open before him on the desk he said
to Dumarest, "Your planet of origin?"
"Earth."
"Earth?" Averot looked up. "An odd name for a world. I have never heard of it. But no matter. You understand
why you are here and the charge made against you? It is that, on the night of the storm, you conspired with others to
unlawfully slaughter a beast belonging to Owner Harada. The penalty for that is death."
Dumarest said flatly, "If I am guilty."
"Of course."
"And isn't there a matter of proof ?"
"Naturally. Teralde is not a barbaric world and we observe the law. But there is proof. A confession was made
before witnesses." Avorot glanced at Usan Labria. "You were named and implicated. Some meat was recovered and
the contents of the stomach of the man killed before the gate contained more. He was your associate."
"Was," said Dumarest bitterly. "Did he have to die?"
"That was unfortunate, but it was essential to prove a point. Owner Harada found it hard to believe that a man
could kill a chelach with only a knife. You showed him that it could be done."
And had shown his speed, the thing the dying man had mentioned, the incredibly fast reflexes which alone made
such a thing possible. Leaning back, Avorot looked at the man before him. A hard man, he decided, one long
accustomed to making his own way. Such a man would not willingly have starved.
Pacula said, "Commissioner, what you say is impressive, but surely there is doubt? The witness could have lied.
What makes you so certain this is the man?"
"Because he fits the pattern, my lady."
"Pattern?"
"When the crime was reported I was faced with a choice of alternatives," Avorot explained. "An Owner could
have been responsible for reasons we all know, but I could find no evidence against any of them. The alternative was
that the animal had been killed solely for its meat. In that case a man of a special type had to be responsible.
Consider what needed to be done. Men assembled, for he would have needed at least a guide and others to create a
distraction. The fence cut, the beast killed and butchered, the meat transported to the Wilderness later to be dried in
the sun."
"For what reason?"
"Food, my lady." Avorot masked his irritation. Why couldn't they see what to him was clear?
"But this man has money. He had no reason to steal."
Again she had missed the point and he took a pleasure in explaining how he had arrived at what could only be
the true answer.
To Dumarest he said, "You are a clever man, shrewd and with courage, but you were unlucky. Those who deal
with others always run the risk of betrayal, but it was one you had to take. Let us review the situation. You landed on
Teralde with the price of a Low passage and within a matter of hours you discovered that work was unobtainable.
Some men would have gambled and hoped to win, others would have used their money to buy food, but you know
better than to do either. Without money you would be stranded and a man who is desperate to win never does. What
remained? How to survive with your money intact so as to buy a passage to another world? And how to build up your
strength so as to survive a Low passage?"
Pacula said, "Commissioner?"
"A man needs to be strong to ride in a casket, my lady," said Avorot, not looking at her. "He needs fat on which to
sustain his metabolism. Chelach meat is the most concentrated form of natural nourishment we know. A half pound
can provide energy for a day. The dead beast provided enough to maintain a dozen men for weeks. You took a
chance, Dumarest, but a good one. Simply to stay out of sight and save your money for when a ship came. To make
those who had worked with you do the same. For you that would not have been difficult. The threat of your knife
would have cowed them."
"You spoke of a witness," said Harada sharply.
"A man more greedy than the rest. I knew there would have to be such a one and took steps to take him when he
appeared."
A pity. Pecula leaned forward in her chair, looking at the accused. He stood tall and calm, his face impassive, the
lines and planes firm and strong. There was a strength about him, a hard determination which appealed to her
femininity. Tien was strong also, but his strength was of a different kind. A thing of impatience and bluster, quick
action and ruthless drive. Would he have killed a beast, knowing the penalties and the risks of betrayal?
She doubted it. He was not a gambler, his nature unable to calculate odds and chances. For him was the steady
building, the setting of stone upon stone, each step taken only after inward searching. Anger, always ready to burst
into flame, was his only weakness.
Avorot said, as if reading her mind, "You took a chance, Dumarest. Another day, a week at the most, and you
would have been in the clear. A gamble you took and lost."
But one which wasn't yet over. Cran was dead, his body safe from pain, his tongue from betrayal. The other?
Dumarest said, coldly, "You spoke of a witness. As yet he hasn't appeared."
"There is no need. His testimony was given and recorded. Now, why not confess and save us all time? A full
admission of your guilt may earn mercy from Owner Harada."
"Mercy? My bull slaughtered and you talk of mercy?" Tien's voice was an angry rumble. "If this man is guilty he
will suffer the full penalty."
"If ? Owner Harada, there is no doubt."
"And no proof," said Pacula quickly. "Where is the witness?"
Avorot said reluctantly, "He is dead, but—"
"Dead?" Tien rose, massive, his face mottled with rage. "Is this a game you are playing with me, Commissioner?
Are you shielding those responsible? Owners who—"
"I represent the law," snapped Avorot sharply. "I do not take bribes or yield to influence. My only concern is in
discovering the truth. It may not always be palatable, Owner Harada, but must be accepted. I've told you what
happened to your beast. The man taken is dead but, as I was about to add, his testimony was given before a witness.
One whose word, surely, you will accept. Owner Labria?"
For the first time Usan spoke. She said slowly, "What do you want me to say, Commissioner?"
"The truth. You were with me when I questioned the man. Tell Owner Harada what he said."
"He mumbled. He said something about killing a beast."
"And?"
"That's all I heard, Commissioner."
"What?" He stared at her, incredulous. "You were there, standing at my side, listening. You must have heard what
was said."
"I heard only a mumble," she insisted. "I cannot lie when a man's life is at stake."
A lie in itself, and Avorot knew it, knew also that Harada would never accept his unsupported word. The man
suspected that he was shielding others and only irrefutable proof would convince him otherwise. What game was the
woman playing? What was Dumarest to her?
He said tightly, "My lady, I will ask you again. When I questioned the dying man what did he say?"
"I've told you."
"He mentioned a name. He spoke of how the beast was killed. You know it. You were there."
"I heard him mention no name," she said. "And I am not accustomed to having my word doubted, Commissioner.
I have no doubt the beast was killed for food, as you say, but there is no evidence against this man."
A wall he couldn't break and a failure he was forced to accept—the taste of it was sour in his mouth. He had been
made to look inefficient and a fool and Harada would be slow to forgive if he forgave at all. Avorot looked at the man
standing beyond his desk.
Dumarest said, "Am I free to leave?"
"No." The case had taken on an added dimension and who could tell what deeper probing might reveal? "You will
be held for further investigation."
"But not in jail." Usan Labria rose, her tone commanding.
"Play the inquisitor if you must, Commissioner, but spare the innocent. I will take charge of this man. Release
him in my custody."
"Owner Harada, do you object?"
"Why should I? If he is innocent what does it matter? If he is guilty I know where to find him." Tien's voice
deepened. "Make sure that I do, Owner Labria."
"You threaten me, Tien?"
"Take it as you will. Pacula, let us go. We have already wasted too much time on this farce."
Dumarest watched them leave, Avorot in attendance, then looked at the painted face of the old woman. Gently
she touched a square of fabric to her lips.
"Let us understand each other," she said. "If you want to run there is little I can do to stop you, but you will never
leave this world if you do. Any attempt you make to escape will be held as admission of your guilt. If caught you will
be flayed and staked out in the sun."
 "Do you think I am guilty, my lady?"
"I know you are."
"Then—"
"Why did I lie?" Her shrug was expressive. "What is Harada's bull to me? And I can use you. There is someone I
want you to meet. His name is Sufan Noyoka and we dine with him tonight."

Chapter Four
He was a small man with a large, round head and eyes which gleamed beneath arched and bushy brows. His skin
was a dull olive, pouched beneath the chin, sagging beneath the eyes. Like the woman he was old, but unlike her, had
none of the stolidity of age. His eyes were like those of a bird, forever darting from place to place, he tripped rather
than walked, and his words flowed like the dancing droplets of a fountain.
"Earl I am delighted you could accept my humble invitation. Usan, my dear, you look as radiant as ever. An
amusing episode?" He grinned as the woman told what had happened. "Tien will not be pleased and, to be honest, I
cannot blame him. That bull was dear to his heart. You should have been more selective, Earl. I may call you that?"
"If it pleases you, my lord."
"Such formality! Here we are all friends. Some wine? An aperitif before the meal? You wish to bathe? My house is
yours to command."
Ancient hospitality, which Dumarest knew better than to accept at face value as he knew better than to accept
the man for what he seemed.
Sufan Noyoka was, in many ways, an actor. A man who scattered conversational gambits as a farmer would
scatter seed, watching always for an interesting reaction, ready to dart on it, to elaborate and expound, to probe and
question. A man who used words as a mask for his thoughts, his apparent foolishness a defense cultivated over the
years. To such a man much would be forgiven and his physical frailty would protect him from a challenge. A
dangerous man, decided Dumarest, the more so because of his seeming innocence.
"When strangers meet who should be friends, a toast is appropriate," said Sufan. "Usan, my dear, perform the
honors. Earl, when you killed that bull did you rely on luck or base your plan on judgment?"
"My lord?"
"You are cautious—that is wise, and the question was stupid. Luck had nothing to do with it. You have hunted in
your time?"
"Yes."
"For food, of course, and for profit also, I imagine." Sufan accepted the glass the woman offered to him. It was
small, elaborately engraved, filled with a pungent purple fluid. "A liqueur of my own devising, the recipe of which I
found in an old book and adapted to local conditions. I had hoped to create a demand, but the essential herbs are
scarce and I am too self-indulgent to sell that which I find so appealing. Usan, your health! Earl, to a long and
pleasant association!"
The purple liquid held a smoldering fire, which stung the back of the throat and sent warmth from the stomach.
Dumarest sipped, watching as the others drank, emptying his glass only when they had finished. An act of caution
which Sufan Noyoka noted and admired.
"Earl," he said, "tell me a little about yourself. What brought you to Teralde?"
"The name."
"Of this world?" Sufan frowned. "It is a name, a label as are all names, but what of that? Were you looking for
something? A friend? An opportunity to gain wealth? If so, you chose badly, as by now you are aware. There is little
wealth on Teralde."
And what there was remained fast in the grip of jealous Owners. Dumarest looked at his empty glass, then at his
host. A shrewd man who could have traveled and who must have known others who had. A chance, small but it had
to be taken. Who could tell where the answer was to be found?
"I was looking for a place," said Dumarest. "A planet. My home world."
"Earth?" Usan Labria frowned. "Is there such a place? Sufan?"
"If there is I have never heard of it." The man crossed to a cabinet and took a thick almanac from a shelf,
Dumarest waited as he studied it, knowing what he would find. "No such world is listed."
"Which means that it doesn't exist." Usan Labria helped herself to more of the pungent liqueur and took a pill
from a small box she produced from a pocket. Swallowing it, she sipped and stood for a moment tense with strain.
Then, relaxing, she added, "Earth? Why not call it dirt or sand? How can any world have such a name?"
"My world has it, my lady. And it exists, that I can swear. I was born on it." Dumarest looked at his hand. It was
tight around the glass, the knuckles white, tendons prominent with strain. Deliberately he relaxed his grip, accepting
the disappointment as he had been forced to accept it so often in the past. "It exists," he said again. "And one day I
will find it."
"A quest." Sufan Noyoka refilled the empty glass. "My friend, we have much in common, but more of that later.
Yet I think that each man must have a reason for living, for why else was he given imagination? To live to eat, to
breed, and to die—that is for animals. But why Teralde? The names are not even similar."
"Earth has another name," said Dumarest. "Terra."
"Terra? I—" Sufan broke off, his eyes shifting, darting, little gleams of reflection turning them into liquid pools.
"Teralde," he said musingly. "I see the association. But legend has it that the name originated with. Captain Lance
Terraim, who was among the first to settle here."
"From where?"
"Who can tell?" Sufan shrugged. "It was long ago and time distorts meaning. Even his family no longer exists and
there have been many changes. The land-war of two centuries ago broke the old pattern and the ancient records
were lost. I am sorry, my friend, but it seems that you came on a hopeless errand. Teralde is not the world you seek."
As Dumarest had known from the first, yet Sufan's eyes had betrayed him. He knew of Terra, the name at least,
and he could know more. But he gave Dumarest no chance to ask questions.
"Let me show you my house, Earl. Usan, my dear, will you arrange the setting of the table? Now come with me,
my friend, and tell me what you think of my few treasures. I have an artifact found on Helgeit which holds a mystery
and another discovered on a barren world which is equally as strange. You have seen such things in your travels?
Have you been to Anilish? Vendhart?" And then, without change of tone, he said, "How often have you killed?"
"My lord?"
"Can you kill?"
"When I have to, yes."
"That is good. Perhaps later you will tell me of your adventures. Now look at this. And this. And what do you
think of that?"
The place was partly a museum. Dumarest watched as the man took items from cabinets, his thin hands caressing
shapes of stone and distorted metal, old books and moldering scrolls, a crystal which sang as he pressed it, a gem
that blazed with a shifting rainbow to the heat of his cupped palm.
For a moment he stared at it then flung it without warning. Dumarest caught it inches from his face.
"Fast," said Sufan. "The reports did not lie. You have unusual reflexes, my friend. Can you handle weapons? A
rifle? A laser?"
"Yes."
"And others? A spear? A bow? A sling?"
"Why do you ask, my lord?"
"Still the formality, Earl?" Sufan Noyoka tilted his head as if he were a bird examining a crumb. "A defense," he
mused. "A traveler needs to ensure that he does not unwittingly offend local mores and what better way than being
always courteous to those who could do him harm? Some would mistake it for servility, but I know better. You have
questions you would like to ask?"
"Yes, and have answered."
"Such as?"
"Terra. You have heard the name."
Sufan blinked then said dryly, "An odd request. I would have thought you would be curious as to your own
welfare. The reason you are here, for example, and what will happen to you. Yet you ask only after a name. Is your
quest, then, so important?"
A gong echoed before Dumarest could answer and his host turned to re-lock the cabinets that held his treasures.
Smiling, he said, "The meal is about to be served and good food should not wait on conversation. Shall we pay it our
respects?"

***

The food was good but Dumarest ate little, choosing dishes high in protein content and barely touching the wine.
Pacula Harada had joined then. She wore white, a shimmering gown which graced her figure and robbed her of
accumulated years, an illusion accentuated by the soft lighting.
The talk was casual, yet contained undercurrents of which Dumarest was aware, seeming banalities shielding
matters of high importance to those at the table. Again Usan Labria took one of her pills, shrugging as Pacula asked
after her health.
 "I live, girl, what more can I ask?" Then, to Sufan Noyoka, "Well?"
"You were right, my dear."
"You have found the man?" Pacula caught her breath. "I thought as much. Has he agreed?"
"As yet, no."
"Why not? Sufan, you must—"
"Convince him?" He was bland, his smile a mask. "Of course, but gently, my dear. Earl is not a man to be rushed.
First he must recognize the situation. Have you further word from Avorot?"
"He is sending men to search the wilderness and others to comb the Warren. Tien demands new evidence and
the Commissioner has promised to supply it. If he does not he will be replaced."
"As I expected." Sufan Noyoka toyed with his goblet. "And, if all else fails, he will resort to harsher measures: the
use of drugs and electronic probes to wring the truth from a stubborn mind. The Owners will insist on it to avoid a
war. Earl, my friend, your time is limited. I mention it only to make the situation clear. Some more wine?"
"No."
"As you wish." Sufan leaned back in his chair, his face bland. "The meat was dried," he mused, "which means a
camp was set up in the wilderness. Traces could be found. Your associates will be discovered and will betray you for
promise of immunity and reward. Tien will not believe them, but the probes will reveal the truth. Without a vessel,
Earl, you are stranded and helpless. You agree?"
"Not helpless," said Usan Labria sharply. "I shall help him, for one."
"To do what, my dear? Hide in the mountains, living on what he can find? Earl could survive, I have no doubt, but
only as a savage. And if you defy Tien, what then?"
The woman had already saved his life with her lies; to ask more was to ask too much. Dumarest said flatly, "I
think it time we came to the point. Why was I invited here? What do you want from me?"
"Your help," said Pacula quickly. "We need you. I, that is we, can't—Sufan?"
"I will explain, my dear." The man helped himself to more wine, his manner casual, only the slight trembling of
his hand betraying his inner tension. "Earl, have you ever heard of Balhadorha?"
"The Ghost World?"
"That is what some call it."
"A legend," said Dumarest. "A myth. A planet which orbits some unknown star in some unknown region of space.
There is supposed to be a city or something filled with riches. A fabulous treasure."
"And more," said Pacula. "So much more."
Stuff compounded of dreams and wistful longings. Rumors augmented in taverns and on lonely worlds by men
who built a structure of fantasy. The Ghost World, the planet no one could ever find or, having found it, would never
leave. The answer to all privation and hurt, a never-never place in which pain had no part and the only tears were
those of happiness. Balhadorha—another name for Heaven.
"You don't believe in it," said Usan Labria sharply. "Why not?"
"My lady, every tavern is filled with men who will talk of fabulous worlds. Some of them will even offer to sell
you the coordinates. El Dorado, Jackpot, Bonanza, Celdoris—"
"Earth?"
"Earth is not a legend, madam."
"So you say, but who will agree? A name, a world, one in which you believe, but one not listed and totally
unknown. Yet you insist that it is real. You even claim to have been born there."
"So?"
"Balhadorha is real. The Ghost World exists. I know it!"
Faith, not knowledge. The desperate need to believe despite all evidence to the contrary. Dumarest looked at the
raddled features, the veined, quivering hands, the sick, hurt look in the eyes.
Gently he said, "You could be right, my lady. Space is huge and filled with a billion worlds. No man can know
them all."
"Then you admit it could be there?"
"Perhaps. I have heard nothing but wild rumors from those who heard them from others. I have never found it
myself."
"But you would be willing to look?" Pacula leaned forward across the table, careless of the glass she sent falling to
spill a flood of ruby wine. "You would not object to that?"
She, too, radiated a desperate intensity and Dumarest wondered why. Those who owned wealth and privilege had
little cause to chase a dream. The heaven Balhadorha offered was already theirs; only to the poor and desperate did
such fantasies hold magic.
Sufan Noyoka? The man was contained, leaning back in his chair, his face bland; only the eyes, bright with
restless dartings, placed him at one with the others.
"A question was asked, Earl," he said quietly. "As yet you have made no answer."
To search for a planet he was certain did not exist. To join them in their illusion—but to refuse would gain him
nothing but their enmity.
"No, my lady," he said slowly. "I would not object."
"Then it is settled." Usan Labria reached for wine, the decanter making small chimes as it rapped against the edge
of her glass. Noyoka was less precipitate.
"A moment, my dear," he said softly. "A man cannot promise to accomplish what he does not understand. Not a
man I would be willing to trust And trust, in this matter, is essential."
"I trust him, Sufan!"
"And I!" Pacula looked at Dumarest. "Do you agree to help us?"
"If I can, my lady. What would it entail?"
"A journey. It may be long and it could be hard."
"We need a man." Usan Labria was more direct. "One who can kill if necessary. A special type of man to take
care of what needs to be done. Tell him, Sufan. Explain." Her voice rose a little. "And for God's sake let us be on our
way. Already we have waited too long!"

***

The room was small, filled with the musty odor of ancient books, scraps of oddly shaped material lying on the
scarred surface of rough tables. Star maps hung against the walls and the desk bore a litter of papers.
"Let us talk of legends," said Sufan Noyoka. Alone he had guided Dumarest to the room, leading the way up
winding stairs to the chamber set beneath the roof. "They are romantic tales embellished and adorned, things of myth
and imagination, and yet each could contain a kernel of truth. Eden, for example—you have heard of it?"
"Yes."
"A world of pure joy in which men and women live gracious lives. None need to work. There is no poverty, no
pain, no hurt. Each day is a spring of fabulous happiness. Once men owned it, now it is lost. Tell me, do you consider
it to be real?"
"Perhaps. I have visited a world with such a name."
"And found what?" Sufan did not wait for an answer. "A desert," he said. "A barren, harsh world of arid soil and
acid seas. A lie—the name used only to attract settlers. I, too, have visited Eden and there is more than one world
with such a name. But does that mean that the Eden of legend did not, at one time, exist? As Earth, perhaps, once
existed?"
"Earth is not a legend."
"So you say, and I will not argue with you, but if you believe in one legend then why not two?"
"Balhadorha," said Dumarest. "The Ghost World."
"Balhadorha." Sufan Noyoka moved to a table and lifted a distorted scrap of metal. "This cost me the labor of a
serf for a year. A scrap of debris, you would think, but the composition is something we cannot repeat. A mystery,
and there are others, perhaps—later we shall talk about them. For now let me explain what we intend."
"To take a ship and go searching for a legend," said Dumarest. "To follow a dream."
"You think I am mad?" Sufan shrugged. "There are many who think that. But consider a moment. You seek Earth
—how do you go about it?" Again he did not wait for an answer. "You ask, you probe, you assemble clues, you sift
evidence. From a mountain of rumor you winnow a nodule of fact. To it you add others, always sifting, checking,
questioning. Decades of searching and then, with luck, you have the answer."
Light flared as he touched the switch of a projector and, on a screen, glowed the depiction of a sector of space.
Stars blazing with a variety of colors, sheets and curtains of luminescence and, in the center, the sprawling blob of a
cloud of interstellar dust.
"The Hichen Cloud." An adjustment and it dominated the screen. "An unusual configuration which adopts a
different guise when viewed from various positions. It has never been truly explored."
And with reason. Dumarest knew of the conflicting forces which were common in such areas; the electronic
vortexes which could take a vessel and render it into a mass of unrecognizable wreckage, the spacial strains which
negated the drive of the generators, the psychological stresses which turned men insane.
"You expect to find Balhadorha in that?"
"The prospect disturbs you?"
"Yes." Dumarest was blunt. "I've had experience with such areas. Only a fool would venture into such a region. No
sane captain would dare risk his vessel and no crew be willing to take the chance."
 "A normal captain and a normal crew, I agree. But you underestimate the power of greed, my friend. Think of
what could be gained. Wealth beyond imagination, the treasure of a world, gems and precious metals—" Sufan
Noyoka broke off as he saw Dumarest's expression. "Such things do not tempt you?"
"Do they you?"
"No. A man can only eat so much, live in one place at a time, wear one suit of clothing. But even so, wealth has
power. Think of it, my friend. The power to travel where and when you will. To buy a ship to aid you in your search.
Money to ease the path to a thousand worlds. You killed a beast in order to live and risked your life in so doing. Why
not risk it again for much, much more?"
The voice of temptation, and Dumarest was aware of the man's subtlety. Sufan knew more than he had admitted,
in small ways he had betrayed himself and, though no threat had been made, always it was implied. A word and he
would be delivered to Avorot, to be kept in jail, to wait until evidence had accumulated or the probes were brought
into use.
The trap which had closed had not yet opened and would not until he left this world.
"You will need a ship," he said. "A ship and a crew."
"All has been arranged." Sufan's voice, dry as the rustle of windblown leaves, held no emotion, but his eyes, for a
moment, ceased their restless dancing. "This is no casual whim. For years I have planned, each step taken with
painstaking care, units assembled to form a composite whole. Only one thing was lacking and you provide it."
"A bodyguard?"
"That and more." Sufan Noyoka drew in his breath, his chest rising, his eyes blazing with a brighter shine. "Soon
we shall be on our way, and think, my friend, of what you might find."
The answer to his long, long search, perhaps. The exact location of Earth. On Balhadorha, so rumor claimed, the
answers to all things could be found.

Chapter Five
Each morning, now, it was harder to wake, the time in which she lay, conscious only of pain, lengthening so that
the days became shorter and life ran like sand from a container, each grain another precious hour. And yet, now, there
were compensations, and lying in the shade of an awning, Usan Labria considered them, savoring them as she waited
for the pills to take effect.
It was good to be in the open. Good to breathe deeply of the clean air and to feel the sun. Best of all was to know
that she was not alone, that with her was someone who cared. Not for herself as a woman, but for herself as a person.
More she could not expect, much as she would have liked it, but later perhaps, when she was free of pain and things
were as she hoped—who could tell?
A dream and she knew it, but it was a nice one and it did no harm to dream. Less to relax and to let another take
care of things, and Dumarest had proved to be a good companion.
"My lady?" He stood in the opening of the shelter, limned by the sunlight, which threw a nimbus of light around
him while casting his face in shadow. "Is there anything you need?"
"A little water." It was close at hand but to be served was an added pleasure.
She sipped, taking another pill, then looking up, met his eyes.
"Do you think I'm a fool?"
"No, my lady."
"Call me Usan, Earl, and be honest. Am I?"
"No. To hope is not to be foolish."
"Others would not agree with you. My cousin for one." Memory of him thinned her lips. "He can't wait for me to
die so that he can inherit. Much good will it do him. My lands are mortgaged to the hilt, the beasts sold, the house
needing repair. Everything I own has been turned into money and I've borrowed all I could. A last fling, Earl, and still
you say I am not a fool?"
"Would it matter if I did?"
He was blunt and she liked that, liked too his air of assurance, his smooth competence. Raoul had once been like
that, or so she had thought, but that had been long, long ago. He was dead now as were others she had once called
friend or lover. And the thing which had struck her had driven still more away. None like to be associated with illness
and her manner hadn't helped. Well, to hell with them; soon, with luck, she would have the last laugh.
"Sit beside me," she ordered. "Talk to me, Earl. You have nothing else to do."
"The area must be checked, my lady."
"Usan—we are friends are we not?"
 "The area must still be checked."
"Why? Are you afraid Avorot will find us here? What if he does? I have a right to go camping and you are in my
charge." Her voice, she knew, was becoming querulous. Deliberately she deepened it, made it harsh. "Do as I say,
man. You have nothing to fear."
For a moment Dumarest stared at her, scenting the odor which was strong in the shelter, the scent of decaying
tissue exuded through the skin. Internal organs rotting, afflicted with a disease local medicine could not cure. She was
dying and knew it but struggled to the last. An attribute he could appreciate.
"Later, Usan. Later."
Sufan Noyoka had planned well. The ship he had summoned would call at the field, pick him up together with
Pacula Harada, then light to land again in this spot he had chosen. The only way to avoid the search Avorot would be
certain to make. Usan Labria had to stay with him; alone she would not have been allowed to embark.
A responsibility Dumarest could have done without. The delay had been too long. Suspicion must have been
aroused, a search launched, and others would have spotted the raft in which they had traveled.
Leaving the shelter Dumarest climbed to the summit of a mound. All around stretched the broken terrain of the
foothills, the loom of mountains rising like a wall to the north. An arid place, as bad as the wilderness which ran
beyond the city to the south, dotted only with clumps of thorny scrub. A bleak area into which they had brought food
and water and supplies—things which were getting low.
Narrowing his eyes, Dumarest searched the sky. It was clear, touched only with patches of fleecy cloud, long
streamers showing the presence of a wind high in the stratosphere. Turning, he looked toward the camp. The shelter
was made of fabric the color of the ground, invisible to a casual eye, but any searching raft could be equipped with
infrared scanners which would signal their body heat.
"Earl!" He heard the woman cry out as he neared the shelter. "Earl!"
She was crouched on her cot, one hand fumbling at her sleeve, at the laser she carried there. Her eyes were wide
as she stared at the thing a foot from the edge of her cot. A small, armored body, the chitin a glossy ocher, the legs
thin and hooked, the mandibles wide. A creature three inches long, which lived beneath the sand, coming out only at
night, attracted by the water she had spilled. A thing relatively harmless, inedible, but with a sting which could burn
like acid.
It died as the thrown knife speared through the thorax, writhing, crushing as Dumarest slammed down the heel of
his boot.
"Earl! I—"
"It's dead. Forget it."
"Yes." No child, a woman of experience, she felt a momentary shame at her panic. "It startled me. I was dozing
and woke and saw it. Two years ago I would have ignored it. A year ago and I would have burned it." She looked at
her hands and added bitterly, "Now even my fingers refuse to obey me. Age, Earl, the curse of us all. Couple it with
disease and where is our dignity?"
He made no answer, kicking the crushed body of the insect from the shelter. As he wiped the knife she reached
out and took it from his hand. It was heavy, the blade nine inches long, the edge sweeping to meet the reverse curve
from the back, the point needle-sharp at the union. The hilt was worn, the guard scarred, the edge honed to a razor
finish.
"And with this you killed a bull," she said. "And men too?"
"When necessary."
"Men who tried to kill you? Those who sought your life?"
He took the knife and slipped it into his boot, then stepped again to the open front of the shelter. The sky was still
clear of any dangerous fleck—all that could be seen of a high-flying raft.
"Life," said the woman bleakly as he turned. "The most precious thing there is, because without it there is nothing.
That is what Balhadorha means to me. With money enough to bribe them the surgeons of Pane will cure my ills.
Given a fortune they could even be persuaded to transplant my brain into a new, young body. I have heard it is
possible." She paused, waiting for his reassurance, then said sharply. "You think it possible?"
"Perhaps."
"And don't agree with it? The monks don't. I talked to Brother Vray and he was against it. He advised me to
accept what had to come and pointed out that even if the surgeons could supply a new body, it would be at the
expense of another's life. He told me to have faith. Faith!" Her voice was bitter. "What is faith to me? What matter if a
thousand should die so that I might live? I—Earl!"
He supported her as she slumped, one arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest. Her skin was
livid, the lips blue, the eyes stark with fear.
"Your pills," he snapped. "Which?"
 "A blue," she panted. "And a white. Quickly!"
He thrust them between her lips and rubbed her throat to make her swallow. Relief came quickly, the flaccid skin
showing a tinge of red, the eyes clearing from the haze of pain to become misted with chemically induced tranquility.
"Sleep," she whispered. "I must sleep. But don't leave me, Earl. You promise?"
"I promise."
She sighed like a child and settled against him, one hand rising, the thin fingers clutching at his own. Her voice
was a susurration, thoughts vocalized without conscious thought.
"I don't want you ever to leave me, Earl. I want you to stay with me for always. When I get my new, young body I
will show you the real meaning of love. You will be proud of me then. I will make you a king." Then, as the sky split
with a crash of sound, she murmured, more loudly, "Thunder, Earl. It's thunder. We are going to have a storm."
She was wrong. The sound was that of a ship coming to land.
Standing before his desk Ibius Avorot listened to the even modulation of a voice asking questions and answered
each with truth. More and he replied with lies. As the voice fell silent he said, "Well?"
"Your equipment seems to be in order."
"As I claimed."
Cyber Khai made no comment, none was needed. The Commissioner was intelligent enough to have made
checks and the test had been only to prove his veracity. Standing behind the desk where he had seen the signals of
the lie detector he made a warm splash of color in the cold bleakness of the room. Tall, dressed in a scarlet robe, the
breast emblazoned with the Seal of the Cyclan, he seemed both more and less than human.
There was a coldness about the face, the cheeks sunken, the bone prominent, the skull shaved to accentuate the
likeness to a skull. A face which betrayed no emotion, for the cyber could feel none. Taken when young, taught,
trained, an operation performed on his brain, he was incapable of anger, fear, hate, greed—the gamut of human
desires. The only pleasure he could know was that of mental achievement. His sole ambition was to serve the
organization to which he belonged. The Cyclan which, one day, would dominate the entire galaxy.
Avorot said, "There is no mistake. The man is Earl Dumarest. How did you know he was here?"
"The prediction of his reaching this world was in the order of ninety-two percent probability once it was known
he had left Laconde. Are you certain he did not leave on the vessel which had just departed?"
"Positive. I made a complete search."
"Including cargo?"
"Yes." Avorot added bleakly, "I have my own reasons for not wanting him to escape."
The loss of his position and the ruin of his career, but it was a matter which could be easily handled. The anger
of the Owner concerned could be nullified with the offer of the service of the Cyclan. His own greed would make
him accept the bargain and, once a cyber had been established, another step would have been taken to ensure the
success of the Master Plan. Teralde was a poor world of jealous factions, one which posed no real problem and one
of small gain, but if necessary it would be done.
Khai touched a control and listened to the recorded voices of the interrogation. Avorot had been a fool, not once
had he asked a direct question as to guilt and Dumarest must have known that his physical reactions were being
monitored to determine the truth of his answers. A matter he did not mention, the episode was past and
recriminations would serve no useful purpose.
"The woman," he said. "Usan Labria. Why did you allow her to take the man into her custody?"
"I had no choice. Also I hoped to discover an association between them. There had to be a reason for her lies."
"And have your informants reported?" There would have to be spies, otherwise Avorot could not have hoped to
gain information. As the Commissioner hesitated Khai said again, "Have they?"
"No. The woman is not at home. She left with Dumarest that same evening and neither has been seen since."
"And she was not on the vessel which left?"
"No. Sufan Noyoka and Pacula Harada but not her and not the man. Both must still be on this world. The woman
is old and ill, soon they will have to make an appearance, and when they do, I'll arrest Dumarest and hold him for
judgment."
The man was compounding his folly, blinded by his own limitations. Dumarest was not an ordinary man,
something he should have realized from the first, and to plan as if he would act like one was to insult his intelligence.
Yet the man was not wholly to blame. He did not have the ingrained attribute of any cyber, the ability to take a
handful of facts, correlate them, extrapolate from a known situation to predict the logical sequence of events.
"Where did Usan Labria take Dumarest after she left her house? To that of Sufan Noyoka? And he with another
left on the ship?"
"Yes," said Avorot. "But what has that to do with it?"
The cyber's voice did not change from its smooth, even modulation, tones designed to eliminate all irritant
factors, but Avorot inwardly cringed as he listened to the obvious.
"Dumarest and the woman left the city and must now be in hiding somewhere. There was an association between
them and those who left on the vessel. It was obvious you would make a search. Therefore the prediction that they
expect to be picked up at some other place by the ship is in the order of ninety-eight percent."
"Not certainty?"
"Nothing is or can be certain, Commissioner. Always there is the unknown factor to be taken into consideration.
Bring me maps of the immediate area and have your men check on the movements of all rafts during the period
since the interrogation."
Fifteen minutes later they were in the air, flying toward the north and the loom of distant mountains. The cyber
had selected three places as probable sites and at the second they found it. Even as they fell to land Avorot knew they
were too late.
Bleakly he looked at the shelter, the crushed body of the insect. The fact it was still visible showed how close they
had been; nothing edible was left by the scavengers for long.

***

That evening the sky flamed with color but Cyber Khai saw none of it. The pleasure it gave to normal men held
no magic for him as neither did food and wine and sweet perfumes. Food was nothing but fuel to maintain the
efficiency of the body—his gauntness was due not to deprivation but to an elimination of wasteful fat and water-
heavy tissue. A flesh-and-blood robot, he was concerned only with the determination of the logical sequence of
events.
Again Dumarest had escaped, the unknown factor of luck and circumstances which worked so well on his behalf
augmenting his innate cunning. Even now he was on a ship traversing the void—heading where?
Given an intelligence large enough, a single leaf would yield the pattern of the tree on which it had grown, the
planet on which it stood, the shape of the universe to which it belonged. Khai was not so ambitious; he would be
content if the trained power of his mind could predict the world to which the ship was bound.
Seated in Avorot's office he assembled scraps and fragments of data; the name of the vessel, the number of its
crew, the tally of those it carried. From the Commissioner's spies he learned more; casual words, idle gossip, and
finally, a name.
"Balhadorha." Avorot frowned. He sat at a communicator from which he relayed information. "I've heard of it.
The Ghost World."
"A place of legend," said Khai evenly. "It's whereabouts is unknown unless those in the vessel have learned of it."
A chilling thought. Space was vast and journeys could be long. Without a guide any planet in the galaxy could be
its final destination. He needed more.
Yethan Ctonat provided it. He entered the office, smiling, bland, his eyes shifting from the cyber to Avorot, from
the Commissioner back to the figure in the scarlet robe.
"My lord!" His bow was humble. "It has come to my ears that you are in some small difficulty. It may be within my
power to aid you. You are interested in Sufan Noyoka?"
"Yes. What do you know?"
"Perhaps little, but a man in my position hears odd items, and at times I have been entrusted with various
commissions. They could have no meaning, of course, but who knows in what scrap of information the truth may
lie?"
"What do you know, man?" Avorot was impatient. "Speak or waste no more of our time!"
The Hausi stiffened, an almost imperceptible gesture which the cyber recognized. Despite his demeanor the man
had pride.
Khai said, "You wish to speak to me in private? Commissioner, if you will be so kind? During your absence
perhaps you will compile a total list of the cargo the ship carried. And I would be interested to know exactly what
was left in the shelter we found."
Small errands, but they would salve his pride, and from him had been learned all of use. As the door closed
behind the rigidly stiff back of the officer the cyber said, "Well?"
"A small matter first, my lord. If my information should be of value?"
"You will be rewarded. A prediction as to the immediate future of the market in chelach meat."
It was enough, the service of a cyber at no cost and information which could lead to an easy fortune. Taking a
step closer to the desk the Hausi lowered his voice.
"Sufan Noyoka is an unusual man. For years he has been interested in things out of this world. By that I mean his
interests lie elsewhere. His lands are poor, his herd depleted, yet he is not the fool many take him to be. Goods have
been converted into money. Friends have been made."
He went on, telling of things the cyber already knew, but he made no interruption, knowing the man was merely
trying to inflate his importance. And verification was always of value. Only when the agent had finished did he speak.
"Are you certain?"
"My lord, why should I lie? I handled the matter myself."
"The Hichen Cloud?"
"All available maps of the area together with reports from those who had either penetrated the Cloud or who had
ventured close. I sold him an artifact, a thing of mystery, one found on a wrecked vessel discovered by a trader."
The Hichen Cloud! It was enough. After the Hausi had left, gratified with his prediction, the cyber rose and
stepped into an inner room. It was one used by Avorot when working late and contained little aside from a cot and
toilet facilities.
Locking the door Khai rested supine on the couch, resting his fingers on the wide band locked around his left
wrist. A device which, when activated, ensured that no scanner or electronic spy could focus on his vicinity. Like the
locked door it was an added precaution; even if someone had stood at his side they would have learned nothing.
Relaxing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formula Imperceptibly he lost the affinity with
the sensory apparatus of his body. Had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Closed in the womb of his skull
his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli, the ceaseless impact of irrelevant data impossible to avoid while in
a wholly conscious state. Isolated, it became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness untrammeled. Only
then did the grafted Homochon elements become active. Rapport was immediate.
Khai became vibrantly alive.
A life in which it seemed every door in the universe had opened to emit a flood of light. Light which was the pure
essence of truth, flooding his being, permeating his every cell. He was the living part of an organism which stretched
across endless space in a profusion of glittering nodes, each node the pulse of an intelligent mind. All were
interconnected with shimmering filaments, a glinting web reaching to infinity. He saw it, was a part of it while it was a
part of himself, sharing yet owning the tremendous gestalt of minds.
At the heart of the web glowed the mass of Central Intelligence, the heart of the Cyclan. Buried deep beneath
miles of rock on a lonely world, the massed brains absorbed his knowledge as a sponge sucked water. A mental
communication in the form of words, quick, almost instantaneous, organic transmission against which that of supra-
radio was the merest crawl.
"Dumarest? There is no possibility of doubt?"
"None."
"Your prediction as to present whereabouts?"
"Insufficient data for prediction of high probability but certainly in the direction of the Hichen Cloud. Other
factors, unknown to me, may have important bearing."
A moment in which he sensed the interchange of a million diverse items of information, facts correlated,
assessed, a decision reached. The multiple intelligence doing what one brain alone could never achieve.
And then, "Chamelard. Word will be sent. Follow."
That was all.
The rest was sheet intoxication, which filled him with a pleasure beyond the scope of ordinary flesh.
Always it was the same during the period when the Homochon elements sank again into quiescence and the
machinery of the body began to realign itself with metal control. Like a disembodied spirit Khai drifted in an empty
darkness while he sensed and thrilled to strange memories and unlived experiences; the overflow of other minds, the
emission of unknown intelligences. The aura which radiated from the tremendous cybernetic complex which was the
unifying force of the Cyclan.
One day he would be a part of it. His body would age and his senses lose their sharp edge, but his mind would
remain as active as ever. A useful tool not to be lost. Then he would be taken and his intelligence rid of the
hampering constraints of flesh. His brain, removed, would join the others to pulse in nutrient fluid, hooked in a
unified whole, all working to a common end.
The complete and absolute control of the entire galaxy. The elimination of waste and the direction of effort so
that every man and every world would become the parts of a universal machine.

Chapter Six
Death had come very close and Usan Labria knew it. Now, lying on the cot, she savored every breath, the touch
of the blanket which covered her, even the soft vibration of the Erhaft Field, which sent the vessel hurtling through
space at a speed much faster than that of light. To feel. To know that she was alive. Alive!
Looking down at her Dumarest said, "How are you, Usan?"
"Earl!" She stared at him with sunken eyes. "You saved my life in the shelter. If you hadn't given me those pills—
was I very foolish?"
"No."
"At times they have odd effects. I seem to remember babbling some nonsense."
"Memories of childhood," he lied. "And you thought the sound of the ship landing was that of thunder."
"Yes." She looked at her hands, knowing he was being kind. "Have we been traveling long?"
"A day. You're under quick-time, so be careful."
They were all under quick-time, the magic of the drug slowing their metabolism so that hours became minutes—
a convenience to shorten the tedium of the journey.
"I'll remember." Slowly she reared to sit upright, leaning her back against the bulkhead. "So we're finally on our
way," she said. "To Balhadorha. What did you hope to gain, Earl? Why did you join us?"
"If you remember, my lady," he said dryly, "I had little choice."
"True, but even so you will share in what we find. An equal share, I shall insist on it." For a moment she fell silent
then said, "Earth. I keep remembering the name. Your world, you say, but if you want to return then why not simply
book a passage?"
"Because no one seems to know where it lies."
"Then—"
"It exists," he said. "I was born on the planet and I know. I left when a boy, stowing away on a ship, not knowing
the risk I ran. The captain was more than kind. He could have evicted me, instead he allowed me to work my passage.
And, when he died, I moved on. World after world, each closer toward the Center, where worlds were thick and
commerce heavy. Traveling deeper and deeper into space until even the very name of Earth was unknown. And then
the desire to return, to find it again, to search and probe and, always, meeting with the blank wall of failure.
"A quest," she said. "An obsession perhaps, and now your reason for living. But why, Earl? What does it matter if
you never find it? Surely there are other worlds on which you can settle? You could marry, have children, build a
family. Has there never been one woman who could have won you from your dream?"
More than one, but never had more than the temptation lasted. Looking down at her he thought of Lallia, of
Derai, of Kalin with the flame-colored hair. Kalin who had loved him and who had given him more than life itself.
The secret for which the Cyclan had hunted him from world to world. Would still be hunting him. Would never
cease until they had regained the secret stolen from their laboratory on some isolated world.
The secret which would give the old woman the thing she yearned to possess.
Only he knew the sequence in which the molecular units had to be arranged to form the affinity-twin. Fifteen
units, the last reversed to determine dominant or submissive characteristics. A combination which could be found by
trial and error, but the possible number of arrangements ran into millions and it would take millennia to make and try
them all. Too much time for the Cyclan to contemplate when, once in their hands, the answer could be found.
And, once found, it would give them power incredible in its scope.
The artificial symbiote injected into the bloodstream would nestle in the base of the cortex and take over control
of the entire nervous and sensory system. The brain holding the dominant half would mesh with and take over that
of the host. The effect, to the dominant mind, would be that it had acquired a new body. Used by the Cyclan the brain
of a cyber would reside in each and every person of influence and power. They would be puppets moving to the
dictates of the Master Plan.
Power—a bribe no old man would refuse, no old woman could resist. He had it—if Usan Labria knew, would she
hesitate to betray him for such a reward?
"Earl?" She frowned as she watched his face. "Your eyes—have I offended you?"
"No. I was thinking of something else."
"A woman?" Her smile was grotesque. "If I were younger I could be jealous. Many women must have envied the
one close to your side. Perhaps one day—" She broke off, then ended, "It was good of you to visit me, but I must not
take all of your time. Pacula could need attention. You know why she is with us?"
"No. Why?"
"That she will tell you if she wants. Ask her, Earl. Talk to her. She needs someone she can trust."

***

Sufan Noyoka had done well. Dumarest had expected the ship to be old, scarred, the hull patched, the decks
scuffed and the bulkheads grimed, a hulk little better than scrap. Instead, while small, the Mayna was clean and in
good condition. A vessel a Mangate could have owned or one used by a wealthy family for private transportation. Its
cost must have been high—proof of Noyoka's dedication to his ideal as the crew was visible evidence of his power of
persuasion.
A small crew, a captain, a navigator and an engineer. They together with the two women and Noyoka himself
formed the complement together with Dumarest and a man who liked to play with cards.
Marek Cognez was a slender man with a spurious appearance of youth, his features finely pointed, the lips full
and sensuous. A man almost womanish in the soft richness of his clothing, the delicate bone structure of his face and
hands. His fingers were long, tapered, the nails trimmed and polished. A heavy ring glowed on the index finger of
each hand, the stones elaborately carved, the bands wide.
He sat at the table in the salon, Pacula at his side, the cards in his hands making a soft rustling noise as he
shuffled.
"Come and join us, Earl. A diversion to pass the time."
Pacula said, "How is Usan?"
"Awake. With food and rest she will be on her feet soon."
"Another female to grace the company. Well, any amusement would be welcome. Our captain is engrossed with
his instruments and Noyoka keeps our navigator busy with plans and suggestions. A union I find suspicious. If two
heads are better than one then should not three be better than two?"
"Your time will come later, Marek," said Pacula. "It doesn't take your genius to cross empty space."
"But to find the answer to a puzzle?" Marek smiled as she made no answer. It held a little genuine amusement.
"Well, each to his own. Some to provide money in order to obtain the ship, others to run it, one to discover how time
and opportunity can be merged to achieve the desired result. And you, Earl? What is your purpose?"
"Does he need one?" Pacula was sharp and Dumarest sensed she had no liking for the man. "You ask too many
questions, Marek."
"How else to gain answers? For all things there is a reason and, knowing them, a pattern can be formed. You, for
example, my dear. Why should your brother have thought you bound for Heidah? A lie compounded by Noyoka's
hints and agreement. And why should a vessel have landed just before we left carrying a cyber?"
Dumarest said, "Are you sure of that?"
"Can anyone mistake the scarlet robe?" Marek was bland. "A routine visit perhaps, who can tell? The pieces of a
puzzle or elements unessential to the pattern? Perhaps the cards will tell."
They made a sharp rapping as he tapped them on the table, shuffled, cut and slowly dealt. Pursing his lips he
looked at the exposed card.
"The Lord of Fools. Symbolic, don't you think? On this ship all are fools. But who is the Lord, Earl? Who is the
biggest? Can you tell me that?"
His voice was soft yet holding a note of irony as if he expected to be challenged. As if he hoped to be challenged.
Dumarest said, "If you think we are fools then why join us?"
"Because life itself is a game for fools. You doubt it? Consider, my friend, what is the essence of being? We are
born, we live for a while, and then, inevitably, we die. Which means, surely, that the object of existence is to reach an
end. Does it matter how soon that end is reached? If the object of a journey is to arrive at a destination then why
linger on the way?"
Philosophical musings with which Dumarest had little patience. As he made no answer Pacula said, "Tell us."
"Students kneeling at the feet of a master—my friends, you surprise me. Is it so hard to venture an answer? For
the fun of it, try."
"To enjoy the scenery," said Dumarest shortly. "To ease the path for those who follow."
"Which assumes that those who went before cared about us who come after. The facts are against you, my
friend." Marek turned another card. "The Queen of Desire. A fit mate for the Lord of Fools. But to which of the
women we carry does the card apply? You, Pacula? Or to the one who lies in her cabin engrossed in erotic dreams?"
"How can you say that!" Pacula radiated her anger. "Usan is old and—"
"Have the old no desires?" Marek, unruffled, fired the question. "Why else is she with us? But it seems I tread on
delicate ground. Even so, let us ponder the matter. Usan Labria is, as you say, old, but I have seen older toss away
their pride and dignity when the demands of the flesh grow too strong. Is she such a one? What do you say, Earl?"
"You had better change the subject."
"And if I do not?" For a moment their eyes met and Pacula felt a sudden tension, broken when, smiling, Marek
shrugged and said, "Well, no matter. Earl, shall we play?"
"Later, perhaps."
"A diplomatic reply. Not a refusal, not a promise, simply meaningless words. Do I offend you?"
"No."
 "And if I did, would you fight?"
Dumarest said coldly, "Such talk is stupid and you are not a stupid man. Why did you join us?"
"Because life is a game and it is my pleasure to win at games. Balhadorha is a puzzle, a challenge to be solved,
and I mean to solve it. Are you answered?"
"For now, yes."
"And our captain. You have met Rae Acilus, what do you think about him? Is he the Lord of Fools?"
The captain, like his ship, was small, compact, neatly clean. A man with hooded eyes and thin lips, his hands
alone instruments of emotion; the fingers twitching sometimes at rest, more often curled as if to make a fist. A
taciturn man who had said little, accepting Dumarest after a searching glance of the eyes, having him fill the vacant
place of steward.
"A case could be made for it," continued Marek, touching the card with a slender finger, light glowing from his
ring. "Greed makes fools of us all and Acilus is no exception. He was ambitious and hoped for rapid gain. He took
command of a ship carrying contract workers to a mining world. A slave ship in all but name and he saved on
essential supplies. There was an accident, the hull was torn and—can you guess the rest?"
"Tell me."
Marek shrugged. "Not all could hope to survive. Our captain, faced with a decision, evicted seventy-three men
and women. Naturally they had no suits. Sometimes, when asleep, he cries out about their eyes."
Truth or a facile lie? Dumarest remembered the man, his masked face, the way he had held himself, the hands.
The story could be true, such things happened, but true or not it made little difference. The journey had started, they
were on their way.
He said, "So he hopes to get rich and regain his self-respect. Is that what you are telling me?"
"You are not concerned? Our ship captained by a killer?"
"Is he a good captain?"
"One of the best, but is that your only interest?" Marek looked thoughtful. "It seems that you have something in
common. Let us see what it could be." He touched the cards and held one poised in his fingers. "Your card, my friend.
Which will it be?"
It fell to lie face upward, the design clear in the light That of the Knave of Swords.

***

Dumarest heard the knock and rose to open the door of his cabin, stepping back as Pacula Harada stepped
inside. She was pale, her eyes huge in the oval of her face, the small lines of age making a barely perceptible mesh at
their corners. Beneath the gown she wore her figure was smoothly lush, the breasts high, the hips wide. A mature
woman less young than she looked, but now one distraught.
"Earl, I must talk to you."
"About what?"
"You. Marek. That card."
"It meant nothing."
"So you say, but how can I be sure? And to whom else can I turn? Sufan is busy and Usan asleep. I feel alone on
this ship and vulnerable. I thought I could trust you, now I'm not so sure. Marek—"
"Can you trust him?"
"I don't know. He is brilliantly clever and, I think; a little insane. Perhaps we are all insane. My brother would have
no hesitation in saying so. He thinks I am mad. That's why he gave me money to go to Heidah and have my mind
treated to remove painful memories. He meant to be kind, but how can he understand? How can anyone?"
"Pacula, be calm."
"I can't. I've been sitting, alone in the dark, thinking, remembering. Culpea, my child! Culpea!"
He caught her as she collapsed in a storm of weeping, guiding her to the cot, forcing her to sit on the edge,
dropping beside her with his arm around her shoulders, holding her tight until the emotion climax had passed.
Then, as she dabbed at her eyes, he said quietly, "Culpea?"
"My child. My daughter."
"And?" He gripped her shoulders as she remained silent and turned her to look at him. "Tell me," he demanded.
"Tell me."
For her good, not his, a catharsis to ease her inner torment. Hurtful memories, nursed, could fester and gain a
false eminence. It was better she should speak and, until she did, he was powerless to say or do anything which could
help.
"It was eight years ago," she said dully. "Culpea was four. Tien had brought us both to Teralde after Elim had died.
He had never really forgiven my having married a stranger and was glad to get us back where he said we belonged.
Perhaps he was right, on Lemach there was little to hold us, just the house, some memories, a grave. Oh, Elim, why
did you die?"
A question asked by women since the dawn of time and for which there was no answer. Dumarest waited,
patient, silent, his strength not his words giving her the courage to continue.
"Tien was ambitious," she continued, her voice calm now, as dull as before. "He wanted to extend his holdings
and we went with him to examine some land to the east. He wanted my opinion and we flew on to the foot of the
mountains. We left the others in a second raft, Culpea, her nurse, some guards. It seemed safe enough, the air was
still, and who would want to injure a child?"
"And?"
"Our examination took longer than expected. The others must have tried to follow us. We—" She broke off,
swallowing. "We found their raft. The nurse was dead, the guards also, but there was no sign of the child. I searched—
God, how I searched—but found nothing. Eight years," she ended. "An eternity."
And one on which it would be unwise to brood, the long, empty years, the hope which never died, the forlorn
conviction that, somewhere, somehow, the girl continued to exist. Dumarest sensed her pain.
He said, "What happened? Did the raft crash?"
"Who knows? We found it broken and wrecked. The nurse was in a crevass, the guards scattered. None were
missing but all were dead. Tien went to summon help and he and others combed the area. Nothing was found, but he
insisted that Culpea must have fallen into a crevass. Some of them are very deep and impossible to investigate."
"But you didn't believe that?"
"No." She straightened, turned, defiant as she met his eyes. "I think that she still lives. Someone must have taken
her. Sufan—"
"He was there?"
"It was his land we were examining. Later he sold it to Tien. His raft landed as we searched and he joined us. It
was he who found the nurse."
"And nothing else?" Dumarest explained as she stared blankly. "Did he spot another raft? Men on foot who could
have had the child with them? No? Was a demand ever made for ransom?"
A stupid question—if it had, it would have been proof the girl lived—but he asked it with deliberate intent.
"No," she said reluctantly. "None. Not then or since."
"Which eliminates kidnappers. Did your husband have enemies?"
"No. He was a quiet man. I met him when he came to Teralde and we left together. Tien was surprised, he had
thought me too old to attract a man, but he made no objection."
"What was his name? What did he do?"
"Elim? He was of the Shalada and worked in the biological institute on Lemach. He came to Teralde with a cargo
of genetically mutated chelach. We met at a reception and later in the dark." Her laughter was strained. "It was odd, I
couldn't see a thing, but to him the night was as clear as day. He teased me a little, describing how I looked and the
movements I made. He was gentle and I was flattered and I loved him. Five years," she said bleakly. "Such a short
time for happiness."
"Many have less," said Dumarest. "How did he die?"
"A rumor. He woke crying from the pains in his head and was dead before morning. The doctors said it was a
virulent growth of exceptional malignancy. For a while I worried about Culpea, but there was no need. The condition
was not hereditary." She inhaled, her chest swelling, her breasts rising beneath her gown. "An old story and one which
must bore you. What interest can you have in a lost child?"
He dodged the question. "Is that why you are with us?"
"If Sufan is right Balhadorha will provide all the money I need to continue the search. And I must continue it,
Earl. I must know what happened to my child. If she is dead I must find what remains of her body. If alive I must
discover where she is. I must!"
"And you will."
"Do you humor me?" She looked at him, face hard, eyes reflecting her anger. "Many have done that. Some men
wonder why I did not marry again and have another child. The answer is simple—I cannot. It happens to some
women. Earl. One child is all they can bear. That is why Culpea is so important to me—she is the only child I will ever
have."
And then, suddenly, her anger broke to leave nothing but a distraught woman blindly reaching for the comfort he
could give.
"Earl, help me! For the love of God, help me!"
 Chapter Seven
Timus Omilcar bent over the exposed interior of the generator and made a minor adjustment. Without looking
up he said, "Earl?"
Dumarest called out the readings on the dials set in the console, adding, "That's optimum, Timus."
"And as good as we can get." The engineer straightened, satisfied. Closing and sealing the dust cover of the unit
he wiped his hands on a cloth and reached for a bottle. "Join me?"
"Just a little."
"Why be so cautious?" Wine gurgled as the man poured a generous measure into each of two glasses. "On the
Mayna each man is as good as the next. We're all partners. To success, Earl—by God, it's time some came my way."
He was a big man, thick-set, hair growing in thick profusion on his body and arms, more resting in a tangled mat
on his head. Red hair, curled, reflecting the light in russet shimmers. His face was a combination of disaster, the nose
squashed, eyebrows scarred, the lobe of one ear missing. An ugly man with the appearance of a brutal clown but
whose hands held magic when it came to dealing with machines.
"A half percent added efficiency," he said, lowering his half-empty glass. "So much for those who swore the
generator couldn't be improved."
"Who?"
"The engineers on Perilan." He squinted at Dumarest. "You don't know the history of this ship, eh? Interested?"
"No." Dumarest touched the wine to his lips, only pretending to swallow. "Just as long as it gets us to where we
want to go."
"And back again," added the engineer. He finished the rest of his wine and poured more. "Don't worry," he said,
catching Dumarest's eyes. "This stuff can't hurt me."
"I wasn't thinking about you."
"The ship?" Timus shrugged. "I've never lost one yet despite what they claimed. The generator didn't fail, it was
the fool in command, but what is the word of an engineer against that of a master? Well, to hell with it—soon I'll have
money to burn."
"Is that why you're with us?"
"Of course." The battered face showed amusement. "What else can anyone hope to obtain from Balhadorha? All
this talk of joy unspeakable, of pleasure beyond imagination, a world on which can be found the answer to all
problems—that is rubbish for fools. What can a man want that money cannot buy? With enough he can become the
king of a world."
A simple ambition and one Dumarest had expected. The engineer at least was uncomplicated and had quickly
warmed to friendly overtures, pleased at Dumarest's knowledge of ships and machines. A reaction different from that
of the captain, who remained cold and aloof.
As the man sipped his wine Dumarest said casually, "Did you see the cyber who landed on Teralde?"
"No."
"But one did land?"
"It's possible. The other ship bore their seal and the red scum get everywhere. Why, Earl?" Timus narrowed his
eyes a little. "What's your interest in the Cyclan?"
"I don't like them."
"You and me both." The engineer glowered at his wine. "I had a good thing going when I was young, then the
Manager called in the Cyclan to increase efficiency. Their damned predictions cost me my job, my house, what I had
saved, and the girl I intended to marry. You?"
"Something much the same." Dumarest lifted the glass and drank to avoid further explanation. "I'd better check
the stores."
"Why? They're safe."
"I'd still better check."
The hold was small and full of bales, heavy packages wrapped in layers of thick cloth interspersed with
waterproof membranes. Dumarest checked the restraints then, as the engineer, bored, left him to it, slipped the knife
from his boot and thrust the point deep into a bale. Withdrawing it he smelled the blade, catching the odor of dried
meat seasoned with spice. Cheiach meat processed for export—an unusual cargo to carry into the Hichen Cloud.
Thoughtfully he continued his examination. In one corner he found a heap of crates and with his knife levered
one open. Inside lay an assortment of thick clothing, heavy boots, gauntlets with metal insets, thick metal mesh
designed to protect the face and eyes. Another held the converse, light clothing suitable for a tropical climate together
with curved, razor-sharp machetes. A box held stubby, automatic weapons, light machine guns together with
ammunition. The rest of the crates held foods of various kinds; highly concentrated pastes, dried fruits, compotes of
nuts mixed with berries, together with beads, knives, bolts of cloth, tawdry ornaments.
Trade goods for a primitive people and survival gear for a variety of climates. Weapons to crush opposition and
food to maintain life. Clear evidence that Sufan Noyoka wasn't sure of what he would find if and when they reached
the Ghost World.

***

In the salon Marek Cognez was telling fortunes. In his hands the cards rustled with a smooth deftness, falling to
immediately appear on the table, their descent accelerated by the relative effects of time.
"An interesting life," he mused. "In youth you have known passion and I see traces of a great disappointment.
There is pain and, yes an eroding despair. Yet there is hope." His finger touched a card. "Not great but present.
Diminish the influence of the Lord of Fools and it will gain in dominance."
"Which tells me nothing," said Usan Labria sourly. "Is this your trade, Marek, to gull idiots at a fair?"
"My trade?" He smiled and gathered the cards, quickly dealing two hands, both good, one, his own, better than
the other. "A man makes his way as best he can and who then can speak of trades? Let us say that I have a small
ability, an attribute or a talent if you prefer to call it that. Give me the parts of a pattern and I will read you the
whole."
"Like a cyber?" said Pacula.
"No. A servant of the Cyclan works on a basis of extrapolated logic. From two facts he will build three, five, a
dozen. Give him a situation and, for each proposed change, he will predict the most probable sequence of events. I
work on intuition."
"But you both tell fortunes," said Usan. Her tone was contemptuous.
"No. I do not deal with the future." Marek shuffled and dealt and studied the cards. "Last night you dreamed of
youth," he said. "Of firm young arms around you, of warm lips against your own. Am I wrong?"
The question shook her with its sudden demand, so that she sat, a dull tinge mottling her sunken cheeks, the
hands clenching as they rested on the table.
Dumarest said quietly, "To be clever is one thing, Marek. To insult is another."
"So you spring to her defense?" The man's eyes were sharp, the interest masked by a smile. "An old woman and a
fighter. Often the two are found together but this time, I think, not for the usual reason. And you, Pacula, did you also
dream?"
This time it was her turn to flush and she glared at the man, hating him, wishing him dead.
"Marek, you go too far," said Jarv Nonach. "One day your humor will kill you."
The navigator sat slumped in a chair, a pomander in his hand which he lifted at intervals to his thin, hooked nose.
His cheeks, blotched with scabrous tissue, were puffed, his eyes mere slits beneath swollen brows, the neck bulging
over the collar of his uniform. The pomander was of a delicate filigree, the container filled with the aromatic drugs to
which he had become addicted. A man who spoke seldom and who, when not on duty, spent long hours sunk into a
mental stupor—a condition which seemed to banish his need for sleep.
Shrugging, Marek said, "To die with a smile is surely the best way to go. Earl, you agree?"
"Why ask when you claim to know the answer?"
"Each man holds within himself the absolute truth, yet that truth may not be in tune with that of others. Have you
ever thought of that? Or are you too engrossed in small needs to open your mind to a greater universe? Tell me, Earl,
when you fight and when you kill, is it only then you feel truly alive? There is a name for such men—shall I tell you
what it is?"
A man weary of life, thought Pacula, one tempting destruction. Then, looking at Dumarest, she knew he was
wasting his time. No insult could spur that man to action if he was conscious of a greater need. Later, perhaps, he
would take his revenge, but not now and, she guessed, Marek must know it. Then why the gibes and sneers, the
invitation to combat?
A weakness, she decided. A desire to prove himself or the pleasure he gained in risking danger as another would
deliberately walk on the edge of a precipice for no good reason, tempting fate for a perverse amusement. The price
he paid for his talent, though as yet she had seen nothing of it.
As if reading her thoughts he said, "You play chess, Pacula? Set up the board, arrange the men how you will, take
any side, and in twelve moves I will beat you. Or give me a string of numbers and ask for any result, division,
multiplication, the square roots, anything. The stanza of a poem—one you know—give me the first half and I will
give you the second, and if I am at fault, it is the poet who will be wrong, not I."
"Games," said Usan. "How can they help us?"
 "Who knows what we may find?" Marek dropped the cards, and no longer mocking, looked from one to the other.
"A safe the combination of which is unknown? A situation we cannot recognize? A world of mystery in which only
special talents can find a path? Sufan has an artifact—have you seen it? A mass of distorted metal found on a
wrecked vessel. A scrap of debris, some would think, but I can fit it into a pattern. As I helped to fit other items into a
whole. You think he guides you to Balhadorha?" His finger thrust at where Jarv Nonach sat sniffing his pomander. "He
takes us only where it is determined we should go."
"On a route you have plotted?" Usan Labria stared her disbelief. "To the Ghost World?"
"No, to Chamelard. First to Chamelard." Marek scooped up the cards. "And now, Earl, shall we play?"

***

Sufan Noyoka sat in his cabin, the desk before him heaped with papers, graphs bright with colored lines. He
looked up as Dumarest entered the room, saying nothing as the door closed, only his eyes moving, darting from one
point to another as if he were an animal trapped in a cage.
Dumarest said flatly, "It is time we talked."
"More than time, Earl, I agree, but I have been busy, as you know, and you have had your own duties. You have
assessed the crew?"
"Men united by greed."
"True," admitted Sufan, "but how else to persuade men to risk their lives? The danger will come when their
determination begins to fail. Then they must be urged to continue the search. And when we find Balhadorha there
will be other dangers." He touched a paper, moved a graph, rested his hand on a star map. "You remember the artifact
I showed you? Once it was the part of a machine, probably the power supply, and it could have been of incredible
value. Those on the wrecked vessel must have found it and then what? Did each try to gain it for his own? Greed
knows no bounds, Earl—a danger I early recognized. And what can two women and an old man do against the rest?"
"You forget Marek."
"Who could instigate the trouble. What do you think of him?"
"I think he is a man in love with death," said Dumarest. "Only when dead will he know the final mystery of life.
Where did you find him?"
"Does it matter? I needed him and so he is with us. As I needed you, Earl. The reason must be obvious."
A part, but not the whole. Men faced with sudden wealth could become intoxicated at a prospect of fortune and
forget elementary precautions. A fact Dumarest had recognized, but he sensed there must be more.
"Why are we calling at Chamelard?"
"You know?"
"Marek announced it."
"Well, it is no secret." Sufan shrugged, a gesture which minimized the importance of the event. "I would have told
you long before we landed. An essential part of the plan, Earl. Our number is not yet complete. There is another we
have to collect."
"A man?"
"A woman."
"And the cargo of Chelach meat?"
"To buy her."
Sufan rose and stepped to where a container filled with a murky liquid stood on a small table beside the cot.
Touching its base, he activated the device and watched as a pale luminescence grew within, swirls of color which
gained strength to take on a vaguely amorphous shape, delicate membranes moving with slow grace in a sea of
divergent hues.
Without turning he said, "To buy her. Earl. Money would have been simpler but my funds are exhausted. My herd,
too, now that I have turned it into meat. Unless we find Balhadorha I am ruined."
A doubt, the first he had expressed, and Dumarest was conscious of the man's tension, the strain barely
controlled, masked by his apparent interest in the luminous toy. As it glowed still brighter Dumarest leaned forward
and switched it off. Even though never still the man's eyes could reveal hidden intent.
"Is Chamelard a slave world?"
"No, but the woman is special, a product of the Schell-Peng Laboratories. She has been trained, her special
attributes strengthened, skills honed and developed to a high degree over the years. We need her if we are to
navigate the Hichen Cloud."
Then, as Dumarest made no comment, he said, "The essence of my plan, Earl,. If a few men and a ship could
find Balhadorha, then why hasn't it been discovered before? The area around the Hichen Cloud is thick with worlds
and traders are always on the search for a profit. Given time, it would have been found; instead it remains a legend.
Why? A question I pondered for years and then had what must be the answer. Balhadorha is within the Cloud and the
entire region is a mass of conflicting energies. In it normal instruments are distorted and true navigation impossible.
You have been close to such regions, Earl, you know what happens."
Sensors at fault, readings turned into meaningless information, a ship twisted and torn, helpless to aim for safety,
not knowing even where safety could be found. The generator would be overstrained, units fail, the Erhaft Field
collapse. Once that happened, unless the vessel was crushed like an egg, it would drift helpless in a sea of destructive
radiation.
Something the crew members would have known, and Dumarest wondered at their silence. Or perhaps, even
now, they were ignorant of the true extent of the danger.
He said, "Does the captain know you intend to penetrate the Cloud?"
"Rae Acilus has my confidence."
"And the others? Do they think, as I did, that you merely intended to skirt the edges?"
"Does it matter?" Sufan was bland. "They have come too far to back out now."
A mistake—when the trouble began they would lose their hunger for riches, the need to survive would see to that.
Then he remembered Usan Labria and her determination. She had nothing to lose. Neither did Pacula, who would
take any chance to find her daughter. Marek? He would welcome the challenge.
It was enough to worry about himself. Once on Chamelard the expedition could go to hell without him.

Chapter Eight
It was a cold world, a frigid ball of ice circling a dying sun, the ruby light from the primary doing little more than
to paint the snow and frost with deceptively warm radiance. The town was small, the houses huddled close, the field
deserted aside from the Mayna. The few men in attendance were shapeless in thick garments, a rime of frost over the
fabric covering their mouths.
A planet strange to Dumarest, but he knew at once it was not one on which to be stranded. And there were other
complications: a man who stood watching without apparent reason as he and Sufan Noyoka left the vessel, another
who followed, a third who moved quickly from the gate as if to relay a message.
Small things, but his life rested on trifles, the ability to spot as unusual pattern, to sense the presence of danger.
And a cyber had landed on Teralde.
The knowledge was a prickle which stimulated him to continual awareness. Dumarest never made the mistake of
underestimating the Cyclan and knew too well the subtle ways in which the organization moved. The cyber could
have learned from Avorot of his presence on Teralde. He would have searched, found nothing, used the power of his
mind to determine the obvious. Sufan Noyoka had an association with Chamelard, and if the cyber had learned of it,
already the Cyclan could be poised ready to strike.
The Schell-Peng Laboratories rested a mile from town, a long, low, rambling structure, the walls unbroken,, the
roof steeply pitched. Inside it was warm with generated heat, the receptionist waiting as they opened the thick
clothing they had worn for the journey.
"Sufan Noyoka? A moment." He turned to a file and busied himself with the contents. "A woman, you say?"
"Number XV2537. There was a special arrangement."
"Which would place it in the special file." The man moved to another cabinet. A purposeful delay or merely an
accustomed lethargy? Dumarest turned and studied the area with apparent casualness. Aside from the receptionist
they were alone in the chamber except for a man engrossed in a book. A strange place in which to read if he were not
waiting the result of an inquiry.
"Sir?" The receptionist looked up from the file. "The subject in question is not available at this time."
"Why not?"
"A matter of payment. Two installments have been missed and—"
"A lie!"
"Perhaps. An investigation will clear the matter. In the meantime she is being held in storage." The man came to
the counter, smiling. "A small delay, sir, no more. The records will have to he checked and the discrepancy isolated."
Dumarest said, "How much does he owe?"
"The installments came to—"
"The total?"
"The sum for outright purchase is ten thousand elmars. That naturally, includes the installments and full
compensation for storage and revival."
 It was too much. Dumarest knew it before Sufan Noyoka protested.
"Our agreement was for five thousand. My cargo has been sold for four and a half and I have the rest in cash. I
demand that you hold to our agreement."
"But of course, sir. The reputation of the Schell-Peng is well-known and all contracts will be honored. It is just a
matter of the records. Once we have made an investigation I'm sure that all will be well. A matter of a few days. I will
make a special clearance order on the query."
"I want the woman now!"
"That is impossible. Of course, if you have the full amount? No? Then, reluctantly, I must insist you exercise
patience. A few days, sir."
Dumarest's hand clamped on Sufan's arm as he was about to object. Quietly he said, "A few days? Well, at least it
will give us a chance to see the sights. What do you recommend?"
"The Signal Mount is very good at this time of year. I think you will enjoy it. And if you have a mind to ski the
Frendish Slopes are ideal."
"And a place to stay? Never mind," said Dumarest before the man could answer. "We'll find something. In three
days, then?"
"Yes, sir. That will be fine. Three days and all will be ready."
As they left, Dumarest glanced at the man reading the book. He was a slow reader. Not once had he turned a
page.
At night Chamelard turned into a frozen hell, the air crackling with cold, the thin wind which blew from the open
stretches touching with the burn of knives. Above, the stars burned with a cold ferocity, seeming to suck the warmth
from living flesh, the sprawling mass of the Hichen Cloud a malignant eye.
Hunched in his clothing Marek beat his gloved hands together, his voice a husky complaint.
"Earl, this is madness. Why don't we just wait?"
Something Dumarest dared not do. A night had passed, a day, and now on the second night time was running out.
Already he had waited too long, but Marek had needed to make inquiries as to the laboratory, assembling the parts of
a puzzle which he, with his talent, had built into a whole.
The structure and layout of the buildings. The probable paths any guards would take, the routine followed by the
staff, the strength of any opposition.
A gamble on which Dumarest was staking his life.
To wait on Chamelard was to be taken by the Cyclan. The Mayna was the only means by which he could leave—
and Sufan would not go without the mysterious woman. To steal her was the only answer.
Behind them Timus Omilcar swore as he slipped to fall heavily, rolling on the frost-hardened ground. The pack of
extra clothing on his back gave him the appearance of an ungainly beast. As he rose his voice was an angry mutter.
"How much further? Damn this cold! How can men survive such weather?"
Few did and less tried. The streets were deserted, each house firmly shuttered, the two illuminated only by
starlight. Ahead reared the bulk of the laboratories, walls of blank stone rising to the eaves of the pitched roof, the
doors sealed. No guards were visible and none were needed. No ordinary thief could use what the laboratory
contained.
"Wait!" Marek paused as they reached the nearest corner. "Let me orient myself." He turned, a thin plume of
vapor streaming from his mask, then grunted and stepped forward. The wall dropped, rose, swung to the right.
Beyond a narrow extension which left the main structure like a wing lay a circular expanse. "Here!"
"Are you sure?" The engineer lurched forward. "It looks all the same to me."
Dumarest said nothing. If a mistake had been made then all would be lost, but he had to trust the man's abilities.
His neck, also, would be at risk.
"If the woman is in storage she'll be beyond that wall," insisted Marek. "And if we don't get on with it and soon
we might as well join her. My hands are numb. Earl?"
"Up," said Dumarest. "Against the wall, Timus."
He climbed the man's shoulders, standing facing the wall as Marek swarmed up the living ladder, to grip the eave
and to pull himself onto the roof. Dumarest gripped the rope he lowered, climbed it, hauled the engineer up after him.
Together, crouching against the wind, they moved over the slabbed tiles, halting at Marek's signal.
"Here," he muttered. "And for God's sake hurry. This wind is killing me."
From a pack Dumarest took a laser and held it close as the beam ate through the stone. Little flecks of molten
rock, caught by the wind, rose to burn like dying stars. Wedging his knife into the burned slot Dumarest completed
the circle and levered up the freed portion. Below lay thick insulation, beyond it a gap faced with sheets of plastic.
Penetrating it they were through and into the building.
The roof was a dozen feet above the floor of a chamber illuminated by a soft, blue light. In it a double row of
caskets ran along facing walls. One end of the room was blank, the other pierced by a wide door, now closed. No
guards were in attendance.
"Earl?" Timus's voice was a whisper.
"It's safe."
Dumarest swung himself through the opening and dropped lightly to the floor. As the others joined him he
handed the laser to the engineer, gestured, and as the man went to weld fast the door, moved quickly along the rows
of caskets. Most were empty, those with occupants sealed, each container emblazoned with a number.
"Here!" called Marek softly. "XV2537. Right?"
The number Sufan had given and the receptionist had not lied. Through the transparent lid Dumarest could see a
female shape, details blurred by a film of frost. Carefully he checked the installation, taking the time despite the need
for haste. The chamber could be monitored and, at any moment a guard could check the scanner. Even their own
body heat, raising the temperature in the vicinity of the casket, could trigger an alarm.
"Can you manage it, Earl?" The door welded, the engineer had come to stand at his side.
"Yes." The equipment was sophisticated and better than that found on ships, but that was to be expected. It was
meant to handle men, not beasts, and valuable property needed to be treated with care. "Drag some of those empty
caskets under the hole so we can climb to the roof. Marek, stand by the door and signal if you hear anyone
approach."
As they ran to obey Dumarest activated the mechanism and set the reviving cycle into motion.
At first nothing could be seen aside from the flash of a signal lamp telling of invisible energies at work. Within the
casket eddy currents warmed the frigid body, penetrating skin and flesh and bone to heat it uniformly throughout.
Then the heart stimulator, the pulmotor to activate the lungs, the drugs to numb the pain of returning circulation.
Without them she would scream her lungs raw with agony.
Minutes which dragged but could not be hastened.
"Earl!" Marek called from his position at the door. "Someone's coming."
A routine check or a guard investigating an alarm? Either made no difference, when the door refused to open he
would summon others. It jarred as if to a blow, jarred again, the metallic clanging sounding oddly loud in the silence
of the chamber.
"That's it!" Timus sucked in his breath and looked at the hole in the roof. "They've found us. Do we make a run for
it, Earl?"
"No. Get that spare clothing ready."
Naked, the woman would have to be protected against the external cold. As the door jarred to a renewed impact
Dumarest stared at the casket, mentally counting seconds. Soon now. It had to be soon.
The lid hissed open as the door bulged inward.
"Get her out, dressed, and up to the roof," snapped Dumarest. "Timus, give me the laser."
He ran back to the door as the others set to work, using the beam to set new welds, fusing metal into a composite
whole in a dozen places around the panel. He ducked as heat seared his face, the beam of an external laser turning
the metal red, sending molten droplets falling like rain.
Within seconds they would have burned a hole in the panel exposing the chamber to their fire. Stepping back,
Dumarest aimed and triggered the laser, sending the beam through the opening, hearing a cry of pain, a man's savage
curse.
"My arm!"
"Stand aside, fool!"
A momentary delay during which another would have to pick up the fallen laser and get it into operation.
Dumarest turned and ran down the chamber. The others had vanished through the hole in the roof. Reaching the
casket, which had been dragged beneath it, he sprang, hit the top, continued the movement upward, his hands
catching the edges of the hole, lifted him up and into the space beneath the roof. As he moved on upward the beam
of a laser burned the plastic an inch from the heel of his boot.

***

"Earl!" Timus called as Dumarest emerged from the roof into the starlight. "Which way?"
They were crouched on the steep pitch of the roof, the woman a shapeless bundle in the engineer's arms. Marek,
sprawled to one side, panted like a dog, his head wreathed in pluming vapor.
"Up and over!" Dumarest pointed to the ridge. "Drop on the other side and run. Move!"
"And you?"
"I'll follow."
 The guards were too close—already they must have reached the hole and within seconds would have made an
appearance. Unless stopped they would have a clear target. As the others scrabbled up the slope Dumarest crouched
at the edge of the opening, lying flat, his hands stiffened, the fingers held close, the palms rigid.
Tensely he waited, hearing a man's panting breath, the sound of movement, a rasp as something metallic tore at
the insulation beneath the tiles. A hand appeared holding a gun, an arm followed by a head, the face pale in the
starlight. As the man turned toward him Dumarest was already in motion, his left hand reaching, chopping at the
wrist, the gun falling to slide clattering over the tiles as his right hand stabbed like a blunted spear at the point of the
neck beneath the ear.
A blow which numbed and paralyzed, robbing the man of speech and motion so that he hung limp in the
opening, blocking it against his companions.
Before they could clear the obstruction Dumarest had reached the ridge, was over it, sliding down the steep slope
to the edge of the roof, hurtling over it to land heavily, rolling on the frosty ground. As a siren blasted the air he was
up and running.
Ahead he saw the others, Marek running with a lithe grace, the engineer puffing, hampered by his burden.
"Well never make it!" he said as Dumarest reached his side. "There'll be lights, guards—and we've a long way to
go."
"Keep moving. Head straight for the ship and get ready to leave. Hurry!"
"But—"
"Move, damn you! Move!"
Alerted, the guards would be streaming from the building to surround the area. Their only hope lay in speed, but
speed wasn't enough. Soon there would be lights, and unless they were distracted, the guards would quickly run them
down. Dumarest slowed as a blaze of light came from the open door of the building, turning to run toward it, across
it, away from the others. He heard a yell, a shouted command, and the ruby guide-beam of a laser reached toward
him.
It missed as he dived toward a low mound, dropping behind it to run, to rise and deliberately expose himself
against the stars, to drop and run again as men chased after him.
A long chase during which he led them from the others making a wending path back to town, once feeling the
burn of a near miss as a laser touched the edge of his clothing, beating out the small fire with his gloved hand.
At the field two men stood at the gate, a third running toward them as Dumarest approached. Too many men to
be out in such weather. Beyond them he could see the open port of the Mayna, Marek standing in the entrance.
"Mister?" A man stepped toward him as Dumarest neared the gate. "Just a moment. You from that ship?"
He fell, doubled and retching as Dumarest kicked him in the stomach. His companion, reaching for something in
his pocket, followed as a stiffened hand slashed at his throat. The third man, halting, backed, lifting something which
gleamed in the starlight.
"You there! Move and I'll burn you!"
He was too far to be reached and to run was to be crippled, at least. Then, from where he stood in the open port,
Marek screamed.
It was a sound startling in its sheer unexpectedness. A raw, wordless shriek as if from a stricken beast, and
instinctively, the armed man turned toward it, the gun lifting against the threat. A moment of inattention, but it was
enough. Before he could realize his error Dumarest was on him, ducking low as the weapon fired, rising to knock it
aside with a sweep of his left hand, the clenched fist of the right driving into the fabric covering the mouth, feeling
bone yield as the man went down.
"Earl!" shouted Marek. "More are coming. Hurry!"
Dumarest ran toward the ship, hearing shouts from behind, the roar of aimed weapons. Against lasers he would
have stood no chance, but they were armed with missile throwers, and dodging, he made a poor target. A bullet
kicked dirt close to his foot, another hummed like a bee past his ear, a third slammed against the hull.
Then, as he passed through the port, a bullet struck the edge of the opening, whined with a vicious ricochet to
slam against his temple and send him falling into a bottomless pit of darkness.

Chapter Nine
He woke to find Usan Labria at his side. She said, "How do you feel, Earl?"
"Your turn to ask the questions?"
"That's right. And my turn to look after you. Well?"
Dumarest stretched. He lay on his cot, nude but for shorts, and beneath the fingers he rested on the bulkhead he
could feel the unmistakable vibration of the Erhaft Field. He felt well aside from a ravenous hunger and could guess
the reason.
"Slow-time?"
"Yes:" The woman held a steaming cup and handed it to him. "I guess you could use this."
It was the basic food of spacemen, a liquid sickly with glucose, heavy with protein, laced with vitamins. A
measure would provide nourishment for a day. A unit in the base of the container kept it warm.
As he drank she said, "You were lucky. A fraction to the left and the bullet would have spattered your brains. As it
was you had a torn scalp and a minor fracture."
"Then why the slow-time?"
"Why not? There's no point in suffering if you don't have to. I made Sufan provide it a day after we left You've
been under five hours, close to seven days subjective."
Eight days total in which his body had healed, seven of them due to the acceleration of his metabolism provided
by the drug. The reverse of quick-time. Dumarest sat upright, touching his temple, feeling nothing but the scab of the
newly healed wound. One eight days old, the injury mending while he had lain in drugged unconsciousness.
"Still hungry?" Usan Labria had a second cup. She handed it to him, talking while he drank, this time more slowly.
"Acilus left as soon as the port was sealed. Sufan insisted and I think he was right. Those men intended to get you."
"Guards from the Schell-Peng."
"No." She was positive. "They weren't from the laboratory. Those that came later, maybe, but not the ones waiting
at the gate. They didn't try to stop the others and had no interest in the girl. They were after you, Earl, and I think you
knew it. The question is, why?"
She was too shrewd and a woman with her desperation posed a perpetual danger. Once she even guessed he
could provide what she needed how could he trust her?
"You're guessing," he said. "But if you find the answer let me know."
"So it's none of my business. Is that it?" She shrugged. "Well, have it your own way."
Setting down the empty cup Dumarest rose, breathing deeply, expanding his chest so that the thin tracery of
scars on his torso shone livid in the light. He felt a momentary weakness, the result of days of inactivity as his hunger
was the result of days of starvation.
"I didn't bother to give you intravenous feeding," said Usan. "A man like you can afford to starve for a while." Her
eyes roved his body, lingering on the scars. "A fighter," she mused. "I'd guessed as much. Naked blades in the ring to
first-blood or death. And you learned the hard way."
Young, inexperienced, earning money in the only way he could. Saving his life by natural speed, taking wounds,
killing to the roar of a mob. Bearing now the signs of his tuition.
Dressed, he said, "Where is the girl?"
"In the cabin next to Sufan's. She was in a bad way when Timus carried her in. The shock of revival coupled with
exposure—for a while we thought she'd die."
"And?"
"She recovered. Sufan worked on her and Pacula acted as nurse. She's all right now." Usan hesitated, "But there's
something wrong with her, Earl. She isn't normal."
"In what way?"
"She—oh, to hell with it, let Sufan explain."
He answered the door when Dumarest knocked at the cabin and stepped outside and into the corridor, speaking
quickly, his voice low.
"I'm glad to see you on your feet, Earl. You had me worried for a time, that wound looked nasty and any blow on
the head can give rise to complications."
"The girl?"
"Inside. You did well getting her out—but don't expect too much. Remember that her talent is extremely rare, and
always, there is a price to pay for such an attribute as she possesses. She—" He broke off, his eyes darting, glinting
like the scales of fish in a sunlit pool, touching Dumarest, the woman at his side, the light above, the deck, his hands.
"When you see her, Earl, be gentle. It is not quite what it seems."
"What isn't?"
Then, as the man hesitated, Usan Labria said harshly, "Why don't you tell him, Sufan? Why be so delicate? Earl,
the girl is blind!"

***

She stood against the far Wall of the cabin, tall, dressed in a simple white gown caught at the waist with a
cincture of gold. A dress Pacula had provided as she had tended the mane of fine, blonde hair, which gathered, hung
in a shimmering tress over the rounded left shoulder. As she had painted the nails of hands and naked feet a warm
crimson and bathed and scented the contours of the ripely feminine body.
A warm and lovely creature—and blind!
Dumarest saw the eyes, milky orbs of gleaming opalescence, edged with the burnish of lashes, set high and deep
above prominent cheekbones. The mouth was full, the lower lip sensuous, the chin delicately pointed.
A face he had never seen before but one which held haunting traces of familiarity.
"You noticed it too," said Pacula quietly. She moved to stand beside the girl. "Usan remarked on it. She said we
could almost be sisters."
"A coincidence," said Sufan Noyoka quickly. "It can be nothing else. My dear, this is Earl Dumarest. He brought
you to us."
Dumarest stepped forward and took the lifted hand, holding it cupped in his own as if it were a delicate bird.
"My lady."
"She has no name," said Pacula. "Only a number."
"Then why not give her one? Cul—"
"No," she interrupted fiercely. "Not Culpea. That belongs to my daughter."
"I was going to say Culephria," said Dumarest mildly. "After a world similar to Chamelard."
"No, it is too much the same. And she cannot be Culpea, she is too old. Much too old."
A fact obvious when looking at her. The missing girl had been twelve, this woman was at least twice that age.
"We'll call her Embira," said Usan. "I once had—we'll call her Embira. Would you like that, my dear?"
"It sounds a nice name. Embira. Embira. Yes, I like it."
Her voice was soft, almost childish in its lack of emotional strength, matching the smooth, unmarked contours of
her face. Dumarest watched as Pacula guided her to a chair. She sat as a child would sit, very upright, hands cradled
in her lap. Her eyes, like fogged mirrors, stared directly ahead, adding to the masklike quality of her features.
Dumarest gestured Sufan Noyoka from the cabin. When the door had closed behind them he said flatly, "A blind
girl—you expect her to guide us to Balhadorha?"
"Not blind, Earl, not in the way you mean. I told you she had an attribute. She can see, but not as we can. Her
mind can register the presence of matter and energy far better than any instrument. She—"
"How did you know about her?"
"I have my ways. And the Schell-Peng laboratories have theirs. They took her when young and trained and
developed her talent. A rare mutation or an unusual gene diversion—the results are all that matter. Enough that she is
with us and already we are approaching the Hichen Cloud. Soon she will guide us. Soon, Earl, we shall reach our
goal."
A statement of conviction or hope? Dumarest said, "If the girl can't do as you say, we are all heading toward
destruction. How can you be certain she has the attribute you claim?"
"She has it." Sufan made a small gesture of confidence. "I trust the Schell-Peng."
"I don't." Dumarest jerked open the door of the cabin. "Pacula. Usan, please step outside. I want to talk to the girl
alone."
"What do you intend?" Pacula was suspicious. "If—"
"Don't be a fool!" snapped Usan impatiently. "Earl has his reasons and he won't hurt her. Let him do as he wants. I
trust him if you don't."
Alone with the girl, Dumarest stood for a moment with his back to the closed door, then stepped to where she
sat.
Abruptly he moved his hand toward her eyes, halting his fingers an inch from the blank orbs.
"You almost touched me," she said evenly.
"You felt the wind?"
"That and more, Earl. I may call you that?"
"Yes, Embira, but how did you know it was me?"
His tread, perhaps, sharp ears could have distinguished it. His odor, the normally undetectable exudations from
his body, recognized by a dog so why not by a girl trained to use the rest of her senses?
"Your aura," she said. "I can tell your aura. You carry metal and wear more. The others do not."
The knife he carried in his boot and the mesh buried in the plastic of his clothing. An electronic instrument could
have determined as much—was she no more than that?
Stepping back from the chair Dumarest said, "I am going to move about the cabin. Tell me where I am and, if
possible, what I am doing."
He moved toward the door, stepped to the right, the left, approached her and retreated and, each time, she
correctly gave his movement. A small block of clear plastic stood on a table, an ornament containing an embedded
flower. He picked it up, tossed it, threw it suddenly toward her.
His aim had been good, it missed her face by more than an inch, but she had made no effort to ward off the
missile.
"Did you see that?"
"See?"
"Observe, sense, become aware." Baffled he sought for another word to explain sight. "Determine?"
"Krang," she said. "At the laboratory they called it krang. No, I could not krang it."
"Why not?"
"It had no aura."
Plastic and a dead flower, yet both were mass and a radar installation would have been able to track the path of
the object. Too small, perhaps? A matter of density?
He said, "How many others ride this ship?"
"Seven." Frowning, she added, "I think, seven. One is hard to determine. His aura is hazed and lost at times."
The engineer, his aura diffused by the energies emitted by the generator—if she was registering raw energy. If
she could see, or krang it.
Sitting on the cot Dumarest tried to understand. A mind which could determine the presence of energy or mass
if it was large or dense enough. Every living thing radiated energy, every machine, every piece of decaying matter. To
be blind to the normal spectrum of light, yet to be able to "see" the varying auras of fluctuating fields, to isolate them,
to state their movements against the background of other auras.
What else was normal sight? Only the terminology was different. He saw in shape and form and color, she
distinguished patterns. He saw solid objects of isolated mass, she recognized force fields and stress-complexes,
"auras" of varying size, hue, and form.
Sufan's guide to find a dream.
He said, "Embira, how long were you with the Schell-Peng?"
"All my life."
"As far back as you can remember, you mean. They wouldn't have taken you as a baby. Was your past never
mentioned?"
"No, Earl. They trained me. Always they trained me, and sometimes they hurt me. I think they did things—" Her
hands lifted toward her face, her eyes. "No. I can't remember."
It was kinder not to press. Rising, Dumarest said, "I want to examine you, Embira. I may touch you, do you
mind?"
"No."
Her face turned up toward him as he lifted fingers beneath her chin, the cheeks petal-smooth, the forehead
unlined. Her skin was warm with a velvet softness and the perfume Pacula had sprayed onto her hair rose to engulf
him in a scented cloud. Carefully he studied her eyes, seeing no sign of scars or adapted tissue. The balls seemed to
be covered with an opaque film shot with lambent strands, the irises and pupils invisible.
"Earl, your hands, they are so firm."
"I won't hurt you. Can you move your eyes? No? Never mind."
The gown had long sleeves. He lifted them and looked at the expanse of her arms.
"Do you want to see the rest of me, Earl?" Her voice was innocent of double meaning. "Shall I undress?"
"No, that won't be necessary. Do you know why you are here, Embira?"
"Sufan Noyoka told me. I am to guide you."
"Can you?"
"I don't know, Earl, but I will try. I will do anything you want."
"No, Embira," he said, harshly. "Not what I want. Not what Sufan Noyoka wants or any other person. You're not a
slave. You do as you want and nothing else. You understand?"
"But I was bought—"
"You were stolen," he interrupted. "You belong to no one but yourself. You owe nothing to anyone."
A lesson he tried to drive home. The girl was too vulnerable and had yet to be armored against the cruel reality
of life.
For a long moment she sat, silent, then said, slowly, "You mean well, Earl, I know that. But you are wrong. I do
owe you something. But only you, Earl. For you I would do anything."
A child speaking with an unthinking innocence, unaware of the implication, the unspoken invitation. Then,
looking at her, he realized how wrong that was. She was not a child but a fully mature woman with all a woman's
instincts. His touch had triggered a response to his masculinity; a biochemical reaction as old as time.
 Aware of his scrutiny she said, "At the laboratories they told me I was very beautiful. Am I?"
"Yes."
"And you like me?"
"You're a member of this expedition. I like you no more and no less than the others."
Outside the cabin Pacula was waiting, Marek at her side. As she brushed past Dumarest and closed the door he
smiled.
"The girl has stimulated her maternal instincts, Earl. Twice I had to stop her from interfering. And, of course,
there could be a touch of jealously. The girl is very lovely, don't you agree?"
Dumarest said, "I owe you thanks."
"For the scream? It was nothing, a diversion created without personal danger, and it amused me to see you
overcome those men." Pausing, Marek added casually, "One other thing, Earl. It might interest you to know we are
being followed."
"A ship?"
"From Chamelard. It left shortly after we did, but don't worry, we are pulling ahead. And contact is impossible. A
small accident to the radio, you understand. I thought it wise."
How much did the man know or suspect? A lover of puzzles, a man proud of his talent, could he have
associations with the Cyclan? And Dumarest could guess what the following ship contained. A cyber who had
predicted his movements and had arrived on Chamelard a little too late.
He said, "The Schell-Peng must be eager for revenge."
"That's what I thought." Marek's eyes were bland. "And with a captain like ours it would be stupid to take
chances. He would think nothing of cooperating if the reward were high enough. Us evicted, the girl handed over,
money received, the Mayna his without question—why should he risk his neck searching for a legendary world?"
A facile explanation and, Dumarest hoped, a true one. But from a man who courted danger?
A matter of degree, he decided. The risk of betrayal was nothing against the perils that waited for them in the
Hichen Cloud.

Chapter Ten
The first shock came ten days later, a jerk as if the vessel had been struck by a giant hand, and as the alarms
shrilled Dumarest ran to the control room. The girl was already at her station, sitting in a chair behind the one
occupied by Rae Acilus.
The captain was curt. "There is no place for you here, Earl."
"I want him to stay." Embira reached out and took his hand, groping until he placed his fingers within her own.
"Earl, you stay with me?"
"I'll stay."
"Then don't interfere." Acilus's voice was the rap of a martinet. "I've enough to think about as it is. Jarv?"
The navigator was at his post, Sufan Noyoka at his side. On all sides massed instruments hummed and flashed in
quiet efficiency; electronic probes and sensors scanning the void, a computer correlating the assembled information,
mechanical brains, eyes and fingers which alone could guide the vessel on its path from star to star.
Again the ship jerked, warning bells ringing, the alarms dying as the captain hit a switch. An impatient gesture
born of necessity—within the Cloud the alarms would be constant.
Dumarest stared at the picture depicted on the screens.
He had been in dust clouds before, riding traders risking destruction for the sake of profit, and had no illusions as
to the dangers they faced. The space ahead, filled with broken atoms and minute particles of matter was an
electronic maelstrom. Opposed charges, building, wrenched the very fabric of the continuum and altered the normal
laws of space and time. Only by delicate questing and following relatively safe paths could a vessel hope to survive
and always was the danger of shifting nodes of elemental force, which could turn a ship into molten ruin, rip it, turn it
inside out, crush it so as to leave the crew little more than crimson smears.
And the Mayna was going too fast. Sufan had placed too much faith in the girl's ability.
"Up!" she said. "Quickly!"
Ahead space looked normal, the instruments registering nothing but a dense magnetic field, but the forces which
affected the registers could affect human brains so eyes saw other than reality.
"Obey!" snapped Sufan as the captain hesitated. "Follow Embira's instructions at all times without hesitation."
The ship sang as, too late, the captain moved his controls. A thin, high-pitched ringing which climbed to the
upper limit of audibility and beyond. Dumarest felt the pain at his ears, saw ruby glitters sparkle from the telltales,
then it was over as they brushed the edge of the danger.
Opposing currents which had vibrated the hull as if it had been a membrane shaken by a wind. Yet, around them,
space seemed clear.
"Left," she said and then quickly, "and down!"
This time Acilus obeyed without delay.
Dumarest said, "What route are we following?"
As yet Sufan had been mysterious, conferring with Jarv Nonach and Marek Cognez alone, making computations
and avoiding questions. Hugging the secret of his discovery as if it were a precious gem. But now Dumarest wanted
answers.
"Tell me, Sufan. How do we find Balhadorha?"
"We must reach the heart of the Cloud," said the man reluctantly. "There are three suns in close proximity and the
Ghost World should be at the common point between them."
"Should be?"
"Will be?" Sufan blazed his impatience. "For years I have devoted my life to this matter. Trust me, Earl. I know
what I'm doing." He stared at the paper in his hand, muttering to the navigator, then said, "Captain, you are off
course. The correct path lies fifteen degrees to the left and three upward. There will be a star. Approach it to within
fifteen units then take course…"
Dumarest glanced at the girl as the man rattled a stream of figures. She was sitting, tense, her blind eyes
gleaming in the subdued lighting. Her fingers, gripping his own, were tight.
"Earl?"
"I'm here, Embira. You know that. You can feel my hand."
"Your hand!" She lifted it to her cheek and held it hard against the warm velvet of her skin. "It's hard to krang you,
Earl. The auras are so bright and there are so many of them. Hold me! Never let me go!"
A woman afraid and with good reason. For her normal matter did not exist, it was an obstruction, unseen, known
only by touch. Instead there was a mass of lambent glows and, perhaps, shifting colors. Now she sat naked among
them, conscious of lethal forces all around, denied even the comfort of the solid appearance of the protective hull.
The metal, to her, would be a haze shot with streamers of probing energy, startling, hurting, the cause of fear and
terror.
"The left!" she said abruptly. "No, the right, quickly. Quickly. Now up! Up!"
Her voice held confusion, one which grew as the hours dragged past and, beneath his hand, Dumarest could feel
her mounting tension.
He said, "The girl must have rest."
Acilus turned, snarling, "Earl, damn you, I warned you not to interfere!"
"This is madness. The instruments are confused and we're practically traveling blind."
"The girl—"
"Is only human and can think only at human speed. She's tired and has no chance to assess what she discovers.
We're deep in the Cloud now. Slow down and give her a chance to rest."
"And if I don't?"
"It's my life as well as yours, Captain." Dumarest met the hooded eyes, saw the hands clench into fists as they left
the controls. "Maintain control!" he rapped. "Acilus, you fool!"
Embira screamed. "Turn! Turn to the right! Turn!"
Again no danger was visible or registered in the massed instruments but as the ship obeyed the delayed action of
the captain, telltales blazed in a ruby glow, the vessel itself seeming to change, to become a profusion of crystalline
facets, familiar objects distorted by the energies affecting the sensory apparatus of the brain. A time in which they
had only the guide of the girl's voice calling directions.
One in which the air shook to the sudden screaming roar from the engine room, Timus's voice yelling over the
intercom.
"The generator! It's going!"
"Cut it!" shouted Dumarest. "Cut it!"
The ship jarred as the order was obeyed, the normal appearance returning as the field died. Slumped in her chair
the girl shuddered, her free hand groping, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"The pain," she whispered. "Earl, the pain!"
"It's all right," he soothed. "It's over."
"Earl!"
He pressed her hands, soothing with his presence, his face grim as he looked at the screens. The field was down,
they were drifting in the Cloud and, if the generator was ruined, they were as good as dead.
 ***

Marek sat in the salon, outwardly calm, only the slight tremor of his hands as he toyed with a deck of cards
revealing his inner tension.
"So we gamble, Earl, hoping that we escape danger while we drift." He turned a card and pursed his lips. "The
captain is not happy."
"To hell with him."
"You abrogated his command. He would not have cut the generator."
"He forgot what he was doing. He let anger overcome him."
"True, but Rae Acilus is a hard man, Earl, and he will not forget the slight. You shamed him before others. If the
opportunity rises I suggest that you kill him before he kills you." He added meaningfully, "There are others who can
run the ship."
"Such as?"
"You, perhaps, my friend. And Nonach has some ability." He turned another card. "And I am not without talent."
A possibility and Dumarest considered it. One successful flight would be enough—and no captain was immortal.
Others had taken over command before, need replacing trained skill. As long as they could land and walk away from
the wreck it would be enough.
But first, the ship had to be repaired.
Pacula looked up from where she sat at the side of the cot as Dumarest looked into Embira's cabin. The girl was
asleep, twitching restlessly, one hand clenched, the other groping. He touched it and immediately she quieted.
"She's overstrained," said Pacula accusingly. "What did you do to her in the control room?"
"Nothing."
"But—"
"She was performing her part," he interrupted curtly. "This isn't a picnic, Pacula. And she isn't made of glass to be
protected. We need her talent if we hope to survive. How is Usan?"
The woman had suffered another attack and lay now on her cot. Like the girl she was asleep, but her rest was due
to drugs and exhaustion. Dumarest stooped over her, touched the prominent veins in her throat, felt the clammy
texture of her skin.
Pacula said, "Is she dying?"
"We are all dying."
"Don't play with words, Earl." She was irritable, annoyed at having been taken from her charge. "Will she
recover?"
Already she was living on borrowed time, but her will to live dominated the weakness of her body.
Dumarest said, "Drug her. Keep her unconscious. Worry will increase the strain she is under and—"
"If we're all to die she needn't know it." Pacula was blunt. "Is that it, Earl? Your brand of mercy?"
"You have a better?"
She looked into his eyes and saw what they held, the acceptance of the harsh universe in which he lived, one
against which she had been protected all her life. Who was she to condemn or judge?
"You think a lot of Usan, Earl. Why? Does she remind you of your grandmother? Your mother?"
"I remember neither."
"She saved your life with her lies. Is that it?" And then, as he made no answer, she said bleakly, "Well, now it's up
to you to save hers."
"Not me," he said. "Timus Omilcar."
The engineer was hard at work. Stripped to the waist he had head and shoulders plunged into the exposed
interior of the generator. As Dumarest entered the engine room he straightened, rubbing a hand over his face, his
fingers leaving thick, black smears.
"Well?"
"It could be worse." Timus stretched, easing his back. "You gave the order just in time. A few more seconds and
the entire generator would be rubbish. As it is we're lucky. Two units gone but we saved the rest."
Good news, but the main question had yet to be answered. Dumarest stepped to where wine rested in a rack on
the bench, poured a glass, handed it to the engineer. As the man drank he said, "Can it be repaired?"
"Given time, yes. We carry spares. Have we time?"
"We're drifting, but you know that. The girl's asleep, so there could be danger we know nothing about and could
do nothing to avoid if we did. As it is space seems clear and we're safe."
"For how long?"
 Dumarest shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. An hour. A day. Who can tell?"
Timus finished his wine and reached for the bottle. Dumarest made no objection, the man was fatigued, he would
burn the alcohol for fuel.
"A hell of a way to end, Earl. Waiting for something to smash you to a pulp or smear you like a bug on a wall. At
least that would be fast. I saw a man once, in a hospital on Jamhar. The sole survivor of a ship which had been caught
in a space storm. Their field had collapsed and the vessel wrecked, but he'd been in the hold and was found." He
drank half the wine. "He wasn't human, Earl. One arm was like a claw and his head looked like a rotten melon. They
kept him alive with machines and ran endless tests. Wild tissue and degenerate cells, they said. The basic
protoplasmic pattern distorted by radiation. They should have let him die."
"So?"
"It could already have happened to us, Earl. We could end as monsters."
"Maybe, but we aren't dead yet so why worry about it?" Dumarest filled an empty glass and lifted it in a toast. "To
life, Timus. Don't give it up before you have to."
"No." The engineer drew a deep breath. "I guess I'm just tired. Well, to hell with it. I knew the risks when I joined
up with this expedition."
The man had relaxed long enough. Dumarest said, "How long will it take to repair the generator?"
"Days, Earl. A week at least. It isn't enough just to replace the units. The generator has to be cleaned, checked,
the new parts tuned—say six days not counting sleep."
"And if I help?"
"Six days, Earl. I assumed you would be." Timus added bleakly, "It's too long. We can't push our luck that far. It's a
bust, Earl. We haven't the time."
But they could get it. Drugs would delay the need for sleep and slow-time would stretch minutes into hours.
Timus blinked as Dumarest mentioned it.
"Now why the hell didn't I think of that? Slow-time. You have it?"
"Sufan has. You've used it before? No? Well just remember to be careful. You'll be touching things at forty times
the normal speed and what you imagine to be a tap will be a blow which could shatter your hand. And keep eating. I'll
lay on a supply of basic and Marek can deliver more. Get things ready—and no more wine."
"No wine." The engineer swallowed what was left in his glass then said meaningfully, "How long, Earl?"
"For what?"
"You know what I'm getting at. How long are we going to look for Balhadorha? Sufan's crazy and will keep us at it
until we rot I'm willing to take a chance but there has to be a limit. If it hadn't been for you we'd be as good as dead
now. A thing like that alters a man's thinking. Money's fine, yes, but what good is a fortune to a dead man?"
If a fortune was to be found at all. If the Ghost World existed. If the whole adventure was something more than a
crazed dream born and nurtured over the years, fed by a feverish imagination.
"We've come too far to turn back now," said Dumarest. "We'll keep looking. Well go to where Sufan swears the
Ghost World is to be found."
"And if it isn't?"
"Then we'll keep going."
To the far side of the Hichen Cloud, to a new world where he wouldn't be expected, to lose himself before the
Cyclan could again pick up his trail.

***

"Up!" said Embira. "Up!" And then, almost immediately, "To the left! The left!"
She sat like a coiled spring, muscles rigid beneath the soft velvet of her skin, hands clenched, blind eyes wide so
that they seemed about to start from their sockets. Thin lines of fatigue marred the smooth contours of her features
and her hair, in disarray, hung like a tarnished skein of gold.
Standing beside her Dumarest felt the ache and burn of overstrained muscles, the dull protest of nerve and
sinew. Days had passed since the repair and he had slept little since the period of concentrated effort. Timus was in
little better condition, but he had rested while Dumarest had attended the girl. She had refused to work without him
at her side.
"Left!" she said again. "Left!"
Ahead space blazed with a sudden release of energy, a sear of expanding forces which caused the instruments to
chatter and the telltales to burn red. Another danger averted by her quick recognition, but always there were more
and how long could they continue to escape?
Without turning Rae Acilus said, "We're almost at the heart of the Cloud. There are five suns—which are the
three?"
Crouched beside the navigator Sufan Noyoka studied his paper and conferred with Jarv Nonach. Their voices
were low, dull in the confines of the control room. The air held a heavy taint compounded of sweat and fear, their
faces, in the dull lighting, peaked and drawn.
"Those set closest, Captain. They are in a triangle set on an even plane. Head for the common point."
An instruction repeated, more for the sake of self-conviction than anything else. And yet the captain wasn't to be
blamed. During the nightmare journey all sense of orientation had been lost as the ship, like a questing mote, had
weaved its way on a tortuous path.
"Right!" said Embira. "Down! Up again!"
Directions sharpened by her fear, but for how long would she be able to retain the fine edge of judgment without
which they had no chance? Dumarest dropped his hand to her shoulder, pressed gently on the warm flesh. Beneath
his fingers she relaxed a little.
"Can you krang the planet, Embira? Is there anything there?"
"No. I—yes. Earl! I can't be sure!"
Another problem to add to the rest. A planet had mass and should have stood out like a beacon to her talent, but
the suns were close and could have distorted her judgment.
"There could be nothing," said the captain. "If there isn't—"
"There is! There has to be!" Sufan would admit of no possibility of failure. "Search, Captain! Get to the common
point and look!"
The suns were monstrous, tremendous solar furnaces glowing with radiated energy, one somberly red, one a
vibrant orange, the other burning with an eye-searing violet. Acilus guided the vessel between them, his hands deft on
the controls, sensing more by instinct than anything else the path of greatest safety.
"Jarv?"
"Nothing." The navigator checked his instruments. "No register."
"There has to be! Balhadorha is there, I know it! Look again!" Sufan's voice rose even higher, to tremble on the
edge of hysteria. "I can't be wrong! Years of study—look again!"
A moment as the navigator adjusted his scanners and then, "Yes! Something there!" His voice fell. "No. It's gone
again."
The Ghost World living up to its reputation, sometimes spotted, more often not. But instruments could be
unreliable and forces other than the gravity of a planet could have affected the sensors.
Dumarest said quietly, "Embira, we're relying on you. Be calm now. Try to eliminate all auras other than those in
the common point."
"Earl—I can't!"
"Try, girl! Try!"
For a moment she sat, strained and silent, then said, "Down a little. Down and to the right. No, too far. Up. Up—
now straight ahead."
The screens showed nothing, but that was to be expected, the world was too distant—if what she saw was a
world. And the scanners reported nothing.
"Only empty space," said Jarv bleakly. "Some radiation flux and an intense magnetic field, but that's all."
"Ahead," she said. "Up a little. Be careful! Careful!"
And then, suddenly, it was there.
The instruments blazed with warning light, the air shrilling to the sound of the emergency alarm, overriding the
cut-off in its desperate urgency. Acilus swore, strained at the controls, swore again as the Mayna creaked, opposed
forces tearing at the structure.
Large in the screens loomed the bulk of a world, small, featureless, devoid of seas and mountains, bearing a scab
of vegetation, an atmosphere, a city.

Chapter Eleven
It was cupped like a gem in the palm of surrounding hills, small and with a central spire which rose in a delicate
cone. A spire which fell to mounds set in an intricate array each as smoothly finished as the shell of an egg. On them
and the spire the light of the blue and yellow suns shone with rainbow shimmers so that Dumarest was reminded of a
mass of soap bubbles, the light reflected as if from a film of oil.
"It's beautiful!" whispered Pacula. "Beautiful!"
She stood with the others on the summit of a low mound. The ship lay behind them in a clearing of its own
making, a hacked path reaching from the mound to where it stood. To either side stretched a sea of vegetation;
shoulder-high bushes bearing lacelike fronds, some in flower, others bearing fruit. Underfoot rested a thick carpet of
mosslike undergrowth, broken stems oozing a pale-yellow sap.
The air was heavy, filled with a brooding stillness, the silence unbroken aside from their own sounds.
Embira said, "Earl! I'm afraid."
"Be calm, dear." Pacula was soothing. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
An assurance born of ignorance. The vegetation could hold predators, the city enemies, the metallic taint in the
air itself a warning of an abrupt, climatic change.
Sniffing at his pomander Jarv Nonach said dryly, "Well, we're here. What next?"
"We must investigate." Sufan Noyoka was impatient. "If anything of value is to be found it will be here. This city is
the only artificial structure on the planet."
Or, at least, the only one they had been able to distinguish. An oddity in itself—normal cities did not stand in
isolation—yet it was too large to be called a building, too elaborate to be a village. Dumarest narrowed his eyes,
studying the spire, the assembled mounds, his vision baffled by the shimmering light.
"It's deserted." Marek lowered his binoculars and handed them to Dumarest. "Empty."
Again an assumption which needn't be true. Dumarest adjusted the lenses and studied what he saw. The spire
and mounds were featureless, unbroken by windows or decoration. The entire complex was ringed with a wall a
hundred feet high, the ground around it bare for a width of two hundred yards. The soil was a dull gray, devoid of
stones or vegetation, smooth aside from ripples which could have been caused by wind. The wall itself was unpierced
by any sign of a door.
"Well?" Like Sufan Noyoka the captain was impatient. "Do we stand here and do nothing?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"We make an investigation." Dumarest lowered the binoculars. "Take the women back to the ship, Jarv also, and
wait while we make a circuit of the city?"
"Why me?" The navigator was suspicious. "Why not Sufan?"
"The both of you."
"Earl?"
For answer Dumarest lifted his machete and cut at a mass of vegetation. Slashed leaves fell beneath the keen
steel to reveal the slender bole. It parted to show a compact mass of fibers.
"Tough," he said flatly. "And neither of you is in good condition. We may have to run for it and you'll hamper us.
Timus, Marek, and I will cut a path to the edge of the clearing and make a circuit of the city."
"We could follow you."
"Later, yes, but not now." As the man hesitated Dumarest added sharply, "We can't all go. The ship must be
watched and the women protected." He added dryly, "Don't worry. If we find anything you'll know it."
The vegetation thickened a little as they descended the slope and it took an hour to cut a way to the clear area
surrounding the wall. Dumarest halted at the rim of the clearing, kneeling to finger the soil, frowning as he looked at
the clear line of demarcation. The dirt was gritty and felt faintly warm. The line was cut as if with a scythe, even the
mossy undergrowth ending in a neat line.
"Earl?"
"Nothing." Dumarest rose, dusting his hands. As the engineer made to step out into the open he caught the man's
arm. "No. We'll move around the edge and stay close to the vegetation."
"Why? The cleared ground will make the going easier."
"And reveal us to any who might be watching."
"There isn't anyone."
"We can't be sure of that."
"No," Timus admitted. "We can't. But if there is they must have seen us land. Curiosity alone would have brought
them outside or at least had them standing on the wall. Marek's right, Earl. The place is deserted."
And old. Dumarest could sense it as he led the way along the edge of the clearing. An impression heightened by
the utter lack of sound, the intangible aura always associated with things of great antiquity. How long had it lain
cupped in the palm of the hills? Given time enough it would vanish, buried beneath rain-borne dust, dirt carried by
the winds, the broken leaves of the surrounding vegetation drifting to land, to rot and lift the surface of the terrain.
Thousand of years, millions perhaps, but it would happen.
Were other cities buried beneath the surface of this world?

***
 Back at the ship Usan Labria said eagerly, "Well, Earl? What did you find?" She frowned as he told her. "Nothing?
Just a city with no apparent way to get inside?"
"That's all." Dumarest drew water from a spigot and carried the cup back to the table around which they sat. The
salon seemed cramped after the openness outside. "We made a complete circuit and studied the place from all
directions. From each it looked the same."
"Balhadorha!" Timus snorted his disgust. "The world of fabulous treasure. The planet on which all questions are
answered and all problems solved. So much for the truth of legend. All we have is an enigma."
"Which can be solved!" Sufan Noyoka was sharp. "What did you expect, men coming to greet us, giving us
fortunes as a gift? A pit filled with precious metals or trees bearing priceless gems? Legend distorts the truth, but
legend need not lie. Within that city could lie items of tremendous value."
If this world was Balhadorha. If the man hadn't followed a wrong lead and discovered a world not even hinted at
in legend. A possibility Dumarest didn't mention as he sat, listening to the others.
"We've got to get inside and quickly!" Usan Labria was insistent. The last attack had almost killed her, the next
might; she had no time to waste. "Can you lift the ship and set it down beyond that wall?"
"On those mounds? No." The captain was blunt. "We need level ground."
"Climb it, then?" Pacula looked from one to the other. "With ropes and pitons it should be possible."
"A hundred feet of sheer surface?" Timus shrugged. He was not a mountaineer.
"We could cut steps and make holds," she explained. "It shouldn't be hard. On Teralde, as a girl, I climbed higher
slopes than that."
"I've a better suggestion," said Jarv Nonach from behind his pomander. "Let's blow a way in. With explosives we
could break a hole in the wall."
"If it isn't too thick or too hard," agreed the engineer. Scowling he added, "We should have brought a raft with us.
Well, it's too late to wish that now. Earl?"
"I suggest we wait. There is too much we don't know about this world as yet. To rush in might be stupid."
"Wait? For how long?" Usan bit at her lower lip. "And for what purpose? We aren't interested in anything aside
from getting what we came to find. Blow the city to hell for all I care. Just let's get inside."
"And out again?" Dumarest set down his empty cup. "That's important, Usan, don't you think? To escape with the
wealth we hope to find."
"Of course, but—" She broke off, making a helpless gesture. "You said the place was deserted."
"Marek said that, and I agree it seems that way, but we can't be sure. A delay won't do any harm."
A delay she couldn't afford, and others were equally impatient. A symptom of the danger Sufan had hinted at, the
greed which blinded elementary caution.
"I say we blast a way in. Grab what we can and leave before anything can stop us." The navigator was definite.
Sneeringly he added, "I'm not afraid of what I can't see if others are."
"I agree," said Acilus. "I didn't come here to start at shadows."
"We have to decide." Sufan Noyoka's eyes darted from one to the other. "Earl could be right to anticipate
unknown dangers, but speed could be on our side. In any case we have no choice. How else to get within the city?"
Dumarest said quietly, "You're forgetting Marek Cognez."
"I'm glad someone remembered me." The man sat back in his chair, smiling. "To each his own. You, Captain,
brought us here. You, Jarv, and you Sufan, guided us with some help from others. Earl warns us. I solve puzzles. And
the city, as you said, Timus, is an enigma. One I find entrancing. Those who built it must have left. How? Did they
have wings? The shape of the city is against it—level areas are needed for landing."
"Birds fly," said Pacula. "They don't need flat areas on which to land."
"True, but birds don't build cities. We couldn't spot anything which could have been a perch. And after landing,
what then? Men do not walk on rounded surfaces and no creature finds it easy."
"There could be streets."
"True, we saw none but, I admit, they could be there. But think a moment. Imagine a city of mounds, not domes
but structures shaped like eggs. Only the central spire shows straight lines. Logic tells us that the streets, if present,
would be narrow and winding, overhung and unpleasant to walk on especially for a winged race. And the surrounding
clearing, what of that? Earl studied it. Earl?"
"A radioactive compound with a long half-life would have sterilized the soil," he said.
"Yes, but why?" Marek looked from face to face. "A part of the puzzle and a question which should be answered.
Given time I will answer it, but I must have time."
"We don't need answers," snapped the navigator. "Smash the wall and go in."
"And if the city isn't empty?"
 "Kill those inside."
"If they can be killed. But think a moment. Does a man leave his house unguarded? If the city holds treasure it
could be protected. If—"
"There are too many 'ifs.' " Rae Acilus slammed his hand hard on the table. "Marek, you say the city is deserted.
Right?"
"As far as I can determine, yes."
"So we have nothing to worry about from what could be inside. Our only problem is the wall. We can climb it or
blow a hole through it."
"Or burn one with lasers," said the engineer. "If it isn't too thick."
"A hundred feet high—it has to be thick. Now…"
Dumarest rose and left them arguing. Outside the blue sun was setting, the one of somber red lifting above the
horizon. Here there could be no night or time of darkness—always one or more of the suns would ride in the sky.
Without the sight of stars would those who had lived here have ever guessed at the tremendous majesty of the
universe? Had they grown introverted, using their skill and energy to turn one planet into a paradise instead of
forming a thousand into living hells? Was that the basis of the legend, the moral truth it held?
But if people had lived here what had happened to them? Where were those who had built and lived in the city?
"Earl?" He turned. Embira had come to join him at the open port. "Is that you, Earl?"
"Yes, couldn't you tell?"
"The metal," she said. "Of the hull and that you wear. They merge—is it you?"
For answer he took her hands. They were cold, trembling, a quiver which grew as suddenly she pressed herself
hard against him.
"Earl! Please!"
A woman lost and needing comfort. He held her close, one hand stroking the mane of her hair, the other about
her shoulders. Suffused by her femininity it was hard to remember she was blind, that she couldn't see his face, his
expression. That she knew him only as an aura distinguished by the metal he wore, the knife he carried.
"Earl!"
"I'm sorry." He eased the grip of his arm, a constriction born of protective tenderness. "Did I hurt you?"
"A little, but it was nice." She spoke with a warm softness. "Nice to feel you close to me, Earl. I feel safe when you
are. Less afraid."
"Still afraid, Embira?"
"It's this place, this world. It is so empty and the sky so threatening. Will we be leaving soon?"
"Yes, soon."
"And then, Earl?" She waited for the answer she hoped to hear, one he could not give. "Will you stay with me?
Will you?"
"For as long as necessary, Embira."
"I want you to stay with me for always. I never want to be without you. Earl, promise me that you will stay!"
"You should rest, Embira. You must be tired."
"And you?"
Deliberately he mistook her invitation. "I've work to do, Embira. I'm going to examine the area around the ship."

***

He walked a mile in a direct line from the city, cutting a path when the vegetation grew too dense, pausing often
to listen, dropping at times to rest his ear against the ground. The stillness was complete.
A heavy, brooding silence which was unnatural. The vegetation provided good cover for game and there should
have been small animals if not larger beasts, but he saw nothing, not even the trails such animals would have made.
The air, too, was devoid of birds and he could spot no sign of insects. The bushes must be hybrids, propagating from
roots alone, the flowers and fruits an unnecessary byproduct.
He cut one open and sniffed at the succulent mass of orange pulp. As he'd expected, it was seedless. The blooms
were the size of his opened hand, waxen petals of a pale amber laced with black. Like the fruits they had no
discernible odor.
The result of intensive cultivation, he decided, or a freak mutation which had spread to become dominant. The
moss would be a saprophyte, feeding on decaying leaves fallen from the bushes. Dead animals would also provide
food, and in the past perhaps, the moss had not waited for the beasts to die.
Back at the ship Dumarest learned a decision had been reached.
"Acilus is going to use explosives." Marek gestured toward the city. "He's taken Timus and Jarv with him and all
are loaded with charges."
"The captain overrode my authority." Sufan Noyoka radiated his anger. "The man is a fool. Who knows, what
damage he might do? What treasures might be lost? Earl, if we could talk?"
He led Dumarest to one side, out of earshot of Marek and the two women who stood at the open port. Embira,
asleep, was in her cabin.
"I am worried about the captain, Earl," said Sufan quickly. "He holds the loyalty of the crew. If he should break
into the city he might forget that I command this expedition."
"So?"
"Remember why you are here. The women will obey you—Marek too, perhaps—but if it comes to the need for
action strike first and strike hard." The man bared his teeth, his face grown ugly. "I will not be cheated by greedy
fools!"
"As yet you haven't been."
"No, but I am aware of the possibility. Go after them, Earl. If they breach the wall make them wait. I must be the
first into the city."
As was his right, and Dumarest was content to let another be the target for any unexpected danger. As he strode
down the hacked path Marek fell into step behind him.
"We tested the wall, Earl," he said. "While you were away. It is adamantine. Acilus hopes to penetrate it with
shaped charges but I doubt if the ship carries enough to do the job." Pausing, he added, "They are armed."
With the weapons carried in the hold—the captain would have thought of that. Guns to kill anything in the city—
or anyone who tried to stop him. Dumarest halted at the edge of the wide clearing. Against the wall Acilus was setting
packages, Timus at his rear, the navigator to one side. Their voices carried through the still air.
"Set another just above the first. Not there, Jarv, you fool, there!"
"A heavy charge, Captain."
"We could need it. The detonators?"
"Here." Small in the distance Timus held them out, watched as Acilus thrust them home.
"The fuse," he rapped. "Quickly."
There was no obvious need for speed, but Dumarest guessed the loom of the blank wall must have unnerved him,
the impression of watching eyes. He saw flame spring from the captain's hand, more flame sparkle from the length of
black fuse.
"That's it. Now run!"
Dumarest joined them as they reached the trail, following as they ran to the mound, dropping behind its shelter.
Marek dropped beside him. The engineer, panting for breath, said, "Fifty seconds. I've been counting. In less than a
minute it will blow."
"Why didn't you use an electronic detonator?"
"We tried, Earl, it didn't work. Don't ask me why. I wanted to rig a launcher but the captain was impatient." Timus
glanced to where Acilus crouched like an animal on the ground. "When he gets that way you can't argue with him.
Thirty seconds."
A time unnecessarily short but one which dragged. Jarv Nonach wheezed, sniffed at his pomander, stared up at
the sky.
"Five seconds." He frowned as they passed. "Minus three if I've counted right."
A navigator was accustomed to check the passage of time as a runner was of distance. His frown increased as
still the charges didn't blow.
"Thirty seconds, Captain. You sure you set the detonators correctly?"
"Shut your mouth!" Acilus's tone revealed his doubt. "We'll give it a while longer."
Another three minutes during which his patience became exhausted.
"Give me another fuse and some more detonators," he snapped. "I'll fix this."
"No!" Dumarest rose to catch his arm. "Don't be a fool, man! Give it more time. What are you using, impact
charges?"
"Safety plastic," said the engineer. "You could shoot a gun at it and it still wouldn't explode."
"Not if you hit a detonator?" Dumarest snatched the weapon from where it hung on the man's shoulder. "At least
it's worth a try."
The gun was cheap, a rapid-fire light machine gun meant to be cradled in the arms, used to lay a rain of bullets
without regard to accuracy. A short-range weapon good for street fighting but very little else. Dumarest lay on the
summit of the mound, checked the sights, and fired a burst at the charges. He might as well have fired into empty air.
"You're wasting time," said Acilus. "'You could shoot all day and never hit a thing. The fuse must have burned out.
We'll have to fix another."
 Dumarest fired again with no better result. As the magazine emptied he said, "Give me another."
"No!" The captain knocked aside the gun Jarv held upward. "We'll do it my way."
"Why bother?" Marek was bland. "There's a lot of wall," he reminded. "Why not move along it and try somewhere
else?"
"No need. The charges are set If the fuse hadn't burned out—"
"You can't be sure it did."
"To hell with you. I'm sure. Timus, Jarv, let's get at it!" Acilus sucked in his breath as neither moved. "Get on your
feet, damn you! That's an order!"
Timus said, "We're not in space now, Captain. You want to risk your neck, that's your business."
"Jarv?" His eyes were murderous as the navigator shook his head. "So that's it. Cowards, the pair of you. I'll
remember that."
Dumarest said, "Be sensible. Do as Marek suggests."
The final straw which broke the captain's hesitancy. "You!" he said. "By God, you overrode me once, you won't do
it again. In space or on land I give the orders. Refuse to obey and it's mutiny. Remember that when we're back in
space!"
A crime for which eviction was the penalty, a revenge Acilus would take later if he could. Dumarest watched as
the man ran down the trail toward the edge of the clearing. Dust rose beneath his feet as he headed for the wall and
the massed charges set and waiting. He reached them, busied himself with the fuse, and then, without warning, they
blew.
A gush of flame blasted from the wall, dimming the suns, shaking the air with the roaring thunder of released
destruction. Dumarest dropped, blinking to clear his eyes from retinal images, but there was no shower of debris.
When he looked again he could see nothing but a drifting plume of dust, a hole gouged in the ground, a wreath
of smoke.
Acilus had vanished, blasted to atoms, and the wall reared as before, untouched, pristine.

Chapter Twelve
Timus Omilcar poured himself wine and said bitterly. "Over a hundred pounds of explosive and nothing to show
for it but a hole in the ground and a missing captain. Want a drink, Earl?"
"That damned wall." The engineer lifted his glass, swallowed, sat scowling at the bottle. "We can't drive a pick into
it, we can't touch it with lasers, and we can't blow a hole through it. The city's there—but how the hell do we get
inside?"
A problem Dumarest was working on. From metal rods he had fashioned a grapnel, the tines curved, sharpened,
a hook-eye supplied for a rope. He fitted it as Timus reached for the bottle.
"A hundred feet, Earl," he reminded. "A hell of a throw."
And no surety the tines would catch, but it had to be tried. At the foot of the wall Dumarest studied it, eyes
narrowed against the glare of the red and yellow suns. With legs braced be swung the grapnel, threw it, the barbs
hitting well below the summit of the smooth expanse. Another try threw it higher, a third and it was close to the top.
On the second following try the hooked metal fell over the edge, to fall as Dumarest gently tugged at the rope.
A dozen attempts later he gave up. The summit of the wall was too smooth to offer a hold and he was sweating
with the effort of casting the grapnel. Dropping the rope he rested the side of his face against the wall and studied the
unbroken expanse. Light shimmered from it as if it had been polished. Even at the place blasted by the explosives it
resembled the sheen of a mirror. Against his cheek it felt neither hot nor cold, the temperature equal to his own.
Entering the ship he heard voices raised in argument.
"Do you think I gimmick the fuse?" The engineer's voice was a roar. "Is that what you're saying?"
"I'm trying to understand." Usan Labria was sharp. "You gave him the detonators and fuses, right?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't go back with him when they failed to work. So—"
"So you think I refused because I knew the charges would blow? Woman, you're crazy! You know anything about
explosives?"
"A little."
"Then listen. The stuff was safety plastic and you could hit it with a hammer and it would remain inert. Earl shot
at it with no effect. The detonators were chemical-cascade; three units—the first blowing the second, the second the
third, the third doing the job. "Got that?"
"The fuse?"
 "Again chemical. Regular burn and normally you could set a watch by it, but things can happen. A fuse can volley
—burn faster than expected, the flame jumping at accelerated speed. Or it can die, but when it does there's always
the chance that it's still alive. The flame just moves slower, that's all. Acilus knew that but he was too damned
impatient." Timus ended bleakly, "It cost him his life."
They were all in the salon aside from Embira, Usan Labria breathing deeply, the locket containing her drugs
clutched in one hand. Pacula rose as Dumarest entered.
"I'd better go and look after the girl."
"Leave her." Marek toyed with his cards. "She isn't a baby."
"She's blind. Have you forgotten?"
"We're all blind when asleep, my dear." He turned three cards, pursed his lips, then gathered up the deck. "You
worry about her too much."
"And you too little."
"Not so." Marek smiled, his teeth, sharp and regular, flashing in the light. "I think of her often and, when she is
close, it is easy to forget her disability. Her charms negate her lack of vision and it would be no handicap. After all, are
not fingers the eyes of the night?"
"You're vile!"
"No, my dear," he said blandly. "Not vile—human. She is a woman, is she not? And I am a man."
"Degenerate filth!" She stood looking down at him, her eyes cold. "I warn you, Marek Cognez. If you touch her I'll
—"
"Do what?" He rose to face her, his eyes as hard and bleak as her own. "You threaten me? That is a challenge I am
tempted to accept. And if I should take the girl what could you do? Nothing. Nothing."
"Perhaps not," said Dumarest. "But I could. Touch Embira and you'll answer to me."
"A challenge multiplied." For a moment Marek held his eyes, and then abruptly, shrugged and smiled. "You make
the odds too great, Earl. A woman, what is that to come between friends? And we are friends, are we not?"
Dumarest said, "Pacula, if you're going to the girl go now." As she left the salon he sat and looked at Marek. "One
day you'll go too far. And you're wrong about Pacula not being able to take revenge. Any woman can use a knife
against a man when he is asleep. She may not kill you, but she could ruin your face and teach you what it is to be
blind."
"And you, Earl?"
"I'd kill you."
A cold statement of fact which the man accepted for what it was. Even so, the devil within him forced him on.
"An interesting development, Earl. Had another man made that threat I would assume him to be in love with the
girl. Or are you anticipating the future and the enjoyment of unsullied goods?"
Timus said quickly, "Be careful, Marek."
"Another warning? This seems to be a time of warnings. Even the cards are full of dire prophecy. A pity the
captain had no trust in my skill. But then—one less and the more to share."
"The more of what?" Jarv Nonach gestured with his pomander. "As yet we have found nothing, and unless we can
break through the walls, we'll remain empty-handed. Did you have any luck?"
"No," admitted Dumarest.
"Then what is left?" The navigator looked from one to the other. "I say we should leave here and return later with
rafts and—"
"No!" Sufan's hand slammed on the table. "No!"
"What point in staying? With the captain dead I am in command of the Mayna. I am a fair man and as eager as
any of you to find treasure, but the wall beats us. How long are we to sit looking at it? I say we leave. With rafts and
other equipment we could crack that city open like a nut."
"We stay!" Sufan Noyoka was trembling with passion. "To have come so far, to have risked so much—we stay!"
"For a little longer." The navigator rose, his face drawn, determined. "But not for too long. I command the Mayna
now and when I leave you may come or stay as you wish."
Dumarest said, "We are partners, Jarv. Sufan Noyoka leads this expedition."
"Then why doesn't he accept the obvious? It's our lives as well as his. Acilus is dead—how many more must
follow him? Without equipment we haven't a chance. No, Earl, I've decided. One more day and then I leave."
A threat he might have carried out had he been allowed, but when the blue sun rose and the yellow sank he was
dead.

***
 Dumarest heard the cry and was running, catching Usan Labria as she fell, following the finger of her pointing
hand.
"Earl," she gasped. "I found him. The navigator—under that bush."
She was quivering, her lips blue, pain contorting her raddled features. Dumarest passed her to Timus as he came
running, Marek at his side.
"Earl?"
"Take her back to the ship. Get hold of Pacula, she knows what to do."
"And Jarv?"
"I'll see what's wrong."
There was nothing he could do. The man sat with his back against a bole, his head slumped forward down on his
chest, one hand clenched at his side, the other open, the pomander lying an inch from his fingers. Dumarest halted
Marek as he moved forward.
"Wait. Look around. See if you can spot tracks of any kind."
"On this moss?"
"The stems could be broken. Look."
A heavy weight would have left an impression but nothing could be found aside from the marks of the navigator's
footprints and those left by Usan and themselves. Dumarest quested in a wide circle, frowning as he rejoined Marek.
"Nothing?"
"No."
"Which means nothing jumped him from the vegetation," mused Marek. "He must have come out here to sit,
maybe to think and plan, resting his back against the bole and then something happened. But what? There seems to
be no sign of a struggle. Poison of some kind? Those blooms, Earl! The bush he is under bears blossom. Could they
have emitted a lethal vapor of some kind?"
"Perhaps." Dumarest glanced at the sky. This world was strange, beneath the varying influence of the suns
anything could happen. "Be careful now, don't get too close."
Holding his breath he lifted the dead man's face. It was tranquil, the open eyes glazed, the lips slightly parted. The
skin was cool and a little moist. Death had come quickly.
Marek said, "Shall we bury him, Earl?"
"If you want to, go ahead."
"And you?"
"I've work to do in the ship."
A plan he had made and devices he and the engineer had worked on while the others rested. The navigator was
dead—left or buried, to him it was the same, but the living still faced a problem.
"Do you think they'll work, Earl?" Timus looked dubiously at what they'd made; soft hemispheres of rubber
backed by a stronger layer and fitted with loops. Gekko pads to fit to wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles, any six of the
suction cups sufficient to hold his weight.
"It's a chance," said Dumarest. "The wall is smooth and the cups should hold if we figured right."
"If they don't we're stuck, Earl. I don't know what else we can do. Jarv was right in a way. We need rafts and
special equipment. Sufan Noyoka should have thought about it Well, it's too late now, but maybe Jarv had the right
idea. You burying him?"
"Marek's seeing to it." Dumarest anticipated the obvious question. "No sign of what killed him, but he went
peacefully."
"His heart must have given out." Timus rubbed his hand over his chin. "He was always sniffing at that pomander
and it was only a matter of time before the drugs got him. "Two down," he said. "And it's my guess the old woman
will be next."
Pacula was with her, sitting beside the cot, bathing the raddled face with water. Usan's breathing was labored, her
fingers twitching, plucking at her dress. Weakly she tried to smile.
"Age, Earl. It's beating me. Jarv?"
"Dead and being buried. His heart must have given out. There was no sign of any attack." Dumarest touched the
woman's throat, his fingers resting on the pulse. "We don't want you going the same way. It would be best for you to
sleep for a while. Pacula?"
"I'll see to it. Earl."
"No!" Usan clenched her hands, eyes brimming with tears at her own weakness. "Damn this body! I don't want to
sleep. I want to see what's in the city."
"If we manage to get inside you'll be with us. That's a promise."
"You're kind," she whispered. "I'll hold you to that. But can you get inside?"
 Dryly he said, "There's only one way to find out."
Sufan Noyoka's dry voice issued a list of instructions as they headed toward the wall.
"Remember to fix the rope as soon as you reach the top, Earl. Make no attempt to get into the city until I am with
you. Are you armed?"
"He's armed." Timus handed Dumarest a machine gun. "Hang this around your neck, Earl. It's cocked and ready
to fire on full automatic."
Dumarest weighed it in his hand then handed it back.
"I'll pull it up if and when I reach the top," he said. "I've enough weight to carry as it is."
His own body, the pads, the rope wrapped around his waist, the grapnel swinging between his shoulders.
Reaching the foot of the wall he looked upward. Every spot was the same and one was as good as another. As the
others watched he stepped close to the smooth expanse, lifted his arms, slammed the pads against the wall, followed
with a leg. With the pads holding he lifted his free leg and set it higher than the other. Then an arm pulled free, lifted
and made fast. The other leg. The other arm. A leg again.
Slowly, sprawled hard against the wall, each limb moving in turn, he inched upward.
He could see nothing but the wall inches from his eyes, feel nothing but the drag at his arms, the awkward twist
of his legs. Each time he freed a pad meant a cautious twisting, to fasten them a careful movement Sweat began to
run from his forehead into his eyes and he felt the clammy touch of it beneath his clothing.
Grimly he climbed on, inches at a time, muscles aching in thighs and groin, cramps threatening his shoulders and
calves.
From below came the encouraging voice of the engineer.
"Keep going, Earl! You're doing fine!"
"How high am I?"
"Maybe thirty feet!"
Less than a third of the distance covered. Thirty feet out of a hundred and already the strain of hauling his body
up the sheer wall was beginning to tell. Pausing, Dumarest hung to rest, turning his head to see the sea of vegetation,
the ship rearing against the sky. The light from the suns was dazzling, reflected from the wall it hurt his eyes. Closing
them he released one leg, flexing it to ease the strain.
"Up!" snapped Sufan Noyoka. "Earl, what are you waiting for?"
Dumarest made no answer, easing each limb in turn, then doggedly continued to climb. At sixty feet progress
slowed, the pads seeming to slip, and after another five feet he was sure of it. Watching, he placed his arm into
position, heaved, saw the attachments move down the wall as if they glided on oil.
Cautiously he moved to one side, tried to climb again but with no better result. Tilting his head he looked at the
top of the wall. He was two-thirds of the way up, a little more and he would be home, but the last few feet were
impossible to cover.
Timus caught him as he dropped from the wall.
"Earl? Are you all right?"
"Cramp." Dumarest doubled, kneading his legs. His shoulders ached and his arms burned. He had climbed
mountains with less bodily fatigue. "Maybe something in the wall. I don't know."
"So you failed." Sufan was bitter. "A few more feet, couldn't you make it?"
"I tried." For too long and too hard. The red sun was setting, the yellow taking its place. "The wall won't hold the
suction cups up there. They slip."
"And?"
Dumarest shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Marek has an idea."

***

He sat as usual in the salon, toying with his cards, his face smooth, apparently unconcerned, but one whose brain
was never still. A man who had boasted of his talent, one who had now to prove his claims.
"A problem," he said. "A puzzle, and each tackles it in his own way. Acilus tried brute force, you were more subtle,
Earl, but with no greater success. Yet such attempts had to be made and the use of suction cups was clever. A lighter
person, perhaps? But no. You alone have to have the physical attributes necessary for such a climb. What else? Well,
first let us study the situation."
"We've done that," said Sufan curtly. "A city locked behind a wall."
"Exactly, a wall." Marek turned some cards, his eyes bland. "Now, what is a wall? It is a barrier set to keep others
out. But that same barrier will keep others in. Perhaps the city is a prison built to contain some criminal form of life. A
possibility, you must admit, and one which must be considered. For while every prison must have a key it is equally
true to state that no prison can be entered without it having a door."
"I have no patience to listen to abstruse meanderings, Marek."
"Yet patience in this matter is essential. Earl advised it, Acilus rejected it, and by so doing, lost his life. Jarv also
was impatient and Jarv is dead." His voice hardened a little to take on an edge. "I have no wish to join them, Sufan.
Not yet. And not because you refuse to wait."
"Then tell us how to enter the city."
"Find the door."
"What?" Sufan frowned, his eyes coming to rest, sharp in their anger. "I warn you, Marek—"
"Again a warning!" Marek threw down the cards. "I grow tired of warnings. You have seen what I have seen, know
what I know. The city is an enigma. To understand it I must study it. Why are the mounds set in such a fashion? What
is the purpose of the spire? Why is the wall so high and why does its surface alter toward the summit? Why the
clearing?"
"That is to keep the vegetation from growing too close to the wall. That's obvious."
"But not necessarily true." Marek leaned back, resting the tips of his fingers together, an attitude Dumarest found
at variance to his character.
He said, without irony, "Is the puzzle too simple, Marek?"
"Earl, you have it! What could be more simple than an apparently impenetrable wall? You, at least, do not fall into
the common error of believing that complexity makes for difficulty. The reverse is true; the more complex a thing, the
more parts there are in relation to each other, the more simple it is to determine an answer. Find me the door and I
will lead you into the city. But first I must locate the door."
"But how?" Timus was baffled. "We've looked, there is no door. Earl?"
Dumarest said, "You think about it, Timus. I need a shower."
Embira was waiting as he stepped from the cubicle. She wore a close-fitting gown of silver laced with gold, a
perfect accompaniment to her skin and hair. She moved toward him, one hand trailing the wall.
"Earl?"
"Yes." He took her hand. "I thought you were asleep."
"I was, but I've rested long enough. Take me outside, Earl. The metal," she gestured toward the hull, "cramps me."
Outside the air was brooding with a heavy stillness, the sky painted with a profusion of light. The red sun was low
on the horizon, the yellow on its upward climb, the blue barely visible. Three suns that bathed the city with light.
From the summit of the mound Dumarest looked at it, then at the girl. She was frowning.
"Something wrong?"
"What is out there, Earl? What do I face?"
"The city. You have seen—faced it before." Curious, he added, "Can you krang the wall?"
"The wall? No. There is only something—" She broke off, shivering. "Something I don't understand. It isn't
familiar, Earl. I don't like it."
"The wall, Embira." He took her head between his hands and guided her sightless eyes along its length. "Can you
isolate it as you can the hull?" He frowned at her answer. "No?"
"No, Earl. But there is something there." She pointed with her arm. "I can krang it. It isn't like what lies beyond."
She added uncertainly, "I can't remember it being there before."
A manifestation of the triple suns? If so, time was limited, there was no way of knowing when all three would be
in the sky at the same time again. A mistake? If so, nothing could be lost by trying.
Back at the ship Marek said incredulously, "A door? Earl, are you sure?"
"No, but it's worth the chance. Embira spotted something, an alteration. We must investigate. Get the others and
follow."
"But—"
"Hurry! The red sun's setting. Once it has gone the chance could be lost!"
A chance which seemed less possible the closer they approached the wall. It hadn't changed. At close hand it
seemed as firm and as unbroken as before. To normal eyes, at least, but Embira lacked normal vision. Walking
steadily in the lead she made directly toward a certain point. Dumarest, Usan Labria cradled in his left arm, followed.
From the rear of the little column the engineer voiced his doubts.
"A door? Earl, that wall's solid. How the hell can we pass through it?"
"Walk. It's a chance, but what have we to lose? Embira will guide us. Touch the one in front, close your eyes, and
follow." Dumarest set the example, resting his free hand on the girl's shoulder. Behind him Pacula sucked in her breath
and he felt the touch of her hand.
"Like this, Earl?"
"Yes. All in contact? Then close your eyes."
 The dirt underfoot was smooth, there was no danger of stumbling, and Dumarest made a conscious effort to
forget the presence of the wall. It didn't exist. Nothing existed aside from the warmth of the flesh beneath his hand,
the body of the girl in the lead. The blind leading the blind—but she had her talent, and without vision, they were
more crippled than she.
Five steps, ten, twelve. Dumarest concentrated on the girl. Another three steps, five, seven—and he felt a mild
tingle. Eight more and the girl halted.
"Earl. It's behind us. The thing I could krang."
A risk, but it had to be taken. Dumarest opened his eyes.
Behind him he heard Pacula gasp, Marek's voice, high, incredulous.
"By God, we've done it! We've passed through the door! We're in the city!"

Chapter Thirteen
They stood in a vast chamber, the curved roof high above suffused with an opalescent sheen of light; colored
gleams which filled the place with broken rainbows. The floor was smooth, polished, made of some adamantine
material, seamless and traced with a pattern of sinuous lines. The curved wall was pierced with a rounded opening
several times the height of a man.
"The entrance hall." Marek's voice was clear, the place devoid of echoes as it was of shadows. "The area beyond
the door, and we're in it."
But not all. Dumarest said, "Where's Timus?"
"He was behind me." Sufan Noyoka looked up, around, down toward the floor. "I felt his hand slip from my
shoulder. I don't know just when."
Before he had reached the wall, his own eyes and disbelief maintaining the barrier. In Dumarest's arms Usan
Labria stirred, muttering, still fogged with sleep-inducing drugs. Her eyes cleared as he held a vial beneath her
nostrils, crushing the ampule and releasing chemical vapors to clear her blood.
"Earl?"
"It's all right," he soothed. "We're in the city."
"The city!" She freed herself from his support and stood, looking around. "Yes," she whispered. "We must be. You
kept your promise, Earl. My thanks for that. But how?"
"Embira guided us."
"Blind, she couldn't see the wall," explained Marek. "But she sensed the presence of a force field of some kind. A
means to open the matter of the wall, perhaps, while maintaining the illusion it was solid. A door built on a unique
pattern. One which—" He broke off, shrugging. "Does it matter? We're inside, that's all that counts."
"Inside!" She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders, summoning the dregs of her energy. Impatiently she
brushed aside Pacula's hand. "Don't coddle me, girl, I'll be all right. Stay with Embira, she'll need a guide." She
frowned, aware of the absence of the engineer. "Timus?"
"He isn't with us," said Sufan. "He must still be outside, but it is of no importance. Alone he can't handle the
Mayna. All he can do is wait."
Wait as the colored suns traced their path across the sky, alone in the brooding silence, faced with the blank
enigma of the city. How long would he remain patient? Dumarest lacked Sufan's conviction that the engineer was
helpless. A clever man could rig remote controls and, desperate, Timus might try to navigate the Cloud on his own. A
gamble which he couldn't win, but one he would try given time enough.
Stepping to the wall, Dumarest rested his hand on the surface. It felt as before, neither hot nor cold, the material
solid against his pressure.
"Embira, has anything changed?"
"The aura has gone, Earl." She faced him as he stood against the wall. "I can krang another, more distant."
The bulk of the vessel containing the residual energies of the field. While she could discern it they had a point of
directional reference—but until the door opened again they were trapped unless they could find another way to leave
the city.
Sufan shrugged when Dumarest mentioned it.
"We'll find a way, Earl. Now let us see what is to be found."
"But with caution," warned Marek. "The door could have given an alarm and the city might still contain some
form of life. It would be as well to move carefully."
A conclusion Dumarest had already reached. All, aside from Embira and the old woman, carried packs, canteens,
and were armed. He checked the gun hanging on its strap from his shoulder.
 "If we see anything hold your fire. If we are attacked wait until I shoot. Marek, you take the rear, Sufan, you stay
with the women."
"I will—"
"Do as he says, Sufan," snapped Usan. "One of us at least must keep a clear head. We've come too far to be
beaten now and an error could cost us all our lives." She sucked in her breath and fumbled at her locket, slipping a pill
between her lips. "But hurry, Earl. Hurry!"
They moved toward the opening, feeling like ants in a cathedral, stunned by the vastness of the chamber. Another
opened beyond, smaller, set with an opening through which smooth ramps led up and down. Their roofs were of
some lustrous substance which threw a nacreous glow. The air was thick, slightly acrid. Dumarest could see no trace
of dust.
"An entrance hall," mused Marek. "Ramps which must lead to other chambers. Assuming this place held life
similar to ours there will be living accommodation and recreational areas."
"Up or down?"
"Up, Earl. Below must lie machines and storerooms, cess pits, perhaps, a means of sewage disposal. Already the
pattern begins to take form. Give me time and I will draw a map of the city."
"We want the treasure," said Usan Labria. "Just the treasure."
"Then we must head toward the central spire." Marek stepped toward one of the openings. "This one, Earl."
A guess, but it was as good as any, and Dumarest led the way toward it. The ramp rose steeply after a hundred
feet then leveled as it broke into another chamber also set with openings. A series of them so that, within minutes,
they passed through a maze of connecting rooms all appearing exactly alike.
Pacula said uncertainly, "We could become lost. How can we be sure of finding the way back?"
"We're not lost." Marek was confident. "Always we take the central opening and climb upward."
"This reminds me of something." Usan looked around, frowning. "A bee hive? No. An ant hill? An ant hill! Earl!
This place is like an ant hill."
Short passages and endless chambers all alike, none with distinctive characteristics. A prison was like that, a
place built for a strictly utilitarian function without concession to artistry. The mere fact of living in such a place
would mold the residents into a faceless whole, all individuality repressed by the endless monotony of the
surroundings. Men, held in such an environment, would become abnormal.
Had the city been built by men?
There was no way of telling. A single chair would have given a clue as to shape and form, a table, a scrap of
decoration, but the chambers were devoid of all furnishings, the openings providing the only break in the seamless
construction, the sole decoration that of the sinuous lines.
They ran thin and black against the pale gray of the floor, following no apparent order, twisting to bunch into
knots, opening to splayed fans.
Directional signs? A means to tell the inhabitants exactly where they were in the city?
"It's possible, Earl," admitted Marek when Dumarest spoke of it. "We have street signs and numbers, insects have
scent-trails; whoever built this place could have had their own system. But to break the cipher would take too long.
And it isn't necessary. All we have to do is to reach the spire."
And the treasure if treasure was to be found. But five hours later they were still no closer to where it might be.

***

"We're lost!" Sufan Noyoka glared his impatience. "So much for your skill, Marek. Give me time, you said, and you
would produce a map of the city. Well?"
"A delay." Marek spread his hands, smiling, but his tone was sharp. "Do you expect a miracle? Those who built
this place were clever. The chambers, the passages, all follow a mathematical precision designed to confuse. There
are subtle turns and windings."
Dumarest said, "How far are we from the gate?"
"Who can tell? Without any point of orientation—"
"You don't know." Dumarest turned to Embira. "Can you krang the ship?"
"It lies in that direction." Her lifted hand pointed to an opening to the right of the one they had used.
"And the other?" Dumarest caught her shoulders and gently turned her to face in the opposite direction. "Can you
see—krang anything?"
"Yes." She shivered, suddenly afraid. "Earl, I don't like it. It's strange, and somehow, menacing. Like some of the
auras in the Cloud."
"A force field, Embira? An entity?"
 "I'm not sure. Earl! Hold me!"
"Stop tormenting her!" said Pacula. "You know she is upset. We should have left her behind in the ship."
"We had no choice," said Dumarest. "Without her we would never have passed through the wall. And, without her
to help us, we may never be able to leave the city."
"Earl?"
"Think about it," he snapped. "We are lost. The chambers form a maze and Marek admits he can't find his way
back despite what he said at first. Only Embira can guide us."
"To the ship?"
"That and more." Gently he said to the girl, "Now try, Embira. Tell us in which way to go. Point with your hand
and aim at the aura you see ahead."
"Earl! It hurts! I—"
"Try, girl! Try!"
Stare into the glow of a searchlight, the glare of a sun—how could he tell what it was like? But he had to use
familiar analogies in order to even begin to understand her attribute.
"Earl! Don't! You can't hurt her like this!"
"Shut up, Pacula!" snapped Usan, and caught at her arm as she lunged forward. "Don't interfere! Let Earl handle
things."
He said soothingly, "Just point, Embira. Just show us the way. Can you stop looking—kranging, if you want?"
To drop a mental shutter as a man would close an eye against too bright a light. An ability she must have if not to
be driven insane by the pressure of surrounding auras.
"Yes, Earl. I have to concentrate. I—sometimes—there!" Her hand lifted, aimed at a point ahead and down.
"There!"
"Is it close?"
"Closer than it was, Earl."
So Marek had not been a total failure. Dumarest stepped to the opening closet to where the girl had pointed.
Beyond lay another chamber, more openings, one with a ramp leading downward. Again a featureless room, more
openings, another extension of the maze.
He pressed on until he felt confused. "Embira?"
"There." More calmly now she lifted her hand. "That way, Earl."
They had diverged from the path. Dumarest found it again, striking out and down, finally coming to a halt before
a blank wall. Openings ran to either side, one ramp leading up, the other down. A hundred feet down the slope
Embira paused.
"We're going the wrong way, Earl. The aura lies behind us."
"The passage could turn." Sufan Noyoka was impatient.
"There could be another junction lower down. Hurry, let us find it."
"We're running like rats in a sewer," said Usan irritably. "Slow down, Sufan. Earl?"
"We'll go back."
"And waste more time?" Sufan bared his teeth. "The girl can guide us once we reach another chamber."
"She is guiding us. We'll go back."
Facing the blank wall, Dumarest said, "Point again, Embira. Marek, mark the direction of her hand. Good. I'm
going to try something." He lifted the gun to his shoulder, aimed at where the girl had pointed. "Maybe these walls
can be penetrated. The rest of you had better leave the chamber in case of ricochets. Pacula, warn the girl what I am
about to do."
Marek said, "Two gun could be better than one, Earl."
Twice the fire-power, but twice the risk from wildly ricocheting bullets.
Dumarest said, "I'm protected, you're not. Go with the others."
As he left Dumarest opened fire.
The gun kicked against his shoulder as a stream of heavy slugs blasted from the muzzle to slam against the wall.
Some ricocheted to whine like angry wasps through the chamber, one catching his back to rip his tunic, bruising the
flesh, only the metal mesh buried in the plastic saving him from an ugly wound. Beneath the storm of metal the wall
crumbled to show a small, jagged opening. Again Dumarest fired, swinging the barrel in a rough circle. A kick and
shattered fragments rained to lie in a heap on the floor.
"Did it work?" Marek came running as the gun fell silent. He glanced at the opening. "Earl, you did it! I thought—"
"The wall would be as adamantine as the one surrounding the city?"
"Yes. A natural assumption. How did you know it would yield?"
"I didn't, but it was worth the chance." Dumarest fitted a fresh magazine to the gun. "Let's see what lies beyond."
 They stared at a long, oval chamber, the roof softly glowing, the walls pierced with circular openings bright with
red and yellow sunlight. The floor was thick with a heavy layer of dust, and on it lay the body of a man.
He rested as if asleep, one arm extended, the fingers curved. Only one cheek was visible, the face sunken,
wreathed with a short beard. The eyes were open, glazed, the lips parted to show blunt and yellowed teeth. He wore a
uniform of dull plastic, touches of green bright against the dark maroon, the colors barely visible through a coating of
dust.
"A man," said Usan Labria. "And dead—but for how long?"
"Long enough." Marek stooped and brushed away the dust.. More had drifted to form a low ridge around the
body. "Centuries, perhaps. He's mummified."
"How did he die?" Pacula stepped close to the girl and threw an arm protectively around her shoulders. "Are there
signs of wounding?"
"Does he carry papers?" Sufan Noyoka frowned as he stared at the corpse. "Look, man," he snapped as Marek
hesitated. "He's dead. He can't hurt you."
"Maybe not." Marek was acid. "But what killed him could. Disease, perhaps?"
"Not disease," said Dumarest. "My guess is he died of starvation or thirst." Turning the body over he searched the
pockets. "Captain Cleeve Inchelan," he read. "His ship the Elgret. The date—" He looked up at the ring of attentive
faces. "Three hundred years ago."
"And his crew?" Usan looked from one to the other. "What happened to his crew? His ship? We saw no ship."
"Lost in the Cloud, maybe," said Marek. "Or maybe they managed to get back and spread rumors. The treasure
planet," he added bitterly. "The Ghost World. Well, there is one ghost at least, if such things exist. That of Captain
Inchelan."
A man who could also have followed a dream, searching for a fabled world and the treasure it was reputed to
hold. Or had he given birth to the legend? His crew making a safe landing there to spread rumor and wild imaginings?
Dumarest said, "How did he get into the city? How did he get here?"
"A raft?" Marek was quick to catch the implication. "Of course, Earl! How else? But why here?" His eyes searched
the dust, lifted to one of the circular openings. "They must give to the open air," he said. "How else the dust? Maybe
the raft is outside. If it is we could use it."
"After three centuries?" Usan Labria shook her head. "No."
"Why not? From the look of the dust there is little climatic variation here. The raft could be unharmed. If we
could find it—Earl!"
Together they reached the circular window. Dumarest jumped, caught the lower edge, hung while Marek
swarmed up his body, heaved himself upward in turn. Beyond lay a level area, the surface of the dust unbroken.
"The other side, perhaps?" Marek dropped and crossed the oval chamber. Again they looked through an opening.
"Nothing. He didn't leave it here, Earl."
Dumarest said, "He needn't have come alone. There could have been others."
"Who left him to starve?"
"Why not—if they had found treasure."
"Earl, you are a man with little trust in human nature, or perhaps one with too much knowledge of the power of
greed. Is that what you think happened?"
"There is another possibility," said Dumarest. "He could have got lost. The raft could be somewhere in the city. He
could have been looking for it and died before he found it." He added grimly, "As we could die. Our food and water is
limited."
"You're worried about us being able to leave the city," said Marek. "You're concerned about the women. You
surprise me, Earl. I would not have thought you afflicted with such hampering considerations. What will happen if we
can't escape? Will you give them our rations? If that is your intention you could be due for a struggle. Sufan will let
nothing stand in his way. Their lives mean nothing to him against the treasure."
"And you?"
"Earl, I will be honest. I came to find the treasure."
"And we may find it," said Dumarest. "But first we rest and eat."
The blue sun had risen when again they moved, a violet light blending with that of dull ruby, streamers of
brilliance shrouding the dead man and reflecting from his staring eyes. His hand, extended after them, seemed to hold
a silent plea, an appeal for help they could not give. The aid they carried had come centuries too late, the food and
water which could have saved his life.
"That poor man," said Pacula somberly as they walked toward the end of the oval chamber. "Dying like that,
alone on an alien world."
"Left by his crew." Usan paused, coughing, flecks of red staining her lips. "Damn this dust. Earl, will it be long
now?"
"Not long. We must be close to the central spire."
"And after? When we've found the treasure?" She coughed again, then said, "I'm not a fool. We're in the city but
how do we get out? The girl can guide us back to the wall but how do we get through it?"
"We'll get through it," said Dumarest. "The same way we came in."
"By waiting at the right place for the right time. And when will that be? A week? A month? I—"
"You worry too much," he said curtly. "Just think about staying on your feet. Can you manage?"
"I'll manage," she said. "I'm going to find that treasure even if I have to crawl. What will it be, Earl? Gems? Ingots
of precious metals? Some new device? A fortune anyway. We'll all make a fortune and I'll—take care of the girl, Earl.
Without Embira we're lost. Take damned good care of her."
"I will."
"Yes," she said, and then flatly, "are you in love with her?" Her smile was a grimace as he made no answer. "She's
in love with you, Earl. The poor, blind bitch, I feel sorry for her and yet—" She broke off, looking at her hands. "And
yet," she whispered, "I'd give my soul to have her body."

Chapter Fourteen
The chamber ended in a combination of smoothly concave surfaces blending into the mouth of a rounded
opening giving on to more chambers, different this time, larger, the thin tracery of black lines almost covering the
floor in their elaborate profusion. A ramp led up from the dust and again they plunged into a maze, simple this time,
the walls forming broken barriers between chambers which grew higher and wider as they progressed.
Embira paused, wincing, one hand lifting to her forehead. "Close," she whispered. "Earl, it's so close!"
"In which direction?" He followed the gesture of her hand. "Blank it out, Embira, if you can. Stop hurting
yourself."
"Earl, you care?"
"Need you ask?" His hand closed on her own. "We need you, girl."
From behind them Sufan Noyoka said, "Hurry. The treasure must be close. Hurry!"
"Why?" Usan Labria leaned against a wall, panting for breath. "No one is going to steal it, Sufan. No one but us."
"If there's anything to steal. Our dead captain could already have emptied the nest." Marek was cynical. "Prepare
yourself for a disappointment, my friend. We could be too late."
A reminder which the man didn't appreciate. He snapped, "Don't try to be funny, Marek. Use your talent. If it has
any value you should be able to tell us the location of the treasure."
"Why ask me when we have the girl? Can't she tell us, Earl?"
"She's done enough," said Dumarest. "And she has never claimed to be able to solve puzzles. That is why you are
here."
"That's right, Marek, or did you come just for the ride?" Pacula, in defense of the girl, was quick to attack. "It's
your turn to guide us."
"And I shall. Did you guess that I was proud? To be ignored can be hurtful to a man of talent. Given time I would
have guided you, but I was not given time. And it amused me to know that, at any time, danger could have awaited in
each and every chamber. A complication which, so far, we have been spared. But consider, my friends, would treasure
be left unguarded?"
A question posed without need of an answer and Dumarest wondered at the spate of words. Was the man simply
wasting time in order to gain an opportunity to arrange his thoughts? Or was he pressing their patience, risking anger
and potential violence? A facet of his character which could never be forgotten. His whim could lead them into
danger for the thrill of it. To toy with death to assuage his secret yearning.
Pacula said, "Must we have a lecture?"
"You want a simple answer?" His sudden anger was the flash of a naked blade. "There!" His hand lifted to point
ahead. "At the heart of the city you will find the treasure—if it is to be found."
"You doubt?"
"Everything. Your smile, my dear, your greed, you concern. Nothing is wholly what it seems. This city, a place
built for men or for what? Built to house or to hold? To guard or to retain? Every coin has two faces—must we only
look at the one we find most pleasing to our eyes? Solve me a puzzle, you say, and do it now. Am I a dog to be
ordered at your whim?"
An old wound opened by an unthinking comment. Dumarest said, "We need your skill, Marek."
"Have I denied it?"
 "Then tell us, in your own way, what you have determined."
"Let us talk of treasure." Marek sat and took a sip of water from his canteen. From the way he tilted it Dumarest
knew that the contents must be low. "What is treasure? To one it could be a bag of salt, to another a bow, a knife, a
prime beast. Values vary, so what do we hope to find?"
"Money," said Usan curtly. "Or something we can turn into money."
"Works of art? A discovery which can be carried in the the mind or a heap of stone a hundred men couldn't lift?"
"You try my patience!"
"The voice of aggression," he said calmly. "Who are you not to be denied? A woman, old, dying. What challenge
do you offer? None. And you Sufan. You too are old and consumed by greed. Why should I obey you? How can you
make me?"
Dumarest said, "He can't. No one can. Now tell us what you know."
For a moment Marek remained silent, then he said in an altered tone of voice, "For you, Earl, yes. At least you are
a man, and I think, one with understanding. Now consider this. Where in a normal city would you find the greatest
concentration of treasure? On a commercial world it would be figures in a ledger or items in a computer—the
interflow of credit and debit. A more primitive world and metal and gems would be stored in some vault. A religious
one and the altar of the largest place of worship would be garnished with things of price. A military world would
value weapons. An artistic one volumes of poetry, perhaps, or paintings."
"So?"
"The consideration determines the keeping. Now some rumors have it that the wealth of Balhadorha is the loot
of a ravished world. The wealth of a planet heaped like a mass of stone, dumped and left to be found by any with the
courage to look for it. We know better. It must be at the heart of this city. But is it large or small? If small then it could
be anywhere within the central spire. If large then at or below ground level. Was it to be seen? Adored or examined,
touched by the populace, or something hidden?"
Dumarest said, "The chambers we passed through were all devoid of ornament."
"A shrewd observation. Which leads us to the conclusion that the inhabitants of this city had no time for artistic
appreciation. Perhaps they were incapable of it. And they must have left centuries ago—otherwise they would not
have permitted the dead man to remain where we found him. Where did they go and why did they leave?"
"If they left at all," said Dumarest. "But we're not interested in the city as such, only the treasure."
"But all are parts of the puzzle." Marek took another drink of water. "Down," he said. "I am sure of it. Down and
at the center. It will be found, I am sure, at a point below the present ground level." Smiling, he added, "If there is
anything there to find."

***

One day, thought Dumarest, the man's sense of humor would kill him. He would take one chance too many and
the death he was in love with would reach out and take him. As Marek led the way Dumarest glanced at the others.
Pacula, as had grown normal, guided the girl. Usan panted, coughing, her eyes bloodshot, streaks of red matching the
flecks on her lips. The gun slung from her shoulder was forgotten. Sufan Noyoka's was not. He kept his hand on the
weapon, the muzzle lifting to aim at Marek, falling as if by an effort of will, lifting again as if with a life of its own.
"No," said Dumarest.
"What?" Sufan turned, startled, his eyes a liquid darting. "What do you mean?"
"Don't hold your gun that way. There could be an accident and Marek is in the line of fire."
"He—"
"Annoys you. I know. And you must know that is exactly what he intends to do. He can't help it—but again, you
know that."
"I do." Sufan lifted his hand from the gun and looked at it. The fingers trembled. "If we could do without him. The
girl—"
"Can't lead us as he can. And with Jarv dead we still have to navigate the Cloud. She can help but only to a point.
Control your anger."
"Yes, Earl, you're right, and you can see now why I needed you. At times like this tempers get frayed and no
loyalty can be relied on. I don't trust Marek, he needs to be watched. If the whim takes him he will plunge us all into
danger."
"Tell me of his past."
"I know little. He was a brilliant student and gained a high place in the Frenshi Institute. He married, had a child,
and then something happened. Both died. Rumor hinted that he was responsible, a faulty judgment of some kind.
After that he traveled for a time. You understand that I have no firsthand information."
 "And?"
"We met. He was interested in Balhadorha. He could help. That's all."
A man tormented by guilt; it would account for his courting danger. A complex means of committing suicide, a
psychological quirk—if Sufan was telling the truth. If he was, then Marek was more dangerous than a short-fused
bomb.
Dumarest joined the man as he reached the opening. Beyond lay another chamber, long and narrow, an
elongated bubble which ran to either side, each end marked with an opening. On the floor the tracery of thin black
lines ended in a single complex pattern running evenly along the major axis.
"A dead end," said Marek. He looked at the blank wall facing them. "The end of the line."
"The treasure?"
"Lies beyond that wall, Earl. On a lower level, perhaps, but still beyond."
Dumarest looked upward. Lacking the other's talent, he could only guess, but he estimated that they must be
either at the edge of the central spire or very close. The tracery of lines also offered a clue. The ending could be a
line of demarcation.
"We must try one of the openings," he said. "Which? Left or right?"
For answer Marek dropped his hand to the gun slung over his shoulder, lifted it, cradled it, and clamped his finger
on the trigger. Sound roared through the chamber as the muzzled vented a hail of bullets, slugs which struck to
ricochet in whining, invisible death.
At the entrance Pacula cried out, threw herself before Embira, and hurled the girl to the ground. Sufan Noyoka,
snarling, threw himself flat, his own gun lifting. Usan Labria slumped, a streak of red marring the line beneath her
hair.
"Marek!" Dumarest lunged at the man, his hand gripping the barrel, lifting it as his stiffened palm chopped at the
wrist. "Stop firing, you fool!"
"The wall—" Marek blinked at it as he rubbed his bruised arm. "I thought it would yield!"
A lie. The man hadn't thought, the action had stemmed from frustration and anger. A child kicking at an obstacle
or a man seeking his own destruction. Dumarest tore the magazine from the weapon, threw both it and the gun aside,
then ran to where Usan lay, eyes closed, blood staining the floor beneath her head.
"He killed her." Sufan Noyoka rose to his feet, his eyes blazing. "Earl—"
"She isn't dead." Dumarest lifted his canteen and poured water over the lax features. Carefully he examined the
wound, the skin had been torn but the bone was unbroken. Beneath the impact of chemical vapors she stirred,
opening her eyes, sitting upright with the help of his arm, wincing.
"Earl, what happened?"
"Marek tried to kill us all," snapped Sufan. "The fool must have known the bullets would ricochet. Pacula?"
"I'm all right." Gently she helped the girl to her feet. "Embira."
"What happened? There was noise and then something threw me down. Earl?"
"Marek lost his head. It won't happen again."
Sufan said, "He tried to kill us. Had he turned and lifted his gun I would have shot him. He knew that, so tried a
more subtle way."
"I made a mistake," said Marek. "If I had wanted to kill you, Sufan Noyoka, you would be dead now. But if you
demand satisfaction? On Teralde the duel is common, I understand."
"There'll be no dueling," said Dumarest coldly. "And there will be no more stupidity." He glanced at the wall, the
surface was unscarred. "You should have warned us, Marek, given us time to take cover."
"As I said, Earl, a mistake."
"Make another and it could be your last." Dumarest lifted the old woman to her feet. "Take care of Usan and
guide us. Which way should we go? Left or right?"
Marek looked at the floor. The little pool of blood shed from Usan's wound lay at his feet like a crimson teardrop.
"The floor isn't level," he said. "Or the blood would not have run. We must follow the descent. To the right, Earl.
The right."
Three hours later they looked at the treasure of Balhadorha.

***

The chambers had followed the path of a spiral, each slightly curved, all following a subtle gradient, the last
ending in a room pierced with rounded openings. Beyond them lay a vast colonnade. Dumarest led the way across
the smooth floor and halted at the far edge.
Beside him Sufan Noyoka sucked in his breath. Usan said uncertainly, "Is this, it, Earl? The treasure?"
 "The treasure." Marek was positive. "There it is, my friends, the thing you have risked your lives to gain. The
fabulous treasure of a fabled world." His laughter was thin, cynically bitter, devoid of genuine mirth. "So much for
legend."
"But there's nothing," said Pacula. "Nothing!"
Nothing but an area wreathed with mist which stretched before them and to either side. A circular space ringed
by the vast colonnade, the curved arms diminished by distance, arches and pillars taking on the appearance of a
delicate filigree. Overhead light glowed from the surface of an inverted cone; the interior of the central spire.
Dumarest stared up at it, his eyes blurred by the coils of rising mist, a thin vapor which turned in on itself, to fall, to
rise again, to seeth in restless motion.
"Nothing," said Usan Labria. She sagged, leaning against a pillar, dwarfed by its immensity. "Nothing but dirt and
mist Earl, there has to be a mistake. There has to be!"
"We've been misled." Sufan Noyoka's voice betrayed his anger. "There should be—Marek, is this your idea of a
jest?"
"I tried to warn you," said Marek. "But you refused to understand. What is treasure? It is and has to be something
which men hold to be valuable. But even men have different concepts of value. The bone of a martyr to one could be
a thing beyond price, to another nothing more than a scrap of useless tissue. A set of coordinates, to Earl, would be
worth all he has and could hope to possess. Usan wants to be young. Pacula wants to find her child. And you, Sufan,
what did you hope to find? Cash? The realization of a dream? A new discovery?"
Dumarest said, "And you, Marek? Peace?"
"Peace." For a moment he looked haggard, his face bearing his true age. "A word, Earl, but can you realize what it
means? Can anyone? To be at rest, to be free of regret, never to be tormented with doubt, to be sure and never to
wonder if only—Peace, Earl. Peace."
Dumarest said quietly, "The past is dead, Marek."
"Gone, but never dead, Earl. And I think you know it. Always it is with us in our memories. A glimpse of a face,
the touch of a breeze, the scent of a flower, the echo of a song, and suddenly the past is with us. A thousand things,
tiny triggers impossible to wholly avoid, and those gone rise to live again. To live. To accuse!"
"Marek!" Pacula moved forward to lay her hand on his arm. "Marek. Please!"
He stood a man transfigured, one grown suddenly old, his shoulders stooped, his face ravaged, stripped of the
cynical mask. His hands were before him, slightly raised, the fingers clenched, the knuckles white with strain. A man
exposed, vulnerable, and a little pathetic. More than a little easy to understand.
To die by his own hand would be too easy and never could he be sure that, even in death, he would find the
peace he sought. It was better to tempt danger, to risk the destruction dealt by others and so, always, he invited
punishment.
Watching him Pacula realized it and, realizing, understood how much they had in common. She, too, lived with
guilt Had she been a little more attentive, a little less easily persuaded, Culpea would be alive now. Alive and grown
and at her side. A girl of twelve, one at puberty, blossoming from child into woman and needing a mother's love. If
only—
"Marek," she said again. "Please don't hurt yourself."
He stiffened a little, shoulders squaring, the mask falling over his face and eyes. Deliberately he unclenched his
hands and looked at the fingers as he flexed them. A moment and he had become a stranger, but she had seen and
recognized the real man and her hand did not fall from his arm.
Usan said, "Earl, my head. It aches like hell and I'm tired. To have come so far for so little. Nothing but dirt and
mist." Her laughter was strained, artificial. "An old fool," she said. "That's what they called me. Well, maybe they were
right after all. I'm old, certainly, and there is the evidence that I'm a fool." Her hand lifted to gesture at the open
expanse, the mist. "We are all fools."
"No." Sufan Noyoka was insistent. "There has to be a mistake. The rumors must have some foundation. We must
keep looking. Somewhere in the city we shall find it. The real treasure of Balhadorha. It has to be here."
"You are stubborn, Sufan." Marek dropped his hand to cover Pacula's, his fingers tightening as if he found a
comfort in the warmth of her own. "I've solved the puzzle. What you see is the only treasure you will find. I swear it."
"You're mistaken! You have to be! I—"
"You're tired," said Dumarest sharply. The man's voice had risen to poise on the edge of hysteria. "We all are and
Usan's hurt. She needs to sleep. Later we can examine the area. There might be something in the mist."
"Yes." Sufan snatched at the suggestion like a starving dog at a bone. "Yes, Earl, that must be it. The mist, of
course, it would hide the treasure. We must look for it."
"Later," said Dumarest. "First we sleep."
 Chapter Fifteen
Dumarest woke after two hours at the touch of Marek's hand. The man had stood the first watch—a precaution
Dumarest had insisted on—and had seemed glad to do it. An opportunity to be alone, perhaps, though he and Pacula
had spoken together before she had gone to rest.
"Earl?"
"I'm awake. Anything?"
"No, but Usan is restless and so is the girl. I heard her moaning." His voice held a note of concern. "To be blind in
a place like this! Earl, without us she'd wander until she died!"
"You care?"
"Yes. A weakness, but I care. Somehow she has touched me and I—"
"Remember?" Dumarest's voice was soft. "Another girl, perhaps? Another woman. Who does she remind you of,
Marek? Your wife?"
"You know?"
"A little. What happened?"
"Something I prefer not to remember, yet I cannot forget. My wife and daughter. She would have been a little
younger than Embira. That surprises you?" His hand drifted toward his face. "Always I have looked young. A genetic
trait, but that is not important. I was clever, proud of my skill, unable to consider the possibility I could ever be
wrong. There was sickness, a mutated plague carried by a trader, and both fell victim. I knew exactly what had to be
done. A selected strain of antibiotic, untested, but logically the answer. Something developed by the Cyclan."
Dumarest said flatly, "And?"
"I went to them and begged for a supply. They gave it at a price. My germ plasm for experimental uses—I would
have given my life!"
And had given it, in a way; his seed used to breed, the genes manipulated so as to strengthen his trait, raw
material used by the Cyclan in their quest for the perfect type.
"And the antibiotic failed?"
"It failed." Marek's voice was bitter. "Had I waited a few more days, a week at the most, all would have been well.
A vaccine had been developed and—"
"You didn't know," said Dumarest. "And it wouldn't have helped. You did your best."
"I killed them, Earl. I went begging for the thing which took their life. The Cyclan warned me of the danger but I
wouldn't listen. And what did they care? To them it was a test, no more. Had they lived I would have been in their
debt and how could I have refused what they asked?"
By a simple rejection, but he wouldn't have thought of that. To him they would have given life and repayment
would have been in small ways. Without knowing it he would have become an agent of the Cyclan.
Perhaps he was one? Dumarest studied the man's face and decided against it. His grief was too restrained, too
deeply etched into his being. Too honest to blame others he had taken the fault on himself, but never could he forget
those who had placed the instrument of death into his hands.
He said, "Get some sleep, now Marek."
"I'm not tired."
"Then rest, close your eyes and relax." He added, "Later Pacula and the girl could need you."
She was restless as Marek had said, twisting where she lay, her lips moving as if she cried out in nightmare.
Gently he touched her, his hand caressing the golden mane of her hair, and, like a child, she turned toward him.
"Earl?"
"I'm here, Embira. Go back to sleep now. Relax and sleep. Sleep."
"Stay with me, darling. Stay…"
She had been barely awake and drifted into sleep as he watched. Usan was also restless but with more obvious
cause. The wound on her scalp showed an ugly redness, inflammation spreading from the torn area. Beneath his
touch Dumarest felt a fevered heat.
Rising he walked to the opening of the chamber in which they had settled. Strands ran across it attached to
canteens; if anything touched the ropes an alarm would be given. Turning he walked through the room and out on
the colonnade.
The silence was complete.
It was something almost tangible as if sound had never been discovered. A heavy, brooding stillness in which the
slight tap of the gun he carried against a pillar roared like thunder. There were no echoes, the sound dying as if
muffled in cotton. Standing, he looked at the mist.
 At the treasure of Balhadorha.
It was nothing, just mist rising above an open area, the vapor thick toward the center and shielding the ground. Its
continuous movement caught and held his attention, plumes drifting to fall, to rise again as if touched by an unfelt
wind or stirred by invisible forces. A swirling which, like the leaping flames of an open fire, gave birth to images of
fantasy. A chelach, a krell, the face of a man long dead, a smiling woman, the twisting thrust of a naked blade.
Dumarest blinked and they were gone, but the mist remained, a fleecy cloud of bluish gray illuminated by the
soaring height of the inverted cone. A kaleidoscope, devoid of color, replacing it with moving form and substance,
whisps and tendrils forming patterns and hinting at familiar objects.
Had those who built the city worshiped here? Had they streamed from their chambers to stand in the colonnade,
eyes toward the center, attention focused, adoring the mist? There were stranger objects of adoration. On Yulthan
men knelt before a mass of meteoric iron chanting to the accompaniment of murmuring gongs. On Kaldarah women
praised a mighty tree and wore bells which tinkled with delicate chimings as they danced.
One man's meat was another man's poison. One man's cross was another man's treasure.
Was Marek right? Was the mist all there was to be found in the city?
If so, what of his hopes of finding the location of Earth?
"Earl!" The cry was a scream cutting the air with the impact of edged steel. "Earl! For God's sake! No! No!"
Embira's voice carrying a raw terror. Dumarest jerked, turned, saw the edge of the colonnade fifty feet away,
reached it at a run, the gun cradled in his arms. Sufan Noyoka glared at him, fighting with Marek's aid, to hold a
struggling figure.
"Earl!" he panted. "Quickly! The girl's gone mad!"
She was like a thing possessed, her body arching, muscles taut beneath the skin, a thin rill of spittle running from
her mouth. Her blind eyes were wide, starting, her face disfigured with pain.
"Embira!" Dumarest reached her, touched her face, her throat. There was no time for drugs. Already the tension
of her muscles threatened to snap bone and tear ligaments. His fingers found the carotids, pressed, cutting off the
blood supply to the brain. Within seconds she slumped, unconscious, relaxing as she fell. "What happened?"
"I don't know." Sufan Noyoka dabbed at his face. The girl's fingernails had drawn deep furrows over his cheek. "I'd
woken and was getting food when suddenly she screamed and went mad."
"Not mad." Pacula eased the girl's limbs and drew hair from her face and eyes. "She must have had an attack of
some kind. I was getting water from one of the canteens when I heard her cry out. The rest you know." Pausing, she
said bleakly. "Did you have to hurt her?"
"I didn't."
"But the way you gripped! There are bruises on her throat!"
"She will wake feeling no worse than if she had fainted." Dumarest looked at Cognez. "Marek?"
"I must have been dosing. I woke when she screamed. Sufan had hold of her." He added meaningfully, "Maybe
that's why she screamed."
"A lie! It happened as I said!" Sufan Noyoka's voice grew ugly. "Is this another of your attempts at humor, Marek?
If it is I warn you now. My patience is exhausted. Try me further and I will—"
"Kill me?" Marek spread his arms in invitation. "Then do it now. Do it—and then wonder how you are to escape
this maze. Unless the girl recovers who else can guide you? And who will help to carry your treasure?" His laughter
held a naked scorn. "The treasure. Sufan, you don't have to kill me. I give you my share willingly."
"That's enough!" snapped Dumarest. He stood, watching the others. "Why did you wake, Sufan?"
"Why?" The man blinked, baffled by the question. "Because I had rested long enough, I suppose."
"Nothing woke you? No sound?"
"No, but if there had been anything surely you would have heard it. You were on watch, remember?"
"Pacula, were the canteens disturbed?"
"No, and I heard nothing. Like Sufan I woke because I had slept long enough."
"It's five hours since I woke you Earl," said Marek quietly. "You should have called me to take my turn on watch."
"Five hours?" Dumarest said. "Pacula, have sedatives ready, Embira may need them when she recovers. Sufan, if
you want food you'd better get it ready. Some for the others also."
"And you, Earl?"
"I'm not hungry." It was true, he felt both fed and rested and had no thirst. Even the dull ache of the bruised flesh
of his back had vanished.
As Sufan broke food from the packs, crumbling concentrates into water which he placed over a heating element
and breaking more from a slab, Pacula said, "What caused it, Earl?"
"Embira?"
"Yes." She glanced at the limp figure. "A fit? A seizure of some kind? But what triggered it? If I thought Sufan was
responsible I'd kill him."
A cold statement of fact, the more chilling because spoken without emotion.
"He wasn't," said Dumarest. "She must have caught his face by accident. Perhaps she'd lowered her guard. She
was afraid of something lying within the city. I told her to blank it out if she could, but she was asleep and maybe
couldn't maintain her defenses." He glanced at the girl as she stirred. "Have those sedatives ready, Pacula. She might
need them."
"You could do her more good than drugs, Earl. She needs you."
"Perhaps—but so does Usan."
She lay like a broken doll, her breathing ragged, her face flushed with an unhealthy tinge. As Dumarest touched
her she stirred, her eyes opening, the corners crusted with dried pus, her lips spotted with dried saliva. Incredibly she
smiled.
"Earl! I was dreaming—how did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That I'd want you beside me when I woke." Her voice was husky. "A drink?"
She gulped the water he fetched her, leaning hard against his supporting arm. With a damp cloth he laved her
face and cleared her eyes. The stench of her breath signaled inner dissolution. Aware of it she turned her face.
"Here." He handed her the open locket. "You'd better take something."
"For the pain?" Her smile was a travesty of humor. "I'm getting used to it, Earl. You don't have to worry about
me." Her eyes moved, settled on where Pacula knelt beside Embira. "What happened to the girl?"
"A fit, maybe. She screamed and went into convulsions."
Without comment she rose and climbed to her feet, to stand swaying for a moment, gaining strength with a
visible effort. Beads of sweat stood on the sunken cheeks and droplets of blood showed beneath the teeth biting her
lower lip.
"You're ill, Usan. You should rest."
"I'm dying, Earl, and we both know it. When the drugs are gone I'll be in hell and they won't last much longer.
Maybe you should do me a favor. A bullet, your knife—you know how to do it."
"Kill you, Usan? No."
"Why not? Would you deny me that mercy?" Her voice was hard. "Would you?"
"If it was necessary, no." His voice was equally hard. "But you've too much courage to plead for death. What's
happened to your spirit? The determination to survive? Have you forgotten that young and lovely body you hope to
gain?"
"A dream, Earl and one that's fading. If I leave this place it will be only because you carry me. And then there is
the Cloud and the journey to Pane and how will I pay the surgeons? With mist?"
"There could be something."
"Under the mist? Perhaps." Her fingers fumbled at the locket and she lifted pills to her mouth. "Water, Earl?" She
drank and waited for the drugs to take effect. It had been a heavy dose, too heavy for safety, but what did that matter
now? "Sufan, when do we search?"
He looked up from where he sat, a container in his hand, a spoon lifted halfway toward his mouth.
"Later, Usan, when we have eaten. Then I—"
"Not you, Sufan. Me. I must be the first. You'll not deny me that?"
Dumarest said, "It could be dangerous."
"If so the more reason I should go first. What have I to lose? Earl, arrange it." Then, as he hesitated, she added
quietly, "Please, Earl. At least let me be sure there is hope."
The danger lay in the unknown. The mist thickened toward the center of the area, forming an almost solid wall of
writhing fog, and once within it orientation would be lost and the woman could wander until she dropped. The
ground, too, could be treacherous. At the outer edge it was firm, but deeper in the mist there could be soft patches,
holes, anything. And, if treasure did lie in heaps, it alone could provide hazards.
All this Dumarest explained as they stood on the floor of the wide colonnade.
"I know, Earl." Usan was impatient. "I know."
"Go in, find out what you can and return. This will guide you." Dumarest lifted the coil he held, a thin rope he'd
made of plaited strands taken from a thicker coil. "I'll tie it around your waist. When you want to return take up the
slack and follow the line. You understand?"
"Yes." She sagged a little, then straightened, her breathing harsh. "But hurry, Earl. Hurry!"
The line attached she stepped from the colonnade and beaded toward the mist. The line snaked from where it lay
in a coil on the floor, the other end fastened to Dumarest's wrist.
Marek said, "A woman of courage, Earl, but as she said, what has she to lose? How long will you allow her to
search?"
"Not long."
"Earl!" Sufan frowned as Dumarest looked toward him. "If anything happens to her, what then?"
"It hasn't yet."
"But if it does? She's old and ill and near collapse. She could die out there, but if she does we must continue to
search. I insist on that."
Marek said, "She's gone."
The mist had closed about her, streamers and coils writhing, drifting, reforming as they watched. Dumarest felt a
tug at his wrist and looked at the line. It was extended, taut as it vanished into the mist. Gently he tugged at it, again,
the cord dipping to lie on the ground.
"How long will you give her?" said Marek. "An hour?"
"More," said Sufan. "We must give her a chance to search. The more we learn the better, and if—" He broke off,
but there was no need of words. If danger lay within the mist and she should fall victim to it her death would at least
warn the others.
All they could do now was to wait.
Pacula came to join them. She said, "How long are you going to leave her out there? It's been hours."
Hours? Dumarest said, "Get back to Embira."
"She's resting. Asleep. The sedatives—"
"Get back to her!"
Dumarest looked at the line. It lay thin and straight without movement of any kind. If Usan had found something
and was examining it the line would present that appearance. If she was moving a little from side to side or returning
it would be the same. But too much time had passed. She could have fallen to be lying unconscious or dead.
Marek said, "Hours? Earl, that doesn't make sense. But Usan—you'd better bring her back."
Dumarest was already at work. Quickly he drew in the line, feeling no resistance, continuing to pull it back until
the end came into sight.
"She's gone!" Sufan's voice was high, incredulous. "Earl! She's vanished!"
"She untied the line." Marek stooped, lifted it in his hands. "See? No sign of a break. Maybe she saw something
she couldn't reach and undid the knot. Now she's lost." He stared at the mist, the vast, shrouded area. "Lost," he said
again. "Earl, what happens now?"
Dumarest said, "I'm going to find her."

Chapter Sixteen
The line had been extended and was firm about his waist. The others were watching, aside from Embira who was
still asleep, but Dumarest didn't turn to look at them. Marek held the line and a loop was attached to a pillar. Sulfan
had been full of instructions, heard and ignored. Dumarest would operate in his own way.
Beneath his feet the ground held a gentle slope, checked by a glance at the colonnade to one side. A saucer like
depression, not a hemisphere or the ground would have held a sharper gradient. A shallow bowl then, why hadn't he
noticed it before?
Around him the mist began to thicken.
It held a trace of pungency, an odor not unpleasant, slightly reminiscent of the fur of a cat, the tang of spice. It
filled his nostrils as he breathed and stung his eyes a little, a discomfort which passed as soon as noticed. He had
expected to be blinded by the mist but always, as he walked, it seemed to open before him. An area of visibility a few
yards in diameter. The ground was smoothly even, yielding like a firm sponge beneath his boots, which left no trace
of their passage.
"Usan!" The mist flattened his call. "Usan!"
She could be anywhere and finding her would be a matter of luck. Already he had lost all sense of direction, only
the line offering a guide.
"Usan!"
A woman, old, sick, dying, but with greater courage than most. Kalin had been like that. Kalin, who had gained
what Usan most desired, a new and healthy body, living as a host in another's shape. Using the secret he carried, the
one given to her by her husband before he died, passing it on in turn.
Kalin—could he ever forget her?
And then, incredibly, she was before him.
"Earl! My darling! My lover—I have waited so long!"
 She came from the mist, tall, her hair a scarlet flame, eyes wide, lips parted, hands lifted to grasp his shoulders.
Against his chest he could feel the pressure of her body, her sensual heat.
"Earl, my darling! My darling!"
He felt the touch of her lips, her hands, the swell of breasts and hips, the long, lovely curve of her thighs. All as
he remembered—but Kalin was dead. Kalin, the real Kalin—not the beautiful shell she had worn.
"Come with me, Earl." She took his hand and led him to a room bright with sparkling color. A wide bed rested on
a soft carpet, flowers filled vases of delicate crystal, perfume hung on the summer air. From beyond the open window
came the sound of birds. "Rest, my darling, and talk to me. But first—" Her kiss was warm with promise, her flesh
inviting to his touch. "Again, my darling. Again!"
Dumarest drew a long, shuddering breath. He was a man and within him was sensual yearning, little desires and
hopes building into fantastic imagery, the biological drives inherent in any normal human. To love and be loved, to
need and be needed, to have and to hold. And yet—
"Is something wrong, Earl?" The woman looked at him, her eyes filled with stars. "Earl! Don't you remember me?"
Too well and in too great a detail. The line of her chin, the tilt of her head, the little quirk at the corners of her
lips. He studied them again, his eyes dropping to the gown she wore, short, cut low, shimmering emerald belted with
a band of scarlet the color of her hair. All real as the room was real, the flowers. He picked one, the crushed bloom
falling from his hand.
"Earl?"
"No," he said. "No."
And was again surrounded by mist.
It looked as before, a swirling, bluish gray fog, smoke in constant motion as if with a life of its own. The smoke of
fires remembered from earlier days when as a boy he had crouched over smoldering embers cooking the game fallen
to his sling. A lesson learned then never to be forgotten. Eat or die. Kill or starve. Survive or perish. Childhood had
not been a happy time.
But Earth was his home. Earth!
The mist parted and he stood on a meadow. The softness of lush grass was beneath his feet and trees soared in
ancient grace to one side. A moment and he was among them to walk among the boles of a natural cathedral. The
trunks were rough to his touch, the leaf he thrust into his mouth succulent with juices, the little wad of masticated
fiber falling to the soft, rich soil.
The trees yielded to a clearing slashed by a stream fringed with willows, the tinkle of water over stone a
somnolent music in the warm, scented air. In the azure sky hung the pale orb of the Moon, a silver ghost blotched
with familiar markings.
Home. He was home!
Not the one remembered from boyhood, the bleak area of ravaged stone and arid soil, the haunts of small and
vicious beasts, of poverty and savage men, but the one he had always been convinced must lie over the horizon.
Earth as it had been. Earth as it should be. Warm and gentle and filled with enchantment. A paradise.
The only one there ever was or ever could be. "You like it?" A man rose from where he had been sitting at the
edge of the stream. His face was shadowed by the cowl of his brown, homespun robe, his hands thrust into its
sleeves. His voice held the deep resonance of a bell. "You?"
"A friend. An ear to listen and a mouth to talk. Each man needs a friend, Earl. Someone to understand."
A need supplied as soon as felt. Dumarest said, "This is Earth? There can be no mistake?"
"This is Earth, Earl. How can you doubt? Your home, the only world on which you can feel whole. Can you
understand why? Every cell of your body was fashioned and shaped by this place. It is the only planet on which you
can feel wholly in tune, to which you can ever really belong. Look around you. Everything you see is a part of you;
the grass, the trees, the creatures which walk and swim and fly. The water, the sunlight, the glow of the Moon. Only
here can you ever find true contentment, Earl. Only on Earth can you ever find happiness."
And he was happy with a pleasure he had never before known or had even dreamed could exist. An intoxication
of supreme bliss which caused him to stoop, to fill his hands with dirt, to lift them and let it rain before his eyes.
Earth!
His home now and for always.
The days would shorten and winter come with snow and crisp winds. There would be growth and harvest and the
regular pattern of life to which he would respond. And there would be others, of that he was certain. Men and women
to offer him a welcome. A wife, children, sons to teach and daughters to cherish. An end to loneliness.
"Earl!"
He frowned at the sound of his name. Who could be calling him?
"Earl. I need you. Please help me. Earl!" A woman's voice holding pain and terror, things which had no place in
this ideal. It came again, louder, "For God's sake where are you? Answer me, Earl. I need you. Earl. Earl!"
A flash of movement. Derai? But the hair was gold, not silver, and the eyes were blind.
"Embira!"
She came to him from the mist, hands lifted, groping, her face dewed with sweat which carried the scent of her
fear. A woman alone, blind, and afraid, walking into the unknown. The line firmly knotted around her waist trailed
behind her. His own, Dumarest noticed, was gone. When had he freed himself from its restraint?
"Earl?" Her hands caught his own, the fingers closing with an iron grip. "Thank God I've found you! We waited so
long and your line was cut and—Earl! Don't leave me!"
"I won't, Embira."
"It hurts," she said dully. "The pain, the hunger and fear. I'm so afraid. Take me back, Earl. Take me back."
Freeing his hands, he turned her, clamping his left arm around her shoulders, catching up the line with his right.
He pulled, drawing in the slack and, when it was taut, jerked three times. An answering jerk and the line tightened,
dragging at the girl's waist.
Marek was at the far end, Pacula and Sufan at his side. As Dumarest reached the edge of the colonnade and
guided the girl into Pacula's waiting arms, Marek said, "So she found you. Thank God for that. I'd about given up
hope. When we pulled in your line and found it cut—"
Sufan interrupted, his voice impatient. "What did you find, Earl? What is the treasure of Balhadorha?"
Dumarest answered in one word. "Death."

***

The food and water were getting low but Dumarest had no need of them and neither did the girl. The mist had
taken care of them both, removing toxins, nourishing tissue, maintaining life in its own fashion. But while Dumarest
had suffered no apparent ill effects the girl had collapsed. She lay on the floor of the far side of the chamber, her face
drawn, stamped with signs of anguish despite the drugs which dulled her senses.
"She volunteered," said Marek quietly. "When you didn't return and we found your line cut she insisted on going
after you. She said that she alone could find you."
"She was right."
"As events proved, Earl. Her talent, of course, it makes her something other than normal. But you were in the
mist for a long time. Long enough for Sufan to make a circuit of the area."
"I found nothing." The man came forward, eyes darting. "And you, Earl?"
"I told you."
"Death—what answer is that? Did you find anything beneath the mist? Artifacts? Gems? Anything at all?"
"I found everything the legends promised. Wealth beyond imagination, pleasure unexpected, the answers to all
questions, the solution to all problems. It's all there in the mist." Dumarest stared toward it, the swirling vapors edged
by the openings set in the wall of the chamber. "The rumors didn't lie. Everything you could hope for is there, but at a
price."
"Death," said Pacula, and shivered."Earl, what is it?"
"A symbiote."
"Alive?" Marek was incredulous. "After so long?"
"Time is different within the mist. An hour becomes a minute. Perhaps the colonnade has something to do with it,
or the city. It isn't important. But that mist is alive. It takes something, a little blood, some bone marrow, the aura of
emotion, perhaps, but feeding, it gives. Each thought and wish becomes real. The host is maintained in a world of
illusion. One so apparently real that it is impossible to escape."
"But you escaped, Earl."
"With Embira's help, Pacula. If she hadn't come looking for me I would be there still."
"And you long to return." She looked at him with sudden understanding. "Earl—"
"I must try it," said Sufan. "I must experience it for myself. If I am tied to a line I should be safe."
"You would free yourself from the line," said Dumarest. "Nothing would stop you. If you were locked in steel it
might be possible, but we have no metal straps and chain. If you go in you'll stay in."
"Maybe it's worth it." Marek looked at the mist, his eyes thoughtful. "What more can life offer than total
satisfaction? If what you say is true, Earl, then here we have found happiness."
"And Embira?"
"What of her?"
"She can't share that happiness, Marek. Do you want to leave her here, alone, blind, terrified? She needs us. We
must take her back to the ship. And we need you to help guide us through the Cloud."
 "Need," said Marek bitterly. "What is another's need to me?" But he began collecting the packs, the weapons and
supplies.
Pacula said, "Earl! What of Usan Labria?"
"We leave her."
"Usan? But—"
She was at the heart of the mist, lying on the softly firm ground, tended by the alien organism in return for what
she could give. The very substance of her body, perhaps, disintegrating after death to culminate the bargain. But
while alive, she was freed of pain and locked in a world of fantasy. Perhaps she ran light-footed over emerald sward or
acted the queen in some luxurious palace. Around her would be attentive lovers and, in mirrors, she would relish the
sight of her lovely young body. Happiness would be here—what more could life offer?
"We have no choice," said Dumarest. "We can't find her, and even if we could, to rescue her would be cruel. She'd
be dead before we left the Cloud and without money what can she hope for? Now she is happy." He said again,
harshly. "We leave her."
Leave! To turn his back on paradise!
He felt a touch on his arm and looked down to see Pacula's hand. Her eyes, inches below his own, were soft with
concern.
"You don't want to go, do you, Earl? You're doing this for Embira. If you were alone would you stay? Would you
go back into the mist?"
To Kalin and others he had known. To the planet of his birth and the incredible pleasure which had filled him, the
content and utter satisfaction.
He said unsteadily, "If I went again into the mist I'd never return. Now, for God's sake, woman, let's be on our
way!"
As she went to lift the girl to her feet Dumarest looked at the others. Both were ready. Sufan Noyoka stepped to
the near edge of the colonnade, breathing deeply, taking a final look at the treasure he had spent his life to find.
Dumarest had expected him to argue, instead he accepted the departure, his face calm as he led the way from the
chamber.
The women followed him, Pacula supporting the girl.
"So it's over, Earl." Marek shrugged and adjusted pack and gun. "For now, at least, but Sufan will be back. I'm
certain of it. Nothing will keep him away and his friends will help him."
"Has he any left?"
"I use the word in its general sense, Earl. The Cyclan is the friend of no man, but they will be interested in what
he has to tell them. This place could be put to use and they will be happy to learn of it—if a cyber can ever be happy.
They will stake him on a second expedition."
To investigate the mist. To take samples, to test, perhaps to breed fresh organisms. To create new centers and so
gain another weapon in their war to dominate all Mankind. A bribe or a gift to those who were loyal. The old and sick
and miserable given paradise. The rich and jaded offered a supreme thrill. Once established each center would
dominate a world.
Dumarest said bleakly, "Will the Cyclan listen to him?"
"Why not? They are old associates." Marek was bitter. "Didn't he tell you? That's where we first met, in the
laboratory which gave me the thing to kill my wife and child. He was asking advice or something, but he was there."
As associate of his enemy—no wonder he had been followed to Chamelard and beyond. The vessel chasing them
must have been lost in the Cloud, but there would be others, more cybers waiting to plot his movements, waiting
where they would know he would be.
"Earl?"
"Nothing," said Dumarest. "Let's get after the others."

Chapter Seventeen
They walked through silent chambers, following the upward path of the spiral, reaching the one stained with a
pool of dried blood. Marek had taken the lead and guided them through the brooding maze back to where a dead
man lay on a bed of dust. Through the circular openings streamed the light of the yellow and crimson suns, warm
swaths which touched the sunken cheeks and rictus of the smile.
Captain Cleeve Inchelan seemed amused.
"His raft," said Marek. "If we could only find his raft." If there was one at all. If the structure was undamaged and
the power intact—a small hope after so long.
 To Pacula, Dumarest said, "How is the girl?"
She sat with her back against a wall, her face dull, her hands lying listlessly in her lap. Not once had she spoken
during the journey, walking like a person in a daze, one semi-stunned or drugged. But the sedatives she had been
given would have lost their effect by now.
Touching her cheek, Dumarest said gently, "Embira?"
"She's in shock," said Pacula. "That damned mist!" The impact of the alien organism on her mind. Her talent
strained by its aura, her ego withdrawing to a place of imagined safety. Looking at her Dumarest could appreciate
what she had done. To walk into the glare of burning magnesium, eyes forced open, tormented yet searching for the
flicker of a candle which had been himself. Conscious of the hunger of the thing, the danger.
"Embira?" His hand stroked her cheek. "Embira, talk to me."
"Earl?" Her voice was a whisper. "Earl?"
"You're getting through," said Pacula. "Try again." Her own hand gripped the girl's. "You're safe now, Embira.
Safe."
"My head—it hurts. I can't—Earl!"
She clung to him like a child.
Sufan Noyoka said, "Can she guide us? Lead us through the chambers back to the door? Ask her, Earl. Ask her!"
"If she can't we're stuck," said Marek. "With luck I could find the door, but how to pass through it?" Looking at the
dead man he added bleakly, "It might be that the captain will have company soon."
"Ask her!" snapped Sufan again. "Make her guide us!"
"She can't be forced." Dumarest rose, the girl's hands falling to lie again in her lap. "It will take time before she
recovers, if she ever can within the city. We'll have to find another way out."
"How? The wall can't be climbed."
"From the outside, no," Dumarest admitted. "But from the inside? Well have to find out. Marek!"
He led the man to one of the openings and together they climbed to the lower edge. It was set high on the curve
of the chamber and, thrusting his head and shoulders far out, Dumarest turned to study the slope above. If the
material was the same as that of the outer wall they had no chance, but if it was like that of the smaller chambers
there was hope.
"Pass me a gun, Marek, and hold me firm."
Dumarest leaned back, his legs held by the other man, lifting the gun and aware of the danger inherent in the
recoil. Aiming he fired, a long blast which left a scarred gash, shallow but deep enough to offer a precarious hold.
Lifting the muzzle he fired again, again, blasting a ladder in the smooth surface.
As he ducked back through the opening Marek said, "Can we climb it?"
"Yes. I'll go first and drop a rope. We can pull the women up behind us."
"And after?"
"We'll see."
The roof was long, rounded, curved like the back of a whale. It ended at one of the mounds, a curved rainbow of
shimmering, refracted light, which swept up and to either side.
Marek said, "Earl, the gun?" He grunted when the roar of the weapon died, leaving the surface unscarred. "Well,
we were lucky once. What now?"
"We climb." Dumarest narrowed his eyes as he studied the barrier. They were high against the curve, another
dozen feet and they would be able to crawl, fifteen and they would be relatively safe. How to gain those fifteen feet?
"Pacula, lift your skirt up around your waist and tie it. Bare your legs and arms, those of the girl also. Marek, don't
move!" Light flashed from the knife he lifted from his boot. With the edge he roughed the clothing the man wore,
doing the same to Sufan, ending him himself. "It'll give extra traction," he explained, sheathing the blade. "Remember
to lie flat and press hard against the surface. Use your flattened hands, a cheek, the insides of your legs."
Dumarest set the example, leaning to face the slope, straddling his legs as Marek climbed to his shoulders. Sufan
followed, then Pacula. She inched forward, providing an anchor for Sufan, the two of them drawing up Marek to lie
beside them.
"Embira." Dumarest fastened her to the rope and explained what had to be done. "You can manage?"
"If you're with me, Earl."
"I'll be with you." He guided her to the slope. "Up now."
He lifted her, his hands firm around her waist moving to her thighs, her knees. His palms made cups to support
her feet, the extension of his arms holding her high. With the others she would lie flat, providing an anchor to take his
weight.
A procedure repeated as, like flies, they crawled over the mounds to the wall.
It rose ten feet against the sky, featureless, a blank expanse which ran to either side on its long circle about the
city. Without hope Dumarest blasted it with a hail of bullets, the roar of the gun muted in the brooding stillness of the
air.
"Now what?" Marek shook his head. "We could reach the summit but what will it gain us? There's a hundred-foot
drop the other side."
"We have a rope."
"True, but how to hold it? There's nothing to tie it to, Earl. One could let down the others but how can he
escape?"
Dumarest said, "Empty your packs. Drop the canteens and guns, all the weight you can. Now, you first, Pacula.
Free the rope when you land."
"Embira?"
"Will follow, but she will need you to guide her. Now hurry, woman! Move!"
Quick action to save the need of thought, the realization of what would happen if she should fall. With the rope
firmly knotted Dumarest took the slack, a loop around his waist, watching as Pacula climbed on Marek's shoulders.
Turning to look at him she said, "Earl! What—"
She cried out as she slipped on the yielding surface, the rope streaming through Dumarest's hands, checking as he
strained against it, slipping smoothly and easily through his hands. It slowed as he tightened his grip to lower the
woman gently through the last stage of descent.
A moment, then a jerk and Dumarest drew back the rope.
"Embira!"
Sufan Noyoka followed leaving Marek and Dumarest alone.
"Your turn. Earl."
"Yours." Dumarest kicked at the empty packs. "Take those with you. Fill them with dirt and stone, anything which
has weight. Tie them to the rope."
"I'm lighter than you are, Earl."
"Which is why you're going first. You may not be able to take my weight."
"The Knave of Swords," murmured Marek. "I was a fool. Not the Knave but the Lord. Without you—" He broke
off then said flatly. "Earl, you realize you're trusting me with your life?"
There had been no choice—only he possessed the bulk to take the strain of the rope, the knowledge of what to
do. Alone Dumarest checked the weight of the discarded equipment. The guns, the ammunition, the canteens, now
almost empty, the food and other supplies. It wasn't enough. Without friction it could never hold his weight, and
unless he had enough to anchor the rope, death was inevitable.
Death or the mist. A return to the heart of the city if he could make it. Injury and the torment of thirst if he could
not.
Had the captain died trying vainly to reach paradise?
A tug and he hauled up the rope. It held only half the packs, each heavy with dirt. A second haul and he had
enough. Dumarest lashed the packs, the guns and other things together, fastened them to the end of the rope,
wrapped more around his waist. The loose end he threw over the wall, and without hesitation, followed it.

***

Timus Omilcar came running as Dumarest landed. The engineer was panting, sweat dewing his face. His voice
boomed through the air as he came to a halt before the little group standing before the wall.
"You're back! Thank God for that! I was about to give up hope when I heard the gunfire. What happened? Where
is the treasure?"
"There is no treasure," said Marek. "None we could carry and not what you hoped for."
"None? Nothing at all?" Timus searched them with his eyes. "Where's Usan?"
"We left her. We had no choice." Pacula added bleakly, "But she, at least, got what she came to find. The only one
of us who did."
"No," said Dumarest. "Not the only one. You've been lucky, too."
"Lucky? How?"
"You came for money in order to search for your daughter. Haven't you realized yet that she stands at your side?"
"Culpea? No! Where—" She turned to stare at the girl. "Embira? Impossible!"
"Is it?" Dumarest stepped closer. Sufan Noyoka, he noticed, had backed a little, one hand fumbling at his wrist.
"Think about it. Who was close when you lost her? You told me that Sufan Noyoka was in the area. Did you search his
raft?"
"No. Of course not. He didn't—he wouldn't—Earl, she's too old!"
 "Slow-time," he said. "Under it she would have aged a month in a day. Look at her arms. The elbows are scarred
with inserts used for intravenous feeding. And remember how you felt when you first saw her, how you were drawn to
her." And then, as still she stared her disbelief, "Look in a mirror, woman! Study her bones! You could have been
sisters, you said, but the relationship is closer than that. She is your daughter."
"This is stupidity!" Sufan Noyoka's voice was brittle with anger. "Why are you talking like this, Earl? What is in
your mind? What are you trying to do?"
"You deny it?"
"Certainly I deny it. Don't listen to him, Pacula. You have known me for years. Are you going to take the word of
an adventurer against that of an old friend?"
She said uncertainly, "I don't know. I—how can I be sure?"
"You can be sure," said Dumarest. "There are tests which will prove it. We can do them in the ship. Sufan knows
how to conduct them. He has biological knowledge and can settle the matter one way or the other."
"You're mad! Insane! Why should you think I have such skill?"
"Didn't the Cyclan teach you? Isn't that why you attended their laboratory? Why else did you visit them? Don't
trouble to deny it, Marek saw you. You met there. Well?"
"I wanted advice. It had to do with Balhadorha. Earl, I warn you. Keep silent or—"
"You'll kill me as you did Jarv Nonach?" Dumarest shrugged. "You had to kill him, of course. He intended to leave
and you couldn't allow that. Even less could you allow him the chance of being able to return. He could have charted
a course and robbed you of your discovery and so he had to die. It was simple, a poison in his pomander, and how
could you be blamed? And now that you know what lies in the city how many others do you intend to kill? Pacula?
She isn't necessary. Marek? Perhaps, after he has helped to guide you. The engineer later—they come cheap. The
only one you really need is Embira." Pausing, Dumarest added bitterly, "The girl you stole and had changed in the
laboratories of the Schell-Peng. Blinded and trained, taught under slow-time, artificially aged, robbed of her
childhood—and you call yourself an old friend!"
"You did that!" Pacula's face was that of a savage beast. "Sufan, you filth!"
"He's lying! Don't you understand? He's lying! Why should I do a thing like that?"
For answer Dumarest gestured at the city.
"For this. The dream of a lifetime, you said, and I believe you. As I believe those who called you mad. A madness
which stopped at nothing. You needed the girl because of her genetic trait, one inherited from her father. He could
see in the dark, you said, Pacula, but what more? Would you have known? Would he? But Sufan guessed and the
Cyclan confirmed it. They told him what must be done if he hoped to fashion her into an instrument with which to
navigate the Hichen Cloud. Eight years ago. Marek, when did you meet? Eight years ago? Nine?"
"About nine, Earl. Yes."
"And the land you went to examine, Sufan's land. A trap into which you fell, Pacula. He had the child drugged and
hidden in his raft. Later he took her to Chamelard. If you doubt me the tests will decide."
Sufan Noyoka said, "That will be enough." His hand rose from his sleeve, metal glinting in the light. A laser, small
but powerful enough to burn and kill. "A mistake, Earl. I was careless. I should have left you behind on Chamelard."
After he had won possession of the girl—but he could have had another reason and Dumarest suspected that he
had. One which had determined his choice of action.
Pacula said, "Sufan, are you saying—"
"But of course, my dear. Earl is shrewd and has guessed the truth, but why be so upset? What is a single child
worth against what we have found? And she is here, handicapped a little, perhaps, but with a unique talent."
He stepped back as she lunged toward him, hands extended, fingers reaching for his eyes. The laser blurred as he
lashed out with its weight, the impact of metal against her temple loud in the heavy air. It lifted as she fell to lie
twitching on the dirt.
"Move, Earl, and I fire. Not to kill, naturally, but you could do little with crippled legs. In fact it would be a sensible
precaution. The knees, I think, and the elbows." The laser leveled in his hand.
Marek said, "No! Sufan, you can't!"
"You hope to stop me?" The weapon swung in Sufan's hand. "I need you, Marek, but can make do without you.
You too, Timus. Stand back the pair of you. And think of the treasure—what is one man's life worth against what the
city contains? I promised you wealth, and you shall have it, more than you can imagine. The Cyclan can be generous
when it suits their aims. And now—no!"
Too late he realized his mistake, the lapse of attention which was all Dumarest needed. His hand dropped to his
boot, lifted with the knife, steel hurtling as Sufan shouted, the blade turning as he fired, one shot which seared the
tunic at Dumarest's shoulder.
Then he was down, blood streaming from his, eye, staining his face, the dirt, the hilt of the knife buried in the
socket and penetrating the brain.
"Earl!"
"I'm all right." Dumarest felt his shoulder, his fingers red when he lifted them from the shallow wound. "See to
Pacula."
She rose as Marek reached her, her temple marred by an ugly bruise, her hands reaching toward the girl.
"Culpea! My child!"
"Shell be all right," said Marek. "We'll see to that, Pacula. If you will let me?"
The way of life, need meeting need, each recognizing the emptiness of the other, each ready to fill it, both to take
care of the girl.
With time she would be herself again and more. New eyes could be grown from cell tissue to replace those
deliberately blinded by the Schell-Peng in order to concentrate her mind on her talent.
"Earl?" Timus Omilcar looked at the dead man, the gleaming bulk of the city. "I suppose there's nothing more we
can do here?"
"Nothing. Get back to the ship now. We leave as soon as the girl has rested."
Up and back through the Cloud, the ship sold and the money divided. Timus to go his own way, the others to
return to Teralde, perhaps, the security of land and family, himself to move on.
Stooping, Dumarest jerked free his knife. Sufan Noyoka was dead and with him had died the immediate danger of
the Cyclan. Had he known the value of the stranger he had carried? Dumarest thought it possible, but he could never
have realized his true worth. More even than the fabled treasures of Balhadorha.
He looked for the last time at the city. It lay like a gem in the cupped palm of the hills, a cathedral or a tomb? Had
those who built it lived to worship the mist? Had they, finally, succumbed to its attraction? Or had it been nothing
more than an elaborate prison? A housing for paradise?
Dumarest turned and headed toward the ship. The city held nothing but illusion, and Earth, the real Earth, had yet
to be found.

SPECTRUM OF A FORGOTTEN SUN

Chapter One
On Hoghan a man lay dying. He sprawled beneath the jagged stump of a broken tree, blood puddling the dirt
around his hips, the uniform he wore ripped and torn, burned and stained. In the flame-shot darkness his voice was a
tormented whisper.
"Earl?"
"Here." Dumarest knelt, feeling the squelch of mud, reaching out with his left hand to grip the other's shoulder.
"Relax, Clar. You'll be all right."
"Don't lie to me, Earl." The pain-wracked voice held a bitter impatience. "Am I a raw recruit to believe a thing like
that? I'm as good as dead and you know it. That laser caught me right across the guts. If I hadn't been armored I'd be
dead now." The voice drew strength from pain and anger. "Damn the armor! Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"
A flare rose from a point close to hand, cold, blue-white light throwing stark shadows from the ruined buildings,
the broken remains of once-decorative trees. Once the city had been a gentle place graced with statues and things of
beauty; now the fury of internecine war had turned it into a shambles.
"Earl!" Clar writhed beneath Dumarest's hand. "The pain! Dear God, the pain!"
"Easy!"
"I'm burning! My guts—!" The voice became an animal-cry of searing agony. A shriek which could bring
unwanted attention.
With his free hand Dumarest tore at his belt, jerking open the pouch it contained, spilling free the contents. An
ampule tipped with a hollow needle rose to bury itself in the writhing man's throat. A pressure and numbing drugs
laced the bloodstream. A temporary measure only; nothing available could heal the wound. In the blazing light of the
drifting flare Dumarest examined it.
The armor Clar had worn, like his own, was cheap stuff, protection against low-velocity missiles, falling debris,
shrapnel and ricochets. It could even give some defense against the glancing beam of a laser, melting even as it
distributed the heat, but the beam which had caught Clar had been directly aimed and the plate across his stomach
had flared like paper, adding molten droplets to the searing energy of the blast. Beneath the twisted metal and
charred clothing the flesh was burned, black and red with char and blood, the greasy ropes of exposed intestines
bulging, perforated, crisp with cauterized tissue.
"Earl?" Calmed by the drug Oar's voice was flat and dull. "It's bad?"
"Bad enough."
"I knew it." A hand rose to push the helmet from the sweating face, thin gray hair accentuating the age-lines now
prominent at eyes and mouth. "A hell of a way to end. Ten years with the Corps and never a wound and now it's the
end of the line. Well, it happens. A man can't live forever, Earl."
But no man had to die like a beast in the mud of a city, spilling his guts for the sake of another's ambition. From
somewhere came the roar of an explosion, the rattle of small-arms fire. Flame, red and leaping, rose to dull the
watching stars, the distant points of brilliance cold, remote, hostile in their indifference.
"Listen," said Clar. "Hide out until it's over. Pick a spot and crawl into it and stay there until its safe to show
yourself. Wait until well past dawn and, when you move, keep your hands open and high. You understand?"
Beneath his fingers Dumarest could feel the growing acceleration of the pulse in the dying man's throat.
"Be smart, Earl. Learn from one who knows. So we've lost, so what? There'll be a penalty to pay, but later, when
cool, the winners will listen to reason. Now they'll kill anything moving on sight. I…" His voice broke, returning edged
with pain. "A burn like that—why is it taking so long?"
The weapon itself had seen to that, cauterizing the flesh and preventing the swift loss of blood which would have
brought a speedy and merciful end. An irony. In another time and place the man could have been saved, frozen,
placed in an amniotic tank, the ruined tissue replaced with other grown from his own cells. Now he could only wait
for death.
"Earl."
"I'm here, Clar." Dumarest tightened his hand. "My fingers, can you feel them?"
"Yes, but I can't see you. Everything's gone dark." In the light of the flare the eyes rolled, wide, the balls mottled
with red. "You're a good man, Earl. The kind a man needs at his side when he goes into battle. But the life of a
mercenary isn't for you. You're too smart. Too clever. Take my advice, Earl. Get out while you can. Don't waste your
life. Don't—God, Earl! The pain! The pain!"
More drugs would do nothing but stave off the inevitable and the toxins flooding the man's bloodstream
diminished their effectiveness. But it was all he had. Dumarest used three more of the ampules then snarled as Clar
heaved beneath his hand. Old stock or diluted contents; someone, somewhere, had made an easy profit and because
of it a man would die in screaming agony.
"Earl!"
Dumarest moved his hand, the fingers searching for the carotids, finding them, pressing deep to cut off the blood
supply to the brain. Unconsciousness came almost at once but, as Clar relaxed, he maintained his grip. To allow the
man to wake required a sadistic bent he did not possess. It was kinder to be merciful. More gentle to kill.

***

The tide of battle had moved to the south, gunfire echoing from the area of warehouses huddled close to the
field, flames rising from burning houses, some lurid with the writhing colors of fuming chemicals. Swathes of green
and orange, darts of blue and amber, a golden haze shot with the searing brilliance of burning magnesium which
obliviated the need of flares and sent shadows dancing over the torn street and shattered buildings. An eruption of
violence wasteful in its extravagance for, as he knew, the battle was over, the victory assured to the other side. But
war did not have a tidy ending and armed men, fearful of their lives, would take no chances.
As his hand fell from the dead man's throat Dumarest heard the scuff of a boot, a sharp, metallic sound, and was
moving as gunfire tore the air and missiles threw gouts of dirt from where he had knelt.
"Captain! I've got one! Here!"
The gun fired again as Dumarest rolled, the man holding it too excited to take careful aim. Bullets sprayed the
ground, one tearing at the heel of a boot, another ripping through armor to graze a shoulder, the impact like the kick
of a horse.
"Captain!"
Dumarest felt the jar of his helmet against stone and flung himself behind a sheltering mass of fallen debris,
moving towards the end as bullets sent chips whining through the air. From cover he peered up and outwards, seeing
the figure silhouetted against the lambent glow. A man, young from the sound of his voice, wearing the black and
maroon of the opposing forces, a sub-machine gun cradled in his arms. A raw recruit on his first mission, forgetting
elementary precautions in his excited desire to kill. A veteran would have taken cover, aimed with care, counted his
shots, and Dumarest would now be dead. Instead the fool stood in full view, firing wildly, the gun failing silent as the
magazine exhausted itself.
As he reloaded Dumarest rose, his own gun lifting, leveling, his finger checking on the trigger as a deep voice
called from one side.
"Lorne! Down, you fool! Down!"
To fire now would be to betray his position, to invite answering fire from the man who had called. A veteran, this,
knowing better than to show himself, one who would not miss.
"Captain! He's over there! Behind that stone!"
"Down, you fool! Hit the dirt!"
"But—"
"I'm using a grenade."
It exploded in a blossom of flame as Dumarest dived for the cover he had spotted, a narrow crack in a shattered
wall, shrapnel whining inches from his helmet, dust stinging his eyes as he dropped to turn and stare into the flame-lit
darkness. Two men at least, but the captain would not be alone, with him would probably be a patrol sent to sweep
up any stragglers and, when they found no body, they would close in.
Dumarest looked upwards. The crack narrowed as it rose, to climb it would merely place him in a blind extension
of the trap in which he was placed. Behind him reared a jumble of debris, stone precariously balanced which would
fall if he attempted to burrow into it. The only way out was the way he had come.
"Lorne, check the area," ordered the deep voice. "And hurry!"
"One dead, Captain. He's the man the one I saw was trying to rob."
"Anything else?"
Boots scrabbled over stone and Dumarest heard the sound of ragged breathing as the young man came to
investigate. A dark patch showed against the illuminated sky, light reflected from a pair of eyes, more catching a
polished spot on the helmet. A target impossible to miss, but to fire would bring another grenade.
"Lorne?"
"Nothing, Captain." The young voice echoed its disappointment. "But he couldn't have got away. I'm sure I hit him
and he couldn't have escaped the blast."
"Then he must be there. Look again."
The dark shape came closer, head bent, gun ready to fire. The finger on the trigger would be tense, a word, a
movement and he would shoot without thought or hesitation.
Dumarest rose slowly, taking care not to touch the stone to either side. Lifting his gun he waited until the dark
shape had turned away then threw it with the full power of his arm. It landed with a clatter, a sound immediately
drowned in the roar of the weapon cradled in the mercenary's arms. A blast of thunder which sent echoes from the
buildings and masked the thud of Dumarest's boots as he lunged forward. One hand lifted, weighed with his knife,
steel gleaming, it came to a halt as it touched the bare face beneath the helmet. His other hand slammed over a
shoulder to clamp over the chest and pull the body of the soldier hard against his own.
"Move and you die!" he snapped. Then, raising his voice, called, "I've got your man, Captain. Fire and you kill us
both."
"Lorne?"
The man gulped as he felt the prick of the knife in the soft flesh beneath his chin.
"Answer him," said Dumarest, and dug the blade a little deeper.
"He's got me." The young voice was sullen. "A knife at my throat."
"Kill him and you burn," rasped the captain. "What do you want?"
"To live."
"You're surrendering?" The captain rose, his shape bulky against the sky. Others rose with him, four men all with
weapons aimed. "Why didn't you call out before?"
"And be blasted by a trigger-happy fool?" Dumarest eased the pressure on the knife a little. "He gave me no
chance. He fired as soon as he saw me—if he was my man I'd have something to say about him missing the way he
did."
"He's young," said the captain. "And new—but he'll learn." He stepped forward lifting his helmet, revealing a hard
face seamed and puckered with old scars. "Let him go."
"When he drops his gun."
"He won't shoot you." Reaching out the captain took the weapon. "But I may if given cause. Lorne?"
"He was robbing the dead," snapped the young man. As Dumarest released his grip Lorne stepped forward,
turning to rub his throat, looking at the blood staining his hand. "A ghoul," he said bitterly. "A damned ghoul."
"He was a comrade," said Dumarest flatly. "And I wasn't robbing him. Stop trying to justify yourself, youngster.
And while you're at it you can thank the captain for saving your life. If he hadn't called out you'd be dead now."
"You—"
"That's enough, Lorne!" The captain turned to where one of the others rose from his examination of the dead
man. "Sheel?"
"He's got money on him. A wound in the guts and drugs are scattered around. My guess is that he was passed out
easy."
"A comrade, eh?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "And a good one. What happens now?"
The captain shrugged. "The engagement's over and you're among the vanquished. The orders were to kill all
stragglers, but what the hell? You're worth more to us alive and you've earned your chance. Lorne, escort him to
camp." He added, grimly, "And make sure that nothing happens to him on the way."

***

The room was like many others he had seen before. A bleak place with Spartan furnishings: a desk, a chair behind
it, another facing it, set squarely on the floor and fitted with invisible electronic devices to winnow the truth from lies.
A place designed to intimidate, holding nothing to distract the attention, as much a cell as the one in which he had
been held since his surrender three days ago. Time which Dumarest had spent with the tireless patience of an animal
knowing there was nothing else he could do.
Major Kan Lofoten was waiting for him. Like the room, he was the product of functional intent. Neatly uniformed
in black and maroon, his face was a hard combination of lines and planes. His eyes, deep-set beneath slanting brows,
were shrewdly direct. A man of middle-age, dark hair brushed back from a high forehead, his mouth thin and cruel.
When he spoke his voice held an unexpected resonance, a depth of inflection which Dumarest guessed was as
cultivated as his exterior.
"Be seated, my friend. Rest your hands on the arms of the chair. Relax, no harm will come to you. To business,
but first my apologies for the delay. As yon can imagine we have been busy." And then, without change of tone, he
said, "You are Earl Dumarest A mercenary attached to Haiten's Corps. Your first engagement?"
"Yes."
"You joined, where?"
"On Ragould." There was no point in lying and the man would already know the answer to the questions he
asked. But he wanted more than bare answers. "I was desperate," added Dumarest. "I'd traveled Low and found no
work available. The Corps was recruiting and it seemed a good idea to sign up. We left the next day and came to
Hoghan. The rest you know."
"Perhaps." The Major moved some papers. "You have fought as a mercenary before?"
"No."
"But you have fought?"
"When I had to, yes."
Lofoten nodded and leaned back in his chair his eyes studying the figure before him. Tall, hard, the face edging on
bleakness. A man who had learned early to rely on no one but himself. Stripped of armor and uniform he wore the
clothes he had carried beneath, pants and tunic of dull, neutral gray, boots which rose to just below the knee. The
tunic had a high collar and long sleeves falling to mid-thigh. One shoulder was scarred by the impact of a grazing
bullet, the glint of protective metal showing beneath the tear. Only one thing was missing from his usual attire—the
knife which now rested on the desk before the interrogator.
Lofoten picked it up, turning it so as to allow the light to glimmer along the blade. Nine inches of honed steel, the
edge curved, the back sweeping down to form a needlepoint. The guard was scarred and the hilt worn. Striking it on
the desk he listened to the clear note from the vibrating metal.
"A good knife," he said casually, "but an unusual weapon for a mercenary to carry. As unusual as the fact that you
wore your own clothes beneath the armor. Why did you do that?"
"I didn't like what I was given."
"Cheap stuff, thin, tearing at a touch." Lofoten smiled, a brief nicker of the lips which revealed a flash of white
teeth. "And your weapons the same, yes? How many veterans did your contingent hold? What rations did you carry?
How were your logistics? How well were you officered?"
"Badly," said Dumarest and added, dryly, "as you must know."
"Yes, I know, as you must have realized by now, that Haiten's Corps was sacrificed. You had no hope of winning
and there was no intention that you should. It was nothing more than a show. Sound and fury and some limited
destruction, enough to awe the civilians and make them obedient to the new regime."
 "A show," said Dumarest bitterly. "But some good men died."
"Of course—but dead men draw no pay." Lofoten was cynical. "And who ever claimed that the life of a
mercenary was easy? You realize why I'm telling you this? Your Command has no interest in redeeming you. Unless
you have money to buy your freedom you are ours to dispose of as we see fit. The penalty the vanquished must pay.
Either you work off your debt by service in the Legion or we sell you as contract labor. You have money?"
"No."
"Of course not, else you would not have joined up with Haiten on—where did you join?"
"Ragould."
"And you arrived there from where?"
"Elmish."
"And before that?" Too many worlds scattered across the spread of the galaxy. Names which had become faded
memories, the habitats of people who were now ghosts. A fact Lofoten sensed. "Never mind. Just tell me the world of
your origin." He blinked at the answer. "Earth?"
"Earth."
"A most unusual name for a world." Lofoten glanced at the desk, at the tell-tales relaying their signals. "Earth? I've
never heard of it, but no matter, I am more interested in your future than your past. Incidentally Captain Sigiua was
most impressed by your conduct. He has agreed to take you under his command should you join us. The captain was
the one who had you sent to camp."
"I remember," said Dumarest. "If I did join you for how long would it be?"
"Things are slow at the present. Your expenses would be high and your income small. Even with rapid promotion,
and I think that could be promised, it would take several years to gain your freedom. Then, of course, you could
remain as a free-lance. Many men have made a career in a mercenary band and you could be one of them. Atlmar's
Legion is always in need of good men and the rewards could be high."
And death could come fast with the burn of a laser, the shocking impact of a bullet, the blast of explosives.
Dumarest thought of Clar and how he had died—a small return for a decade of loyalty, but a man would be a fool to
hope for more. A bigger fool to join an organization which traded in war and used harsh discipline to maintain its
dominance over those wearing its colors. And yet had he any choice?
Leaning back Dumarest veiled his eyes and studied the bland face of the interrogator. It was a mask of tissue,
tiny muscular reactions firmly controlled, the eyes like glass, the lips carved as if from stone. A proud face belonging
to a proud man and once, perhaps, a sensitive one. An ambitious man, certainly, no other would have risen as high in
the calling he had chosen to follow.
Lofoten's hands fell, toyed with the knife as, casually, he said, "A small matter which you can easily put at rest.
You were crouched over the body of your comrade when discovered and were immediately fired on. Yet you escaped
injury. How?"
"Luck," said Dumarest. "I heard the soldier and he fired without taking aim. The type of gun he was using throws
up and to the right after the first shot."
"And so you moved down and to the left?" Lofoten shook his head. "No, my friend, I think there must be another
explanation."
His hands moved on the knife and, without warning, he threw it from where he sat. An awkward position, but his
aim was true and, spinning, the blade hurtled directly towards Dumarest. Lofoten drew in his breath as it slammed its
point deep into the back of the chair, his eyes judging distance, the time allowed for intent to be recognized and
evasive action taken. A normal man, anticipating the throw, would have barely been able to leave the chair. Dumarest
stood three feet to one side of it, poised, watchful.
"Fast!" said Lofoten. "Never have I seen anyone move with such speed. As I suspected you possess an unusual
attribute; the ability to evaluate a situation and take appropriate action on an instinctive level. And your reflexes are
amazingly fast. No wonder the soldier missed. Well, that is one mystery solved. Now to another. Why did you join the
Corps?"
"I've told you that."
"Yes, you said you were desperate," mused Lofoten. "But you could have earned money in the ring. Your speed
and undoubted skill with a knife would have provided food and comfort. Not the need for money, then, but for some
other reason. The desire to forget a woman? I doubt it. The urge to see new worlds? A remote possibility. The need to
escape? Many seek sanctuary in a mercenary band. For a man hunted by assassins such a move could be wise."
Dumarest turned without comment and jerked the knife from the chair. For a moment he held it in his hand and
then, as Lofoten made no objection, slipped it into his boot.
"Ragould is a small world with little shipping," said the major thoughtfully. "Which is why Haiten recruited there.
On such worlds there are always restless young men eager to travel and careless as to the true cost of their passage.
But you are no star-struck fool and must have known the risk involved. Yet for a man without money and with the
desire to remain unnoticed, the opportunity would hold an attraction. A chance to disappear. One engagement and
then, with pay and perhaps some loot, to move on to some other world. And, if any were following you, they would
think you had died in the war."
The man was shrewd and had come too close to the truth for comfort Dumarest was uneasily conscious of the
days he had been held, an unnecessary delay unless time had been needed for investigations to be made. And
beneath the bland words was something else, the hint of knowledge owned but not displayed, hidden like the whip of
a trainer after its initial display.
He said, flatly, "Have you decided?"
"On what is to be done with you?" Lofoten bared his teeth in a flickering smile. "You will, of course, be sold to the
one who bids highest for your contract. A pity you have no money—I have the feeling that the bids will be high and
the possibility of you ever being able to regain your freedom remote."
Not remote, impossible should he fall into the wrong hands. A fact the major was making clear even as he hinted
at a way out.
"I don't like to see a man of your caliber wasted, but it is the system and the rules must be followed. Of course, if
you could raise the money, then as one soldier to another, I would be pleased to accept it."
"Give me two days and I will raise the money," said Dumarest. "That is a promise."
"One which, unfortunately, I cannot accept. The regulations must be followed you understand." Lofoten frowned
and picked up a paper from his desk and then, as if remembering something, let it fall. It had been in clear view for a
moment only, but long enough for Dumarest to see the symbol stamped on the heading, the hatedly familiar Seal of
the Cyclan.
"I was forgetting," said the major. "A small matter which could be a fortunate coincidence. I have an
acquaintance, a woman who is in some slight difficulty. It could be that you may be able to help her. She, of course,
could help you in turn. Will you give me your word that you will make no attempt to escape if I send you to her?" He
added, casually, "You will, of course, be under guard."
An opportunity he couldn't refuse. Trapped, Dumarest knew that he had no real choice, but caution made him
reluctant to appear too eager.
"This woman, who and what is she? What would be my duties?"
"That she will tell you."
"And my pay?"
To leave Hoghan," said Lofoten. His voice, his face, were expressionless. 'To escape a rather difficult situation.
Surely that is reward enough?" Then, smiling, he added dryly, "But there could be more. The Lady Dephine is a most
unusual person."

Chapter Two
She was tall with a mane of auburn hair, and seeing her as she stood before the window, Dumarest felt a
momentary shock of recognition.
Kalin?
Then she turned and he saw her face and eyes, green as Kalin's had been, but the similarity ended there. The hair
lacked the inbred flame of the woman be had once known and the face was not the same. It was older and bore the
stamp of a harsh determination, a feral intentness accentuated by the concavity of the cheeks beneath prominent
bone. The mouth was wide, the lips full, parted a little now to reveal the predatory curve of sharp, white teeth.
She said, sharply, "You know me?"
"No, my lady."
"Your eyes. I thought—but never mind." To the guard standing behind Dumarest she snapped, "Wait outside."
"Madam, my orders—"
"Were surely not to insult me. Now do as I say." As the door closed behind the man she smiled and extended her
hand. "Earl Dumarest. From what I hear you are something unusual. I'm glad of that in a universe of mediocrity how
refreshing it is to find the unique. Do you know what all this is about?"
"You are to tell me."
"Yes, of course. Well, sit down and take things easy while you may. Some wine?"
The room was in a hotel close to the field, a place of luxury untouched by the recent conflict. Only the ruins far
to one side told of what had happened. As she busied herself with a bottle and glasses, Dumarest, ignoring the
invitation to sit, crossed to the window and looked outside. It was close to dusk, the sun touching the horizon, yet
activity had not diminished. Uniformed men guided and controlled traffic and pedestrians; gangs of workers cleared
rubble and demolished shattered structures. They worked hard; within a few more days the city would be almost
back to normal. Within a few months new buildings would have replaced the old, fresh trees taking the place of those
now standing like shattered teeth.
"To the victor the spoils," said the woman at his side, where she had come to stand. Her voice was deep, almost
masculine, rendered truly feminine by its musical resonance. "Look at them, Earl. Children playing with their toys.
Bangs and noises in the night, the sight of flame, the trembling of the ground. Then, when it's all over, they come out
of their holes and wave flags and chant songs of triumph. And they call it war."
"And you, my lady?"
"Stupidity." She handed him one of the two glasses she carried. The wine it contained was a lambent green
holding the flavor and odor of mint. "Men are such fools. What has the war decided? That taxes shall be paid to one
faction instead of another and to gain this so-called victory, what has it cost? A year's revenue at least to pay for the
mercenaries. Two more to repair the damage. Wanton extravagance when the whole matter could have been settled
by cutting a deck of cards."
Dumarest said, "An easy solution, my lady."
"Too easy, which is why they never take it. Always they need to strut and adopt their postures, make the same old
threats and the same old appeals. Always they need sacrifice and blood. And always, they prate of their pride. Why
are men such fools?"
"To have pride?" Dumarest sipped his wine. "Some men have little else."
"And so, because of that, it becomes more important to them than life itself. Is that what you are telling me, Earl?
That a man is nothing without his pride? That rules dictated by others should determine how he should live and die?
That tradition has the right to eliminate self-determination?"
Her voice had deepened, holding the raw edge of anger and acid contempt. Dumarest wondered why… not
because of what she saw through the window. Earthquakes could ruin houses, and many cultures adopted a common
garb, so destruction and soldiers were not unique to war. There were no dead lying in the streets, no blood staining
the walls, no fragments of limbs and shattered tissue to tell of recent events. Like all mercenary-fought wars the
engagement had been conducted with due consideration to those who footed the bill.
He said, casually, "If you had your way, my lady, some of us would find it hard to find employment."
"I was forgetting." Light flashed as she lifted her hand, each nail a silver mirror. "Yet how many soldiers actually
kill? And what, to them, does killing mean? The touch of a finger can launch a missile to destroy a city a hundred
miles distant. A child could do it, and children do. Children in uniform. Soldiers."
Dumarest watched as she poured herself more wine. Beneath the shimmering fabric of her high-necked gown her
figure held the lithe grace of a feline. Her breasts, high and firm, were taut beneath the fabric above a cinctured waist,
the long skirt falling over neatly rounded hips and thighs. A woman who carried little excessive fat, one whose
metabolism would burn up energy as fast as it was ingested. One of indeterminate age, not young, but far from old.
One, he guessed, who had lived hard and fast—as if to crowd two lifetimes into one. And she had the ingrained
arrogance of a person born to the power and privilege of wealth.
Lowering the glass she met his eyes. Bluntly she said, "Well, Earl, do you like what you see?"
"Is that important, my lady?"
"No, but something else is. When you first entered this room I was watching your reflection in the window. You
thought you recognized me. Correct?"
"You reminded me of someone."
"A woman?" She didn't wait for an answer. "It would have to be a woman. One with red hair, obviously, but redder
than mine?" Her hand lifted to touch it and again light threw brilliance from her nails. Splintered reflections from
metal inserts each honed to a razor edge and needle point. Talons Dumarest had seen before tipping the fingers of
harlots plying an ancient trade. "Earl?" She was insistent. "What was her name? The woman I reminded you of, what
was her name?"
"I've forgotten." A lie—he would never forget; but the subject was a dangerous one. Quickly he changed it. "I was
told that you could ransom me if I agreed to help you. The guard is waiting."
"Let him wait."
"For how long, my lady?"
"Until I have decided. Until you have agreed."
"Agreed to what?"
She smiled and shook her head, a tress of hair falling to veil one eye, a strand which she lifted and replaced
among the rest.
"My lady!"
 "Why be so impatient, Earl? What waits for you if you leave this room? Do you prefer a cell? And afterwards the
auction block and a life of contract-slavery? Or to be taken and hidden away and used by those who are not known to
be gentle?"
The Cyclan? But if she knew of their interest in him then why not mention the name? A guess, he decided.
Neither she nor the major was sure. The display of their seal had been a goad or a calculated stimulus to gauge his
reaction. An old trick of any interrogator. Let slip a hint and then follow up; probing, using the information the victim
lets fall to gain more. But what was the real connection between them? Why had he been sent to the woman?
"To help me," she said, when bluntly he asked the question. "And to help yourself at the same time."
"How?"
She stepped towards him, arms lifting to embrace him, her lips settling close to his ear. Her voice was low, a bare
murmur, impossible to hear from outside or to be caught by any electronic device.
"To steal, Earl. To snatch the loot of a world."

***

From high to one side a man yelled. His shout drowned in the rasp and rumble of falling rubble, the pound of a
pneumatic hammer thudding like a monstrous heart accompanying the snarling whine of a saw. Noise which filled the
air with blurring distortions as dust veiled sharp detail.
The day had died and night reigned but still work continued under the glow of floodlights. A uniformed figure
snarled a curse, then stiffened to salute as an officer barked his displeasure.
"Sorry sir, but these civilians—"
"Are our employers." The officer, young, a neat dressing on his forehead covering a minor wound, smiled at the
woman at Dumarest's side. "Your forgiveness, my lady, but the man is fatigued. Battle tires a man and the war was a
hard one." His hand rose to touch the dressing. "Even so he should have remembered his manners."
"You are forgiven, Captain." Her smile was radiant. "Your wound is not too serious, I hope?"
"I was lucky," he said modestly. "And medical aid was at hand."
"I'm glad of that. Well, goodnight, Captain. Perhaps we shall meet again. You are on duty here at night? I shall
remember it."
"Captain Pring, my lady." His salute was from the parade ground. "If you need help be free to ask."
"A fool," she said as they moved on. "A typical soldier, Earl. A manikin to be manipulated as if it were a stuffed
toy."
Dumarest stepped over a low pile of rubble. "Why don't you like mercenaries?"
"Isn't it obvious? They come and fight their stupid war and then make out they have done their employers a
favor."
"And haven't they?" He smiled as he halted and turned to face her; a man taking a walk with an attractive woman,
a couple engaged in idle conversation. In the darkness eyes could be anywhere. "Think of the alternative. Without
mercenaries you'd need to train and equip your own forces with all the expense that entails. Those who died would
be close; sons, fathers, brothers, sisters even. And those engaged in civil war tend to ignore restraints and so increase
the destruction. All the employers of mercenary bands really lose is money. It is strangers who do the dying."
"Not strangers to each other, Earl," she said pointedly, "Comrades. Is it easy to kill a friend?"
He said harshly, "We came out here to talk. Two men have been following us but they are well out of earshot You
know them?"
"No, but they are probably watching to make sure you do not escape." Her hand rested lightly on his arm. "You
were clever to spot them, Earl. Now, shall we talk?"
They found a tavern, a small place busy with uniformed men, off-duty mercenaries returning to the economy
some of the money they had been paid. The sound of their voices and laughter was a susurrating din against which
no eavesdropper would stand a chance. A female dancer writhed to the music of drums and pipes, cymbals clashing
on fingers, knees, wrists and ankles. An indifferent performer, but she was scantily clad and that alone was enough to
please the watchers.
"Flesh," said Dephine. Her voice held disdain. "Why do men hold it in such high regard? A body, a few wisps of
fabric, a little movement and they roar their pleasure. Well, that is one harlot who will do well tonight."
"You condemn her?"
"No, but the men who will pay for her dubious pleasures—surely they must know how she regards them?"
"They have fought," said Dumarest. "Some of them have killed and all have risked their lives. Every coin has two
faces, my lady. And death must be matched with life."
"So the urge to destroy is accompanied by the urge to create?" She nodded, thoughtfully. "You are a philosopher,
Earl. And I will admit that, even to a woman, the pressure of danger is accompanied by the desire to be loved. A risk
taken, life and wealth won and then—" Her hand closed on his fingers. "The need, Earl. The overwhelming need to be
taken and to share in the euphoria of love. And you, after you have fought in the arena, do you feel the same?"
"The arena?"
"You're a fighter. Don't bother to deny it. I've seen them before. Men who set their lives against their skill with a
blade, who fight, hurt, kill and risk being killed for the pleasure of those who watch. And afterwards, Earl, when it's
over and you walk victorious from the ring, what then?"
A table stood to one side, away from the entertainment and so unoccupied. Dumarest led the way towards it, sat,
ordered wine, and looked at Dephine as a serving girl set it down.
"I have no money."
"Here." She flung coins at the girl, and as she left, said, "You haven't answered my question, Earl."
"There are more important ones. Now what is this about robbing a world?"
"An exaggeration," she admitted. "Even though the prospect is a tempting one I must admit it is impracticable.
But what I propose is not. The time is ripe, the situation ideal, circumstances ensuring our success. Soldiers are
everywhere and the normal police have restricted authority. In a day or so the situation will have changed which is
why we must act quickly."
"We?"
She ignored the question. "A ship is on the field with clearance from the military to leave at will. A cargo is
waiting and all that remains is for it to be placed aboard. Everything has been arranged and the whole thing should go
without a hitch. A neat plan, Earl, there won't even be suspicion. It's simply a matter of moving goods from one place
to another; from a warehouse to a ship."
"And?"
She frowned. "What do you mean, Earl? That's all there is to it. We load up and are away."
"To where?"
"Does it matter?" Her eyes were mocking. "Away from Hoghan—surely that is good enough."
A precaution and an elementary one. Kan Lofoten had to be involved but, if questioned, Dumarest couldn't
implicate him. All blame must rest on the woman but, if there was trouble, she at least would have a powerful friend.
And, if taken, he would be interrogated by the very man with most to hide. Dumarest could appreciate the irony of
the situation even while trying to think of a way out.
"There is no way," she said, almost as if she had read his mind. "You help or you go back to your cell. You know
what will happen then." Death, quickly administered to shut his mouth. "But why hesitate, Earl? The thing is
foolproof."
"Then why do you need me?"
"To take care of the unknown." She was frank. "A man could be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's a
remote possibility but it exists. If so and killing has to be done then you will do it. It's your life at stake," she
reminded. "Think of it."
Dumarest looked past her, at the pedestrians and soldiers moving along the street; at the men he had noticed
before who moved only to return to their original positions. Men dressed as civilians but who carried themselves with
a military bearing.
"Earl?" She was impatient. "You will help?"
He said, quietly, "You realize that the penalty for looting is a particularly unpleasant form of death?"
"So?"
"One applied to both men and women without distinction?"
"That bothers you?"
"Not unless I am among those sentenced."
"You won't be," she assured. "No one will. As I told you everything has been arranged and nothing can go wrong.
Earl, this is the chance of a lifetime. You will help?"
"Yes." The bottle stood between them and he poured, handing her a glass and lifting his own as if in a toast,
looking past it into the green reflection of her eyes. "It seems, my lady, that I have little choice."

***

The room was as he had left it, the open window now framing a sleeping city. Even the noise of construction was
eased except in those areas of greatest damage which, naturally, were those of greatest poverty. Dumarest thrust his
head and shoulders through the opening, looked up then down, seeing nothing but sheer walls.
From where she stood in the room behind him the woman said, "Searching for enemies, Earl? Are you always so
cautious?"
"It pays, my lady."
"Dephine. Call me by my name. The use of titles stultifies me." Restlessly she paced the floor; touching a vase of
lambent crystal, an ornate chime from which came musical tinklings, a carved and smiling idol which nodded
beneath her hand. Her feet, graced with flimsy sandals, were silent on the thick carpet. "Tell me about yourself, Earl.
How did you come to be a mercenary? How often have you killed? Whom did I remind you of ?"
"It would be better for you to get some sleep, my lady."
"Dephine. I can't sleep. In a few hours it will be over. Where do you come from, Earl?"
"Earth." Pausing for a moment he added, hopefully, "Have you ever heard of it?"
A hope crushed as it had been so often before by the vehemence of her reply.
"Yes, I've heard of it, and if you don't want to tell me then don't bother to lie. Earth! It's ridiculous! You might as
well claim to originate on Bonanza or Avalon or El Dorado. All are worlds of legend." Annoyed, she struck at the
chimes with her metallic nails. As the burst of tinkling died she snapped, "Earth! No such world exists!"
"It exists," he said. "I know. I was born on it."
"On a planet where the streams run with wine and the trees bear fruits to satisfy every need?" She made no
attempt to mask her contempt. "Where no one ever grows old and there is no pain or hurt or sorrow and where
everything is eternally wonderful? You were born there—and you left?"
"Earth isn't like that, Dephine. It is old and scarred with ancient wars. And yes, I left." He told her how. Stowing
away as a mere boy who had more luck than he deserved. A captain who, instead of evicting him, had allowed him to
work his passage and had kept him with him until he died. When, alone, the boy had moved on, ship after ship, world
after world, always deeper and deeper towards the heart of the galaxy. To regions where even the very name of Earth
had become a legend.
"You mean it," she said. "You really believe that you come from Earth. But, Earl, if you did you must know how to
get back if that's what you want. Is it?"
"Yes."
"Then all you have to do is to find a ship going that way. You—" She broke off seeing his expression. "No?"
"No."
"But why not? Surely—"
"No one knows the coordinates," he said. "No one I have ever met knows where Earth is to be found. It lies
towards the edge of the galaxy, that I know, but exactly where is something else."
"The almanacs?"
"Don't list it," he said bitterly. "You called it a world of legend and. that's what most people think it is. The rest
haven't even heard the name and smile when they do." He looked down at his hands, they were clenched, the
knuckles white beneath the taut skin. "Smile or think they are being taken for fools."
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't know. But what is so important about one planet? Space is full of worlds,
why yearn for one?"
"I was born on it."
"And so, to you, it is home." She looked at him, her eyes gentle. "Home," she whispered. "Where else can anyone
ever be happy? The fools who travel are only running from what they hope to find and, by the time they realize it, it is
too late. I hope you find your world, Earl. Your world and your happiness and, perhaps, your woman. There is a
woman?"
"No."
"Not one with red hair?" She touched her own. "You like this color, Earl?"
"Should I?"
"Mercenaries like the color of blood. But, I forget, you are a mercenary only by accident. Odd to think how
chance has thrown us together. Chance or fate, Earl? Were we destined to meet before each of us even first saw the
light of day? Some would have us think so. To them everything is foreordained and nothing we can do or attempt can
alter our destiny one iota."
"A comforting philosophy," he said.
"Comforting?" She looked at him, frowning, then smiled. "Of course, to believe that is to absolve oneself from all
blame. A failure cannot be blamed for his failure—it is his fate to be so. A cruel man or a weak one are not
responsible for their actions. A wanton woman simply follows her destiny. A harlot obeys the dictates of something
she cannot avoid. All of us are pawns moved on a cosmic board by some unknown player. You believe that?"
"No."
"Nor I. Life is a struggle and the rewards go to those with the strength to take them." She moved to where the
decanter stood on a low table and poured wine into goblets. "Let us drink to that, Earl. Let us drink to success and to
happiness."
He barely touched the glass to his lips, watching as she drank. Impatiently she set down her empty glass and
stepped towards the window. A cool breeze blew through the opening, catching her hair and sending it to stream over
her shoulders. Her profile, etched by the light, was finely chiseled as if carved from stone.
Dumarest studied it; a face which bore the marks of breeding as his own body bore the scars of a hard-learned
profession. One now masked with cosmetics, the hair a flaunted challenge, the nails at variance with the hard, clean
pattern of bone, the lithe shape of the body. A woman who for some reason had acted the harlot and could have
played the part in full. A weakness or a deliberate intent?
She said, without turning, "Why do you look at me like that?"
"I was thinking. You spoke of rewards. Just how large will my share be?"
"You are getting your life—isn't that reward enough?"
"Is it?"
"No." She turned to face him, hands lifted as if in appeal or in the opening gesture of a caress. "No! Life alone is
never enough. Always there is more, for unless there is, we are no better than beasts in a field. Our senses were given
us to use; our ambitions to be fulfilled. How well you understand, Earl."
"My share?"
"You will have no cause to complain, that I promise." Then, as he made no comment, she added, "I am the Lady
Dephine de Monterale Keturah. My family has a reputation. Never have we broken our given word. With us it is an
article of faith. I—" She broke off and shrugged. "How can I convince you? If you knew of us, Earl, you would have
no doubts. And, if you want proof, then it can be given." She stepped towards him, her hands lifting to fall to his
shoulders, her body coming close to press against his own. "Proof that I care for you, Earl. That I would never let you
down."
Dumarest said, "It's getting late, Dephine."
"So?"
"We have other things to do."

Chapter Three
Mist came with the dawn, a coiling, milk-white fog which blurred detail and muffled sound so that shouts turned
into mumbles and shapes loomed to vanish almost at once. A state of affairs which would not last—the heat of the
rising sun would quickly clear the air—but while it lasted the mist could be used.
"It's begun." Dephine glanced at a watch and slipped it into a pocket of the uniform she wore. One of black and
maroon, the colors of Atlmar's Legion. Dumarest wore another. "Now remember, Earl, you do nothing unless there is
need. If someone gets suspicious or acts out of line then you go in and take care of him." Her voice hardened a little.
"I mean that. Don't be gentle. Kill rather than wound. There's too much at stake to be squeamish."
"And you?"
"I'll be at the ship. Luck!" Then she was gone and he was alone.
Quietly he walked along the side of the warehouse leading towards the field.
Now, for the first time, he had a chance to escape. He could hide himself deep in the city, make camp in the
country, even wait until the military occupation was over. But Hoghan was a small world and in order to leave it he
would have to return to the field. A convenience for anyone who could be waiting for him. A trap it was best to avoid.
He froze as a man coughed and boots crunched past in the mist. A patrolling guard or a field-worker heading for
home. The noise faded and he resumed progress, one hand trailing against the wall as a guide.
The plan to rob Hoghan had been worked out by a military mind and had all the advantages of simplicity. A plan
based on the fact that soldiers obeyed orders and did so without question. Instructions had been issued to load a
selected cargo from a warehouse to a waiting vessel. The problem lay only in those engineering the theft being able
to hide their complication—the reason for the woman, of course. She had been the 'front'.
The brain? Major Kan Lofoten. Perhaps working with someone equally ambitious. But Dumarest suspected the
man to be working alone. He was too shrewd to take unnecessary chances and the plan, once decided on, would
need little to put into operation.
Why include himself ? As an insurance, the woman had said. A precaution. It was possible she believed that, but
Dumarest wasn't so sure.
He paused as the wall fell away from beneath his fingers, turned to face right and moved a score of paces; halting
as the bulk of a warehouse loomed up before him. One which should have been open by now with men busy moving
crates and bales. Instead the doors remained sealed and Dumarest frowned. Something, apparently, had gone wrong.
 He waited another few minutes then marched forward with a brisk step. The guard was tall, young, and startled
by his sudden approach. The rifle he carried slipped from his hands and fell with a clatter.
"Who goes there? Halt and—"
"Recover your piece, soldier!"
"Yes, sir!" It swept to the salute as the man obeyed. "Colonel?"
"How long have you been with the Legion?"
"A month, sir. Just out of basic training and this is my first engagement."
"Keep better guard or it will be your last. Who is in charge here?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Who would? Lieutenant Swedel? Is he inside?" Dumarest stepped past the guard. "Keep alert, soldier. No entry
for anyone without my permission. Understand?"
"Yes, sir!"
The warehouse was filled with crates, boxes, bundles, objects wreathed in sacking and rope, others cocooned in
plastic. The repository of those who, knowing of the coming war, had taken steps to secure their valuables.
Swedel was a thin, stooped man with a ravaged face and a nervous tic beneath one eye. He stared at Dumarest
and, slowly, gave a salute.
"Colonel?"
"Colonel Varst. From H.Q., dispatched for Special Duties." Dumarest took papers from his pocket and fluttered
them. "To be frank with you, Lieutenant, I'm in charge of Security. Undercover, you understand, but I know I can rely
on your discretion. Who is in charge here?"
"Captain Risey." Swedel frowned. "Undercover Security? I don't understand."
"I think you do, Lieutenant. Where is the captain to be found?"
"He was summoned by the police an hour ago. He's probably at the garrison by now."
"The local police?" Dumarest thinned his lips as the man nodded. "Do you know why? Well, never mind, I can
find out later. So that leaves you in charge. What instructions have you had for the shipping of cargo?"
"None."
"How long have you been on duty?" Dumarest saw the sudden narrowing of the eyes, the dawning suspicion.
"Well, answer me, man! How long?"
"Two hours. Lieutenant Frieze collapsed from some internal complaint."
"I see." Dumarest masked his face and eyes. The unexpected had happened and the plan had failed. Swedel
already suspicious, couldn't be deluded and Frieze, obviously the officer primed, was out of action. Risey? What
would the police want with him?
Swedel said, "I can't understand your interest, Colonel. What has Security to do with this warehouse? And why
should you think I've had instructions to ship cargo?"
"Did I say you've had?"
"No, but you inferred it. Something is wrong here." His hand dropped to his belt and the pistol bolstered there.
"Your identification, Colonel. I think I'd better take a closer look."
"Of course." Dumarest lifted his hand to his pocket as he looked over the other's shoulder. A group of soldiers
stood before the wide doors, chatting, at ease. To one side rested a small office, the door open, a single light burning
inside. "Let us go into your office."
"Your papers, Colonel!"
"In the office. You have a phone there? Good, you will be able to verify my documents—or do you trust scraps of
paper more than an authorized identification?"
Dumarest headed towards it without waiting for an answer, turning as he passed through the door, the papers
falling from his hand as he pulled them from his pocket. Immediately he stooped to recover them, moving as he rose
to stand between the officer and the door, his bulk masking the smaller man. As Swedel reached for the useless
papers Dumarest sent the stiffened fingers of his right hand stabbing at the unprotected throat. A blow designed to
stun, not kill, and as the man slumped Dumarest caught him, supporting him in his arms.
"Sir?" One of the soldiers, attracted by the hint of movement, was looking towards the office. "Is anything
wrong?"
"Nothing." Dumarest turned towards him, one arm behind Swedel's back, his hand gripping the belt to hold the
man upright. "Get those doors open! You have a loading platform? Good. Have it prepared. Move!"
As they sprang to obey, Dumarest eased his limp burden into the only chair the office contained, turned it to face
the phone, propping the head on the folded arms. To a casual glance he was a man engrossed in making a call.
"Sir?" A soldier called to Dumarest as he left the office. "What shall we load?"
 ***

The platform was pulled by a mechanical horse, a small, whining vehicle which dragged it across the field through
veils of mist. It held a dozen crates, boxes chosen from a pile standing beside the doors and which Dumarest could
only hope held things of value. There had been no time to make sure.
The soldiers who had loaded them walked at the rear of the platform. The driver, squinting ahead, cursed the
mist as he strained to see his destination.
"The Varden, sir?"
"To the east of the field." The mist was both a help and a hindrance—and why hadn't Dephine placed the guide
beacon? Dumarest pushed ahead, almost running, seeing it after he had covered a hundred yards, a winking, yellow
glow. Dephine stood beneath it.
"Earl?"
"Is everything arranged?"
"Yes. Where is the loot?"
"Coming—what I could get of it." Dumarest turned as the thin whine of the vehicle grew louder. "Something
went wrong. Get inside and out of that uniform. Have the captain ready to leave when I give the word. Hurry!"
"He won't be rushed, Earl. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He—"
"Will do as I tell him!" Dumarest snarled his impatience. "Don't stand there arguing, woman. We're racing against
time. Now get in the ship and have the handler standing by. The loading ramp should be moving and the ports open. I
—" He broke off as a dull report echoed through the air. "Guns."
"A diversion," she explained. "I arranged it. It should distract the guards."
Men bribed to fire into the air at a certain time, but they were late, a thing she hadn't yet realized.
"Earl?"
"The plan failed," he said, quickly. "The officer who was supposed to have taken care of the loading fell ill and his
replacement knew nothing about it. The police are involved somehow and they could be moving in. Now get busy. If
this ship leaves without us we're as good as dead. If it doesn't leave at all, the same. You take care of the captain
while I see the handler. Are you armed?" He grunted as she showed him a compact laser. "Don't use it unless you
have to, but don't hesitate to burn a hole if you must."
He ran into the ship as she vanished through the port. The handler, a sallow-faced man, straightened from where
he leaned against a bulkhead. He scowled as Dumarest snapped orders.
"Now wait a minute, mister. I'm not one of your soldier-boys to jump when you give the word. You've got a cargo
to be loaded? Right, we'll load it, but all in good time."
"My time," said Dumarest. "Get that ramp started and get to work. Never mind stacking the stuff, just get it
aboard."
"Now wait a minute!" The handler gulped as Dumarest reached out towards him, gripped him, sank his fingers
into yielding flesh. "You—I can't breathe!"
"You can breathe," said Dumarest. "But not for long if you keep arguing. Now get to it and let me see you move."
The platform was approaching when he ducked through the port, coming to a halt as Dumarest reached the
ground.
The handler, scared, had started the belt and Dumarest snapped at the man to throw the crates on the moving
surface. As the first vanished into the ship a soldier tensed, head turned, listening as the sound of gunfire came closer.
"Something's up, Colonel. An attack of some kind."
"Just noise. Keep working." Dumarest looked at the beacon. It would attract unwanted attention and it had served
its purpose. He mounted the ramp, lifted it from its support and switched off the pulsing, yellow glow. As it died a
bullet smashed the instrument from his hands.
"You at the ship!" The voice, amplified, roared from the mist. "You haven't a chance. Surrender!"
"Sir?" The soldiers, bemused, stared up at where Dumarest stood. "What's happening, Colonel?"
"Nothing."
"We're being fired on!" A soldier grabbed his rifle from the platform, freezing as the voice thundered around them.
"This is Colonel Emridge speaking. I order all soldiers of the Legion to refuse to obey all orders from any officer
but myself. If they are with an officer they must place him under arrest. This is a direct command from the highest
level. If any officer attempts to escape he is to be shot down."
"I guess that means you, Colonel." The soldier with the rifle lifted it to his shoulder. "Move and I'll let you have it."
The port was open behind him, the door swung back, a slab of solid metal more than proof against a bullet. But
the man had his finger on the trigger, the weapon aimed and ready to fire.
Dumarest called, loudly, "No! Don't kill him! Don't shoot!"
 He saw the barrel of the rifle drop as the man instinctively turned and was diving into the ship before he could
realize how he'd been tricked. A bullet slammed against the hull, another against the door as he dogged it tight.
"Dephine?" Dumarest slapped his hand against the communicator as he called. "Dephine?"
"Here, Earl." Her voice was small over the speaker, strained, but that was to be expected. "In the control room."
"Coming. Have the captain order total seal."
Dumarest released the button and made his way through the ship, passing closed doors and familiar
compartments. In the empty salon he paused, slipping the knife from his boot and tucking it into the belt of his
uniform. As he reached the control room he called, "Dephine?"
"Here, Earl. Inside."
She stood beside the control chair, out of uniform now, her clothing crumpled, her hair a mess. Her hands, empty,
were extended towards him.
Dumarest turned, snatching at his knife, freezing as he saw the man behind him, the knuckle white on the trigger
of the laser pointed at his stomach.
Major Kan Lofoten smiled.

***

He stood very tall and very confident against the edge of the door, neat in his uniform, the gun no less menacing
than his eyes.
He said, "As I promised, Captain. You see how an intelligent brain can determine the course of events? Either
way we win."
Dumarest looked at the woman.
"He was waiting, Earl. Here in the control room. He disarmed me before I had a chance." Swallowing she added,
"When I came to talk to the captain he—"
"Shall we say that I took over?" Lofoten gestured with the gun. "But then I have been in charge all along. Even
your clever scheme, my dear, which was not so clever when duly considered, was more the result of my hints than
your own intelligence. To steal from a mercenary band. How little you know of how the military operate. And yet
there was a chance the thing could succeed given the right kind of fool."
Dumarest said, "We have some loot so why the gun? Why not just let us go? That was the original intention,
wasn't it? To let us go and to take full blame for your previous thefts. What happened, Major? Did someone find out
what you'd done?"
"Be silent!"
"Why?" Dumarest glanced at the captain who stood, a thick-set, swarthy man before the glittering tell-tales of the
main console. "Captain Remille might be interested. To me it was obvious—why else should you trust a stranger? For
what other reason than to act as a catspaw and decoy? But you had me fooled for a while when I learned that
Lieutenant Frieze had fallen sick. I took him to be your man. I was wrong."
"Sick?" Remille frowned. "Another one?"
"Shut up, you fool!"
"Yes, Captain, shut up," said Dumarest cynically. "You're on your own vessel and in full command but you must
remain silent when the officer speaks. After all he is a member of a mercenary band. A disgraced member, true, and
one who will be shot when they get their hands on him, but you must remain silent until he gives you permission to
speak."
"Talk again and I'll fire!" snapped Lofoten. "Don't listen to him, Remille."
"Why not, Captain? He talks sense." Dephine edged closer. "What does Lofoten bring you? Nothing. We have a
dozen crates filled with valuables. More than enough to buy passage. What further use can the Major be to you?"
"You bitch! I'll—"
Lofoten lifted the gun, raising it high to bring it slashing across her face, a vicious blow which would have opened
her cheek, smashed her nose, torn her lips and turned the clean lines of her face into a puffed ugliness.
Dumarest caught his wrist before the gun could fall. His fingers tightened, twisting, his body moving as the laser
fell from the nerveless fingers, the trapped arm slamming across his chest, the sound of snapping bone like the
breaking of a twig.
"The gun!" He caught it as she threw it towards him. "Get your own." The knife made a soft slithering as he tucked
it back into his boot. "Cover them while I get off this uniform." He kicked aside the discarded fabric. "Well, Captain?"
"We had a deal," said Remille glancing towards Lofoten. "Crates slipped aboard and goods to be sold on a secret
market. That's all I know but I had to deal through the woman. Then he arrived on board and—well, the rest you
know."
 "And the sick men?"
Remille avoided his eyes. "Nothing."
He was lying, but Dumarest couldn't guess why and had no time to find out. Already the mercenaries would be
assembling heavy equipment to break into the ship and metal, protection against a bullet, was of little defense against
a heavy missile.
From where he sat on the deck, Lofoten said, "Captain, if I could talk with you in private?" He heaved himself to
his feet, his arm hanging limply at his side. His face was pale, beaded with sweat. "It's important."
Dumarest said, "Captain, are you ready to leave?"
"Yes, but—"
"Wait much longer and you won't get the chance. Those outside will split your hull open like a rotten melon. My
guess is they have charges set and ready to go." Dumarest gestured towards the panel where a signal lamp flashed in
ruby urgency. "The radio-attention signal. They want to talk to you."
"Let them want. Damned mercenaries, strutting and swaggering. To hell with them."
"Is your crew aboard?"
"All but the steward. He—we can do without a steward." Remille made up his mind. "We leave." Then, looking at
Lofoten, he said, "What about him?"
"Kick him out."
"Let me come with you! Captain! Please!"
"Dump him," snapped Dumarest. "Drop him through the lower hatch. It's him they want, not us."
"Earl, they'll kill him." Dephine's voice was high. "You know the kind of death they give to looters."
He said, bitterly, "He would have smashed in your face had I let him. He would have burned me down given the
chance. To hell with him." Reaching out he grabbed the man's good arm. "Let's get rid of this filth and be on our way."

Chapter Four
The Varden was small; a roving free-trader picking up a living wherever a cargo was to be found; the crew paid if
and when there were profits to be shared. Aside from the looted crates the hold was empty; but there were
passengers.
Dumarest studied them a day later as he sat in the salon. At the table a fat man toyed with a deck of cards, ringed
hands deft as he manipulated the pasteboards. Chart Tao, a dealer in rare and precious merchandise—or so he
claimed. Dumarest had a shrewd suspicion that the salves and lotions which formed his stock in trade contained not
the near-magical essences he said but ingredients of a more humble origin.
Glaring at the plump trader a thin-faced, wasp-voiced woman sat in the rigid attitude of one who wore unyielding
garments. Allia Mertrony, a widow, a follower of some obscure sect. Her cabin stank of incense and she wore a cap
of dark material covering her hair. Next to her sat a middle-aged man with a bandaged leg. Fren Harmond, taciturn,
his face creased with pain.
"A game, Earl?" Charl glanced towards Dumarest. "Something to pass the time. Spectrim, starsmash, banko, man-
in-between. You name it and we'll play it."
"For money, no doubt," snapped the woman.
"For small stakes and those only to add interest. How about you, Fren, it'll take your mind off the pain."
"No."
"You don't have to suffer it," said Charl smoothly. "I've a few drops which will give you dreams instead of anguish.
Come to my cabin and let's see what can be done."
"We should have a steward," said the woman. "It's all very well to say that he was too sick to rejoin us on Hoghan
but we should have one just the same. It's a part of the service."
Dumarest said, "Did any of you board at Hoghan?"
"We came from Legand," said the plump man. "I wanted to leave but they wouldn't let me and when I learned
why I was pleased to change my mind."
"They wouldn't let you land? Why not?"
"The war. Surely you must have been involved. We arrived at a bad time and it was best to remain within the
safety of the ship. So Captain Remille advised and he made sense."
"Did you book to Hoghan?"
"No, to Malach. The ship had a special delivery to make. It adds time to the journey, but what choice had we?"
"We should have a steward," said the old woman fretfully. "Who is to give us quick-time? Or are we supposed to
do without? I've paid for a High Passage and I want what I've paid for. Fren, why don't you complain to the captain?
Charl—"
"I'll do it," said Dumarest.
In the control room the air was alive with the hums and burrs of smoothly working apparatus, the sensors
questing their way into space, plotting a path and guiding the vessel with mechanical efficiency. Remille sat in his
chair, the navigator at his post beside him. A thin man with sour lips half-hidden beneath a ruff of beard, Haw Mayna
had an abrupt and bristling manner.
"What do you want? Passengers aren't allowed in the control room. Damn it, man, surely you must know that!"
"Captain?"
"He's right." Remille turned to glare from the depths of his chair. "What is it?"
"You haven't a steward," said Dumarest. "I'm applying for the job." He sensed the hesitation, caught the glance
each threw to the other. "I've done it before. Worked as a handler too. I know what has to be done."
"Let him do it," said the navigator after a moment. "Anything for peace. Just keep them quiet and happy."
The previous steward had been allocated a cabin at the end of the passage. It was bare, not even the cabinet
containing a scrap of clothing. The bunk was stripped of bedding. The set of drawers normally filled with small items
of personal value, like the cabinet, were empty.
Thoughtfully Dumarest moved back to the small room adjoining the salon. From a drawer he took a hypogun and
loaded it with quick-time. Charl smiled at him as he moved towards the man.
"Throat or wrist?"
"Throat. It's more efficient."
"If you aim straight, I agree." The man tilted his head, exposing the side of his neck. "Go ahead."
Dumarest aimed the instrument, touched the trigger and it was done. Carried by a blast of air the drug
penetrated the skin and fat to mingle directly in the bloodstream. The effect was immediate. As if stricken, Charl Tao
slowed, turned into an apparent statue, not even his eyes moving as Dumarest moved to the others and treated each
in turn. At the door of the salon he turned to look at them. All three were apparently frozen, their metabolism slowed
by the chemical magic of quick-time so that, to them, normal hours passed as swiftly as minutes, weeks shrank into
days. A convenience to relieve the tedium of long voyages.
Dephine was in her cabin. She had been sleeping but, as Dumarest entered, she woke to sit upright, stretching her
arms above her head. Rest had taken some of the tiny lines of strain from around her eyes, but anticipation made her
features even more sharp.
"Now, Earl?"
"Not yet."
"How long must we wait? Those crates are just begging to be examined. Who knows what we may have won? A
fortune! Enough to keep us in luxury for the rest of our lives!" She saw the hypogun in his hand. "What's this?" She
smiled when he told her. "So you're the new steward. A clever move, Earl. A crew member has advantages the
passengers lack. Now hurry! Treat the others and let's see what we have!"

***

The crates lay in an untidy heap to one side of the hold, held only by a single lashing of rope, the restraint less
than useless had the ship been subjected to sudden strain. Dumarest slashed it free and hauled at the topmost box. It
thudded to the deck, the lid starting from its seating. With a jerk he tore it free. Beneath lay a mass of fiber which
Dephine tore apart with her bare hands.
"Earl? What the hell—"
The crate was stacked with guns. Antiques. Each individually wrapped in plastic, each weapon carefully labeled.
Dumarest lifted one, a rifle with a chased stock and an elaborate sight. The barrel was flared and the trigger of a
peculiar shape.
"A hunting rifle made for the Mangate of Tyrone after the accident which deformed the muscles of his right hand.
He—"
"Never mind that!" Dephine snatched the weapon from his hands as Dumarest read the label. "What about the
others?"
They were all much the same, items which belonged to a collection or a museum, and with the thought came the
answer.
"We took the wrong boxes." Dumarest turned one, read the small label previously unnoticed. "This comes from
the Hargromond Collection. They packed the guns and put them into the warehouse for safe-keeping." He frowned at
her expression. "I had no time to choose," he reminded. "These boxes were stacked close to the door and I figured
they were the ones due for shipment. Blame Lofoten; not me."
 "I don't blame you, Earl," she said quickly. "You did your best. No one could have done better. Let's look at the
others."
Two held scraps of pottery and fragments of ceramic, another moldering reports and carefully bound books
which Dumarest checked then put aside. Had they been early navigational tables they would have held interest; as it
was they were ancient histories of the first settlers, valuable only to those concerned.
Dephine drew in her breath as she dug into another crate.
"Earl!"
Beneath a layer of faded clothing rested small packets of opaque material. One, opened, rested in her hands, the
sparkle of gems reflected in her eyes. A cache of jewels, carefully hidden, placed among items of small value for
added concealment.
"Check the others." Dumarest watched as more gems came into view: a tiara, necklaces, pendant earrings,
bracelets. All were of delicate workmanship, all old, all of high value. As Dephine slipped rings on her fingers,
extending her hands to admire them, he said, "See what else that box contains."
"What do you think they are worth, Earl?"
"Our lives." He was grim. "If the others spot what we have how long do you think they would let us keep it?"
"The captain?"
"He and the others of the crew. They are little better than pirates." Replacing the lids they had removed Dumarest
shifted the checked boxes to reach others lower down. "Hide those gems, Dephine. Find a place in your cabin for now
and I'll look for a better one later on."
"We'll have to leave something, Earl. Remille would never believe that we had escaped with a load of rubbish."
A good point and one he had thought of, but the other crates might provide the answer. Items of value but too
bulky to be easily hidden. Things it would take a specialist to sell, such as the antique guns, the moldering books, the
plaques of intricate workmanship valuable more for their designs than for the basic material.
They could be shown to the captain and shared with him. The portable loot he would keep.
Stooping he moved a crate to one side, cleared the lid of the one below, set his fingers at the edge and heaved. It
resisted his tug and he leaned forward to study it. It seemed more sturdy than the others they had checked, thick
wood fastened with heavy screws. The end held a red daub the others lacked. Others, similarly marked, rested at the
bottom of the heap.
"Earl?"
"These are different," he said. "The soldiers must have mixed the consignment or just took those nearest to hand.
I had no time to check."
"We'll need tools to open this." Dephine tugged at the lid. "Something of real value must rest inside and there are
more than one. Earl! This could be it!"
The fortune everyone yearned for, hoped to obtain, dreamed of during the long, lonely hours. The magic which
would turn a hell into a paradise—or so they thought. Too often sudden wealth ruined what was barely flawed,
accentuated traits which would have been innocuous if left unstimulated.
He said, patiently. "Dephine, we have money. The gems."
"There could be more!" She tore at the lid, her nails scratching the wood, making ugly, tearing sounds. "Get some
tools, Earl! Hurry!"
He fetched them from the engine room where the engineer sat facing the handler, a chess board between them,
the bent fingers of the officer hovering over a pawn. It was a fraction of an inch away when Dumarest entered to
select the tools. It had barely touched by the time he left. The move itself could take minutes of normal time.
Back in the hold Dumarest set to work. The screws yielded as he strained on the tool, lifting to be thrown aside. A
dozen screws, a score, and the lid was free to be lifted. It made a dull thud as it hit the deck.
"Earl!" Dephine's voice held incredulous amazement. "Earl, what—"
The crate held a corpse.

***

The body was that of a girl, young, once attractive, but now ugly with the blotches which marked her face and
shoulders, the arms crossed on the chest, her hands. Small blotches of an ebon darkness, rimmed with scarlet,
looking like velvet patches stuck on with a ruby glue, each the size of the tip of a finger.
Dephine said, shakily, "She's dead, Earl. Dead. But why put her into a box?"
Not a box, a coffin, her presence had turned a container into something special, but Dumarest didn't correct the
woman. He leaned close, studying the lines of the dead face, the hollows of the cheeks and shoulders. The body was
wrapped in plain white fabric from beneath the armpits to a little above the knees. The feet, long and sum, were bare,
blotched as were the shins, the thighs.
"Earl?"
Dumarest moved, seeing the play of refracted light on the hair, silver strands which shimmered beneath the
plastic envelope into which the body had been placed.
"For God's sake, Earl! Answer me! What's all this about?"
Dumarest said, slowly, "I'm not sure. Let's open another crate. One with the same markings."
Like the other it contained death, this time an elderly man, his face seamed, the brows tufted, the knuckles of his
blunt-fingered hands scarred. Like the girl his body was marked with blotches. Like her he had been sealed in a plastic
bag.
"Another." Dephine stared at the rest of the marked crates. "They're all coffins. I don't understand. Why stack
them in a warehouse?" Her voice rose to hover on the edge of hysteria. "Earl, we've stolen a load of dead meat. A
bunch of corpses. How the hell are they going to make us rich?"
"Stop it!" His hand landed on her cheek, red welts marking the impact of his fingers. "You aren't a child. You've
seen dead men before, women too, so why be stupid?"
"You're right." She rubbed at her cheek. "It was just that I didn't expect to see corpses in those crates. They must
have been packed away for later cremation or burial. But why do that?"
"The war."
"People die in war."
"Dephine—it depends what they died of."
"Earl?" She frowned, not understanding then said sharply, as he attacked the rest of the boxes, "No! If they
contain more dead I don't want to see them. Leave it, Earl. Let the captain open them if he wants to."
Dumarest ignored the suggestion. The first two contained the bodies of a man and a woman, both middle-aged.
The third held the shape of a slender man with a roached and dyed beard. The backs of his arms were heavily
tattooed. Among the lurid designs was a name.
"The Varden." Dumarest sat back on his heels. "This must be the missing steward."
"Dead and sealed in a crate?" said Dephine blankly, then, as she realized the implication, added, "No, Earl! My
God, not that!"
It couldn't be anything else. Dumarest remembered the stacked crates, the soldiers on duty, the Lieutenant's
suspicions. And the gunfire he had thought a distraction which had come too late.
"Plague," he said. "It was in the city. Maybe the steward carried it or maybe he picked it up, either way he fell sick
and died. The dead needed to be disposed of but with the city at war that wasn't too easy. A soldier could have seen
something, put two and two together, and there would have been a riot. As it was the news must have leaked out."
"How can you say that?"
"I forget, you couldn't know. The officer at the warehouse, Lieutenant Frieze, fell sick and had to be taken from his
post. I thought he was Lofoten's man, then I didn't, but he must have had the disease. The police summoned his
superior to a conference. Maybe they wanted soldiers to ring the field. If the populace grew panic-stricken they would
have rushed for transport away from Hoghan. The gunfire we heard was to beat them back, men firing into the air—it
doesn't matter."
"Lofoten—the bastard!"
"I don't think he knew until the end."
"He wanted to come with us, Earl. To escape."
Perhaps, but he could have had another reason. And no sane man would willingly have placed himself in the
position they were now in. It took a few moments for the woman to realize it.
"Earl! If the steward contracted the disease?"
"He died of it."
"But where? Here in the ship? Even if he didn't actually die in the vessel he could have brought it into the Varden
with him. He slept here. And Remille. He didn't want to stay. He wouldn't even answer the radio-summons. He must
have guessed that the authorities on Hoghan intended to seize the ship and place it in quarantine. And we thought
they were, worried about a little loot. A mess." She looked at her hands, they were trembling, little shimmers darting
from her nails. "And you, Earl. You were in the warehouse where that officer fell sick. You could have touched what he
did. Even now—"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "It's possible."
"My God, Earl! What should we do?"
"Get the captain. Let him see what we've found then dump the crates into space."
"And?"
"Wait," he said grimly. "And, if you've a mind to, pray."
 Chapter Five
Allia Mertrony did the praying, kneeling before a disc of polished brass, the bright orb wreathed in plumes of
fuming incense. Her voice was a high, keening ululating chant, echoing from the bulkheads, scratching at the nerves.
"Listen to her!" Charl Tao scowled as he faced Dumarest in the corridor. "Can't you put a stop to it, Earl?
Praying's one thing but this howling is getting me down."
"It's her way."
"Maybe, but it isn't mine." Chart rubbed the backs of his hands, a common gesture now, as was the quick glance
he gave them. "A pity she had to know."
Dumarest said, flatly, "She had the right."
"And she would have found out anyway." Charl shook his head as the sound rose to grate at the ears. "Who would
have thought an old crone like that had such powerful lungs? It comes with practice, I suppose, Earl?"
"Nothing."
"As yet." Charl rubbed his hands again, halting the gesture with an obvious effort. "To hell with it. If it gets me, it
gets me. Come to my cabin later, I've a special bottle we might as well share while we can enjoy it."
"Later," said Dumarest.
He walked through the ship, stood in the hold, totally empty now aside from the caskets used to transport beasts
and which, more often than not, held men. Those traveling Low, doped, frozen and ninety per cent dead, risking the
fifteen per cent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. He had ridden that way too often, watching the lid close firmly
over his face, sinking into oblivion and thinking as blackness closed around him, "this time…?"
A gamble he had won so far, but no luck could last forever.
Aside from the lack of crates nothing seemed to have changed. The same, blue-white light streamed down from
the bulbs and threw the stained paint and shabby furnishings into sharp relief.
As familiar a scene as were the cabins, the salon, the corridors and appointments of the ship. As was the faint
vibration of the Erhaft field which sent the vessel hurtling through space. He had traveled on a hundred such ships
and worked on many of them. They were a form of home, a pattern into which he could fit. But the Varden was
different now. Something had been added. Something small, invisible, unknown.
The threat of the final illness.
Each had met it in their own way.
To Allia Mertrony it was a time for prayer. God was good and would help, but first God had to be aroused and
informed of her need. Lars would see to that. Ten years dead now he would be waiting. Drifting in a state akin to
sleep, until she should join him, so that together they could continue their journey into the infinite. A mating for life
and eternity, so her sect was convinced, and two-thirds of her life had been spent making certain she had found the
right man. The cap she wore to hide the temptation of her hair was a public announcement that she was sworn to
another.
The bulkheads quivered to the force of her wordless ululations.
The disc before which she knelt was not an idol but a focus for her thoughts. The incense was a sacrifice blessed
by tradition. Her prayers were to inform Lars of her condition, to prepare him for her coming if that was to be. To
wake him to intercede on her behalf. Not to be saved, for death was inevitable, and to live beyond the allotted span a
sin, but to die bravely. So let there be no pain. Let her face and figure escape further ravishment, not for the sake of
pride but for the dignity a man expected in his mate.
Soon now, soon—if God willed, they would be together.
In the engine room the handler and the engineer sat at their board playing endless games of chess, snarling at
any who came to close. Firm in a limited area of isolation, they ate food from cans and drank from bottles sealed with
heavy gobs of wax. Nurtured stores bought with past gains; small luxuries which normally would have been doled out
a little at a time, now used with wanton extravagance for a double reason. Sealed they would be uncontaminated,
used they would not be wasted.
Dephine remained in her cabin, taking endless mist-showers, anointing her body with salves Charl provided,
adorning herself with the gems they had found.
She turned as Dumarest entered the cabin, tall, sparkling with jewels and precious metal. Her hair, dressed,
provided a cradle for the tiara. The earrings fell from her ears to almost touch her shoulders. At throat and wrists
reflected light shone with the lurid glow of trapped fires, green and red, amber and azure, the clear blue of sapphires,
the splintered glow of diamonds.
Slamming the door he said, "You fool!"
 "Why? Because I like what we found?" She turned before him, her dress stained, the jewels making her appear
tawdry and, somehow, cheap.
"What if someone else had come into the cabin?"
"They wouldn't. I had it locked."
"You didn't."
"Then I forgot. But who would dare to walk in like you did? No one owns me, Earl. Not even you."
He said, cruelly, "The Lady Dephine de Monterale Keturah. A woman who comes from a family which values
pride above all. Isn't that what you told me?"
"So?"
"They should see you now. Not even the cheapest harlot would dress herself like that."
"You bastard!"
He caught her hands as they rose towards his face, halting the nails as they stabbed towards his eyes, his fingers
hard around her wrists, tight against the bone. She strained, spat into his face, jerked up a knee in a vicious blow to
the groin. He twisted, taking it on the thigh, then pushed her back and away to slam hard against the far wall.
"Do that again and you'll regret it," he said coldly.
"You'd do what—slice off my fingers?" Her sneer turned to trepidation as she looked at his face, saw the cold
eyes, the mouth grown suddenly cruel. "You'd do it," she said. "You'd really do it."
He said nothing, wiping the spittle off his cheek.
"Earl!" Afraid now, she was contrite. "I—you shouldn't have said what you did. You had no right."
"Look at yourself, woman!" Catching her shoulder he turned her to face the full-length mirror. "Dressed in gems
looted from the dead. Have you no sense?"
"They didn't come from the dead! Earl, you know that! They were in a separate cache. I—" She broke off, a hand
lifting to touch the tiara. "You don't think that girl wore this before she died? Some cultures destroy personal
possessions with the dead. Earl?"
"No." To frighten her further would serve no purpose and the damage, if damage there was, had been done. "Get
rid of those things. Hide them."
Slowly she removed the gems, letting them fall into a glittering heap on the bunk.
"Fren Harmond was talking, Earl. He can't understand why Remille doesn't return to Hoghan. They could have a
vaccine there by now. He wanted Charl to join him in a deputation."
"He's wasting his time."
"Maybe, but Remille's only human and what good is a ship to a dead man? He might decide to take a chance on
the penalties. If he does we're in trouble, Earl. Kan Lofoten would have spilled his guts about what we did. If they
ever got us they would kill us. Atlmar's Legion isn't noted for being gentle." Pausing she added, "They could even
follow us. Have you thought of that?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"You don't tell a captain to change course unless you have good reason," said Dumarest. "I've tried and he isn't
interested. He needs more than words."
Fren Harmond provided it. He sat in his cabin, his bandaged leg supported before him, his face seamed and
graven with lines of pain. A stubborn man, refusing the drugs Dumarest had offered which would have eased his
anguish. A fanatic who believed that the body would heal itself if left alone.
"It's killing me!" The leg twitched as he moved it, beads of sweat dewing his forehead. "The pain—Earl, help me!"
Charl Tao stood at the other side of the sick man. Meeting Dumarest's eyes he shrugged.
"My friend, I have done my best, but what use is skill when dealing with a fool? I've offered him the surcease of
dreams. I have a salve which will knit bone and abolish scars, add muscle and strengthen tissue if used in the correct
manner. I—"
"You're not in a market now, Charl. Be serious." Dumarest touched the flesh above the bandages. It was febrile,
the skin scabrous to the touch. "How did you do this?"
"I was out climbing. I slipped and hurt the ankle. Yield to a small pain and it will get worse so I made my way
back home. The ship was due and I had to get to the field. A local man applied the bandage."
"A doctor?"
"A tradesman—he had the cloth."
"And it hurt then as it does now?"
"It hurt, but not as badly. Pain is the signal that the flesh is healing itself and to be expected in case of injury. But
it is getting worse, more than I can bear."
Which should mean, following the man's own logic, that the injury was almost well. An anomaly which Dumarest
didn't mention as he removed the bandages.
Charl Tao sucked in his breath at the sight of the wound.
"Harmond, my friend, you have a problem."
A bad one. The flesh around and above the ankle was puffed and streaked with ugly strands of red, parts of it so
purple as to be almost black. A broken place oozed a thick, yellow pus and the wound held a sickly stench. The result
of infection, gangrene, poisons, carried into the broken skin from stale clothing. The cause no longer mattered.
"Earl?"
"It's bad. Does this hurt? And this?" Dumarest pressed his fingers along the length of the leg. "Have you a swelling
in the groin? Yes?" His fingers touched the spot through the clothing, meeting a hard node of swollen tissue in the
crease between the leg and stomach. One of the major lymph glands acting as a defense against the poisons. "That
will have to be lanced to ease the pressure. A drain fitted. The ankle needs to be cauterized—you've dead tissue there
which must be burned away."
"No!" Harmond shook his head. "Not the use of drugs and fire. Not the touch of iron. The body will heal itself
given the chance."
"You asked me to help you."
"Yes, to change the dressing, to ease the pain in some way. Some have that power. By the touch of their hands
they can bring peace."
"Earl is one of them," said Charl dryly. "But the peace he gives is permanent. He does it like this." His hands
reached for the sick man's throat; thick fingers pressed sharply and lifted as the head lolled. "Quickly, Earl! Give him
the drugs before he recovers!"
Dumarest lifted the hypogun and blasted sleep-inducing drugs into the unconscious man's throat. Changing the
setting and load of the instrument he fired it around the wounded ankle, heavy doses of antibiotics coupled with
compounds to block the nerves and end the transmission of pain.
"Help me get him on his bunk," he ordered. "Strip and wash him and then you can operate."
"Me?"
"You have the skill," said Dumarest. "And the knowledge. The way you put him out—a trick taught to the monks
of the Church of Universal Brotherhood. A pressure on sensitive nerves, as good as an anesthetic if applied with skill.
You've had medical training, Charl. You deny it?"
The plump man shrugged. "A few years in a medical school, Earl, in which I gained a few elementary facts and
some basic knowledge. Then something happened—a woman, but there is no need to go into detail. Just let me say
that it became imperative to travel." He looked at his hands. "But I have never operated since that time."
"Then it's time you began. Tell me what you need and I'll see if it's in the ship. If it isn't you'll have to make out
the best you can."
"You'll help me?"
"No, I'm going to see the captain."

***

Crouched like a spider in its lair, Captain Remille sat in his great chair and dreamed. Around him the web of
electronic, impulses searched space and hung like a protective curtain about his ship. From an outside viewpoint the
shimmering field of the drive would have turned the scarred vessel into a comet-like thing of beauty but inside where
he sat only the glow of tell-tales, the brilliant glory of the screens, relieved the gloom.
A buzz and he tensed, a click and he relaxed. The warning had been taken care of. The ship had made a minute
correction in its headlong flight and a scrap of interstellar matter, perhaps no larger than a pea, had been safely
avoided.
Sinking back, he looked at the screens. Always he enjoyed the spectacle of naked space, the blaze of scattered
stars, the sheets and curtains of glowing luminescence, the haloed blotches of dust clouds, the fuzz of distant
nebulae. Stars uncountable, worlds without end, distances impossible to contemplate with the limited abilities of the
mind.
Remille didn't try it. More than one captain had been driven insane by contemplation of the cosmos, fantasies
born in distorted minds, the product of wild radiations and wilder rumors. Things lived in space, or so it was hinted,
great beings with gossamer wings which caught the light of suns and carried them like drifting smears of moonlight
across the voids. And other creatures which no one living had ever seen. Ravenous beasts which lurked in space as
great fish lurked in seas, waiting to rend ships and men.
The proof had been found in wreckage ripped plates bearing unnatural scars, crews which had vanished without
apparent cause, empty hulks which had been gutted and robbed of life. If living entities hadn't done such things then
what had?
Questions asked by old men in taverns, echoed by romantic fools. Space, to Remille, was something to be
crossed. Dangers to avoid. All he had in life was the ship—he could do without imagination. "Captain?"
"What is it?" Remille turned to stare at Dumarest. "Trouble?"
"A man is sick." The truth even though Remille must think it other than what it was. "Fren Harmond."
"The one with the bad leg?"
"Yes."
"A fool, one almost as bad as the old woman with her noise." Remille made an impatient gesture. "Well, you know
what to do. Complete isolation."
None to get too near to another, a thing he and the navigator had followed from the first hint that disease could
be aboard. Haw Mayna was in his cabin now, probably locked in a drugged sleep, there was little for him to do once
the course was set.
"I've attended to it," said Dumarest. "Captain, are you still heading for Malach?"
"That's our destination."
"They could be waiting. Word could have been sent ahead, but you must have thought of that. Do you think they
will permit us to land?"
Remille bared his teeth, yellow bone which looked as if covered with oil in the light from the screens.
"I'll land. How the hell can they stop me?"
"And?"
A thing Remille had thought of, a problem for which he had found no answer. A suspected ship was unwanted on
any planet and Malach was not a gentle world. If he carried disease and tried to land the ship would be confiscated,
himself and the others placed in six-month quarantine, heavy fines and penalties ordered against him. At the end he
would be worse than ruined.
"You carry no cargo," said Dumarest. "No one will have reason to complain if you don't reach Malach."
"The passengers?"
"I'll take care of them. They can be compensated and found passage on another ship." Dumarest added, quickly,
"That can be arranged, surely?"
"Passages cost money."
"And so does delay. They won't want to be quarantined with all the cost that entails. Charl Tao will agree and the
woman can be persuaded."
"And Harmond?"
"As I told you, Captain, he's sick." Dumarest paused, waiting, then relaxed as Remille, coming to a decision,
nodded. "Tell the navigator to report to me at once."
Mayna didn't respond to the knock at his door. Dumarest knocked again then tested the lock. The door opened as
he pressed to reveal the man sitting cross-legged on his bunk. His eyes were rimmed with pus, veined with red, the
pupils contracted to pin-points. Before him, lying on the cover, was a paper covered with a lewd design.
Dumarest folded it, held his hand before the staring eyes, moved it from side to side. The pupils remained
stationary, looking at the point where the paper had lain. In imagination the navigator was a living participant in what
the design had portrayed. Until the drug he had absorbed had been neutralized or had run its course he would remain
deaf and blind to external stimuli.
From the door Charl said, "Earl, there is something you should see."
"It must wait. The captain wants Mayna to report to him immediately. Did you provide him with his amusement?"
"A simple thing, Earl, and harmless. Life can be hard and lonely for those who live in space and who can
begrudge them a dream? You care to try one? I have patterns and compounds to induce illusions of love, of
adventure, of unbridled luxury and domestic bliss. Oddly the latter is the one in greatest demand. A loving and
faithful wife, children, the sweetness of contained passion. Or—"
"Get him out of it."
"Earl, I can't! The dream must ran its course." Charl leaned forward and touched the man's temple, the great
arteries in the throat. "It won't be long now. The acceleration of the heart, the growing warmth of the skin—soon it
will be over and he will wake. But this I can do." His plump hands moved with sure dexterity as he scrawled a
message with a crayon on the back of the pattern. "There, when he wakes he will see it and obey. Now, Earl, please
come with me."
"Harmond?"
He lay supine on his bunk, his face relaxed, his body naked from the waist down. Bandages covered his ankle and
the air held the taint of charred flesh. A drain had been set in the lanced swelling of his groin; a thin, plastic tube held
with sticky tape to permit the escape of accumulated fluids. The thing had a professional look about it as did the
bandage.
"Did you have to burn deep?"
"Almost to the bone but I think we caught it in time. But that's not what I wanted to show you." Charl lifted the
edge of the shirt and drew it upwards over the stomach and the lower ribs. "There, Earl. There!"
Dumarest followed the guide of the pointing finger, seeing a small, ebon blotch, a patch of velvety darkness
rimmed with a thin band of angry red.

Chapter Six
Throwing back her hair Dephine said, "So Fren's got it. Well, I guess we can't all be lucky. How bad is it, Earl?"
"It's too early to tell."
"And you were close to him. Earl—you fool!"
"Charl was there too."
"I don't give a damn about Charl! You're different. I need you."
"Why?"
"Why?" Her voice rose as she echoed the question. "How big a fool are you that you can't guess that? Who else
on this ship can I turn to? Who—Earl!"
"Stay away from me!" He backed as she came towards him, arms extended in open invitation. "Dephine!"
Her bare arms fell to her naked sides, the slap of her palms clear in the hold. Stripped she stood beneath the UV
lights, taking her turn at the prophylactic precaution. One which Dumarest doubted would be of much use but at least
it had a psychological benefit.
"All right, Earl," she said, bleakly. "So I mustn't touch you. But at least you can look at me. Does it help?"
She was like a child, he thought, wanting confirmation of her charm. A small girl asking strangers if they thought
she was beautiful. But there was nothing childish about her body, lean and lithe though it was. The breasts and hips
were those of a mature and feminine woman. The clear musculature revealed beneath the skin added to rather than
distracted from her appeal. There was life in her, a vibrant urge to experience it to the full, a heat of primeval passion.
One which had abruptly revealed itself when she'd heard the news as if nature itself was trying to compensate for
imminent death by a burst of biological activity. An urge he had recognized and felt even as he had denied its logical
outcome.
Death could be riding on his hands—he must not pass it on.
"Give yourself thirty minutes," he ordered. "Then call Allia to take your place. Make her strip if you can."
"That's impossible, Earl."
"Try, but don't touch her. Don't touch anyone or anything unless you have to."
She turned, slowly, arms lifted above her head in order to accentuate the thrust of her breasts, stomach indrawn.
Her legs, long and slender, looked like marble as she stood on her toes.
"Am I beautiful, Earl?"
"Beautiful."
"You mean that?"
He said, bluntly, "Of us all you will look the best in a coffin. Don't fall in love with yourself so deeply as to forget
that. Thirty minutes, remember, not a second less."
Charl Tao called to him as Dumarest passed the door of his cabin. He sat, a bottle of unusual design on the table
before him, glasses to hand.
"Earl, come and join me."
"You know better than that, Charl."
"We were both with Fren and if one of us has contacted the disease then so has the other. We were both exposed.
Which isn't to say that either of us needs to suffer. Sit and I will explain."
The man had medical experience and what he said was true. Dumarest entered the cabin. He sat and watched as
the plump man tilted the opened bottle. The wine was of a thick consistency as if it were syrup, but in the mouth it
had a clean sweetness filled with stinging bubbles.
Charl smiled at his expression. "Unusual isn't it, Earl? A rare and precious vintage made on a small world which
has nothing to commend it aside from this one art. One day, perhaps, I shall go back to it and obtain a vinery. All it
needs is money and a gracious presence. You would have no difficulty in obtaining a place in their society."
"Have I money?"
"Did I say you had? The vines are passed from mother to daughter and from a part of her dowry. To obtain a
footing it is necessary to marry. Money makes a man more attractive but some, attractive without, could make
themselves an easy living." He lifted the bottle and poured a little more into Dumarest's glass. "A wine which lasts,
Earl. A little goes a long way."
"Like trouble."
"And disease. You've experienced it before?"
Dumarest nodded, remembering a settlement, the cries of the afflicted, the deaths, the plague which had swept
through the camp like a wind. He had survived with a few others and had walked away leaving the place in flames;
rude huts and gathered branches making a cleansing pyre for the dead.
"And?"
"Buboes beneath the armpits. Rashes. Pustules on the face, neck and body. Nothing like this. You know of it?"
"No." Charl sipped at his wine. "It is most probably a mutation, something triggered to sudden life which feeds on
an unsuspected weakness. The ebon patches seem to have some resemblance to gangrene though I can see no true
correlation. Certainly they are foci of destroyed and expelled tissue."
"Not origin-points?"
"I don't think so. I studied Fren pretty closely as you know. The first blotch was the forerunner of several more all
of which appeared in rapid succession. They begin as pin-points and expand within the course of a few hours, the red
rim becomes noticeable only when they have reached an easily visible diameter. Help yourself to more wine if you
want it, Earl."
"I have enough. A virus?"
"Most probably, yes."
If so their chances were small. In the closed environment of the ship it would be quickly spread from one to the
other, most probably had been spread already. Dumarest remembered the stripped cabin of the dead steward; the
bulkheads had remained, the air he had breathed, the things he had touched.
"How is Fren?"
"Unconscious. I've kept him that way though I will admit we could learn more if he were revived. As it is I've
taken smears and done what I could, but without instruments it isn't enough. We haven't even a microscope. There is
no centrifuge, no laboratory equipment, no reagents. All I managed to do was test growth-rates on a culture plate and
try a few inhibiting chemicals." Charl lifted his glass, sipped, puffed his cheeks to accommodate the dancing bubbles.
"What medicines do we have?"
"Some sedatives, tranquilizers and pain-killers," said Dumarest.
"Slow-time?"
"No."
"A pity. If we'd had some we could have fitted our patient with intravenous feeding and given him a month's
subjective living in a day. At least it would have shown us the progression of the disease."
Dumarest shrugged. The question was academic. Slow-time, the reverse of quick-time, was expensive and not to
be expected in the medical stores of a ship like the Varden. And there was little point in accelerating a man's
metabolism to a high factor unless they had the equipment to make it worthwhile.
"Talking of time," said Charl. "The Captain's changed our course, right?"
"Yes."
"And lengthened our journey by how long?"
"Does it matter?"
"It could, Earl. To some of us it could mean life itself." Charl lifted his glass in a toast. "To luck! May it attend us!
And to a pleasant journey—it could be the last any of us may take!"

***

The handler collapsed two days later, falling across the chess board and scattering pieces to either side. The
engineer backed away, his face betraying his fear, making no effort to help as Dumarest tugged at the limp figure.
"Get hold," he snapped. "Lift him. Carry him to his bunk."
"No! He's got it!"
"You've been facing him, breathing his air, touching the same pieces as he did. Help me with him—you've nothing
to lose." Dumarest straightened as the man still hesitated. "I asked you to help," he said tightly. "Now I'm not asking,
I'm telling you what to do. Get this man to his bunk."
"And if I don't?" The engineer scowled as steel flashed in Dumarest's hand. "You'd cut me, is that it? You'd use
that knife. Well, mister, two can play at that game."
A rod stood in a tool rack, a long, curved bar used to ease the generator on its mountings in case of adjustment
or repair. A thing too long for easy handling, but deadly in its potential. The engineer tore it free, lifted it, sent it
whining towards Dumarest's head. Ducking he felt the wind of its passage stir his hair. As the engineer lifted the bar
for a second blow Dumarest darted in, smashing his fist against the engineer's jaw, sending him staggering back. He
struck again, his fist weighed with the hilt of the knife, bringing down the blade so that the point pricked the skin of
one cheek.
"I'm not playing. Start anything like that again and I'll finish it."
"You—"
"Pick him up. Move!"
The handler was in a bad condition. He breathed with difficulty, chest heaving, throat swollen, face covered with
sweat. Dumarest slashed open his tunic with his knife, the reason he had drawn it in the first place. A gesture the
engineer had misunderstood.
From where he stood at the cabin door the man said, "How bad is he?"
"Bad enough. Do you know if he's allergic to anything?" Dumarest frowned at the negative answer. "What has he
been eating lately?"
"Some fish we had in cans."
"Did you eat the same?"
"No, I don't like fish." The engineer leaned forward. "Is that what's wrong with him? Bad food?"
It was barely possible, but one symptom could be masking another. Fabric parted as Dumarest ran the edge of his
knife down the undershirt and exposed the naked chest. It was adorned with a suggestive tattoo, writhing lines and
smears of color which made it difficult to see the actual state of the skin.
Impatiently he sliced through the belt and bared the stomach. It was covered with minute ebon blotches.
"Two down and seven to go," said Charl Tao when he heard the news. "A lucky number, Earl. Seven is supposed
to hold a special significance. It has magical properties and is the number of the openings to the body; two ears, two
nostrils, a mouth, the anus and the urethra." He ended, dully, "I learned that at school."
Information of no value. Dumarest crossed the floor of the salon and helped himself to a cup of basic from the
spigot. It was a thick liquid, laced with vitamins, heavy with protein, sickly with glucose. A single cup would provide a
spaceman with sufficient energy for a day.
"Aside from the significance of numbers have you learned anything else?"
"Little. The steward would have been in close contact with Harmond. It was part of his job to aid him in small
ways. And he was a close friend of the handler."
Which meant that both would have been exposed early to the disease. In that case it was to be expected that both
should fall sick before the others.
"The incubation period?"
"It's anyone's guess, Earl." Charl lifted hands and shoulders in a shrug. "A few days, at least, but how many is
impossible to tell. I simply haven't the data. And it could vary with each individual. Harmond may have succumbed
quickly because of the infection present from his wound. It would have lowered his resistance. The handler was
probably the first to be contaminated."
But he wasn't the first to die. Fren Harmond did that, his life slipping away as he lay locked in drugged
unconsciousness. Dumarest wrapped the body in plastic, heaved the dead man, his bedding, all he had owned in the
way of clothing to the evacuation port. Grimly he watched as the apparatus cycled, lamps flashing as the contents of
the cubicle were blasted into the void.
A man dead who would probably have still been alive if they hadn't left Hoghan as they had.
One who would at least have had a chance.
On the Varden there was no chance. The ship held no vaccines, no medicines, no skilled aid. No instruments to
determine the nature of the invisible killer. Nothing to give a clue as to how it could be defeated. Survival now
depended strictly on the make-up of the individual: the strength of resistance-factors, antibiotic generation, the ability
to combat the virus, to meet the challenge, to live.
A gamble in which none knew their chances and could only guess at the odds.

***

Allia Mertrony rocked back on her heels from where she knelt before the polished disc, her head buzzing, echoes
ringing in her ears, the pounding of her heart a clenched fist beating within her chest. Before her incense rose in
coiling plumes, the last of her supply. No matter, it had been enough. Her prayers had been answered. Lars, long dead
and long waiting, had stirred and sent her a message.
He was waiting. He was impatient. When would she come?
And God too was waiting.
 But long to be in his presence as she did, the Prime Directive must be obeyed. To live while it was possible. To
extend existence until it could be extended no further. Then, and only then, could she join Lars and go to her reward.
To die. To rest. Suicide was forbidden and though old she had no ills. But the joy of life had long since left her
and, aside from prayer, she lived but to sleep and eat. Fear had gone now that she had been reassured. Her faith was
strong.
And good deeds remained to be done.
"Mad!" Charl Tao shook his head as he entered the salon. Nodding to Dumarest and Dephine he drew basic,
sipped, made a face, then forced it down.
"Who is mad? Me?" Dephine stared her anger. "I'm fed up with being cooped in a cabin. All right, so it's crazy to
mix, but what difference does it make now?"
"None," he said mildly. "But I wasn't talking about you, my dear. I was talking about the old woman. She's turned
into a nurse. I left her washing the handler, tending him, crooning like a mother over a child."
"How is he?"
"Fever high. Profuse sweating which is to be expected at such a temperature. Headaches, shivers, pains in the
joints." Charl added, slowly, "He's also delirious."
Dephine said, sharply, "Raving, you mean?"
"By now he must be far gone in hallucination. The crisis, I think. Either he will begin to recover in the next few
hours or he will die."
"The warning symptoms," said Dumarest. "Have you isolated them yet?"
"I can make a guess, Earl, no more. The handler complained of headaches and nausea a day before he collapsed.
However he had been drinking heavily and so the symptoms could have had another cause. But a few hours before he
was stricken he did complain of double-vision. It could mean nothing, Earl."
Dumarest said, quietly, "You're wrong, Charl. The engineer complained of that very thing when I saw him last. He
also said he felt sick. I told him to lie down and try and get some sleep. If we find blotches on him—"
They were scattered over his shoulders and upper torso, flecks like blackheads which would grow into ebon
flowers rimmed with scarlet.
"Help me!" His hands lifted, groping. "My eyes! I can't see! Help me!"
Charl straightened from his examination and shook his head, baffled.
"The eyes don't seem to be affected, but without instruments I can't be sure. And even then my experience is too
limited to arrive at a conclusion. A part of incipient hallucination, perhaps? A psychosomatic syndrome?"
"How so?"
"See no evil therefore it doesn't exist. See no illness and it cannot threaten. An escape from unpleasant reality.
Was he afraid?"
Dumarest nodded, looking about the cabin, seeing the garish pictures pasted to the bulkheads. Colorful
depictions of longed-for pleasures, exaggerated interwindings of shapely limbs, scenes of a vague, dream-like
unreality. Visible proof that the engineer had not only imagination but an earthy mind. An imagination which had
now turned against him, magnifying his pain.
As the man groaned Dumarest felt a sudden chill, the touch of something against which he had no conscious
defense. An enemy which naked steel could neither cow nor defeat. A thing as intangible as a thought, as destructive
as a fanatic's ambition.
"I burn!" The engineer writhed in a paroxysm of agony, twisting on the bunk, rearing, his back bent like a bow,
hands clenched until the nails dug into his palms. "The pain! Dear God, the pain!"
"Another variable, Earl." Charl shook his head in baffled irritation. "His sensory apparatus appears to have been
affected. Usually in men of his type the pain level is inordinately high but now it seems to have been lowered to an
incredible extent."
"Could the virus be generating some form of nerve-poison?"
"How can I tell? It's possible in which case it would account for the sudden onset of pain. There hasn't been time
for extensive tissue-damage. But if that is the case then why weren't the others affected in the same way?"
"Maybe they were," said Dumarest. "Harmond was drugged until he died, remember?"
"And the handler could be suffering as much in his delirium as the engineer in his physical anguish." Charl
nodded, his eyes thoughtful. "In each case it is obvious that the sensory apparatus has been affected by the virus and
it could be mere chance which dictates the course the disease will take. If others are affected they could either go
insane or—" He winced as the engineer screamed again, a hoarse, rasping, animal-like sound. "Earl!"
The screaming died as Dumarest fired drugs into the tormented body. He checked the load of the hypogun as the
engineer sank into merciful oblivion. It had taken a heavy dose—too heavy if it was to be maintained. The supply of
drugs was limited and the more he took the less there would be for others.
 If others came to need it? If they did and none was available?
Dumarest looked at his hands thinking of Dephine.

Chapter Seven
The lamps flashed, the port cycled, Allia Mertrony went to meet her God. A small, aged, withered woman who
had spent the last few days of her life bringing ease to others. Standing before the port, Dumarest hoped she would
find what she had sought. Hoped even more that never again would he have to void the shell of a human being into
space.
That never again would he have to watch a woman die.
The lights were too bright, hurting his eyes and misting his vision so that in dancing halos he saw again the thin,
shrunken features, the ugly blotches, the eyes, the final radiant smile. Her faith had been strong and she had died
happy. Now she would drift for eternity or be drawn by gravitational attraction into a sun and disintegrate in a final
puff of glory. A minute flame which would, perhaps, warm some future flower, grace some unknown sky.
Fanciful imagery which had no place in a ship which had become a living tomb.
Tiredly Dumarest walked from the port and through the vessel, a journey he had made too often now. Harmond
had been the first, then the engineer closely followed by the handler, then the old woman. He frowned, trying to
remember how many were left. Four? Five? Five—but for how long?
He stumbled and saved himself from falling by catching at the bulkhead, breathing deeply for a moment before
straightening and continuing the journey. Fatigue robbed his limbs of strength and caused his joints to ache. Too
many days without sleep, too many screams to be quelled with the diminishing store of drugs. Charl Tao had helped
but now he lay supine on his bunk, glazed eyes staring at the ceiling of his cabin, drugged with his own compounds,
ebon flowers blooming on his face and chest and hands.
Haw Mayna was insane.
He sat cross-legged on the deck of the salon, a lamp burning before him, a sliver of steel in his hand. A thin-
bladed knife which he heated to redness in the flame and then held firm against the blotches which marked his naked
body. Each touch accompanied by the smoke and stench of burning meat.
The shriek of agony which, in his madness, had become the scream of his defiance.
"Earl!" Dephine stood beside the door, turning as Dumarest entered the compartment. "He's crazy. Raving mad.
Do something."
"What?"
"Knock him out. Drug him. Anything."
"He's a man," said Dumarest. "And he knows what he's doing."
"Burning himself ?"
"Ridding himself of corruption." Dumarest watched as the tip of the knife grew red, smoke rising from the burned
tissue adhering to the steel. "Who knows, it may work. Nothing else seems to."
Mayna's scream drowned her answer.
"Leave him."
"How can we, Earl? He should be restrained. Who can tell what he might do?"
Dumarest stared at the woman, recognizing her real concern. The navigator, in delirium, could run wild, loosing
his distorted fancies on the delicate construction of the vessel, destroying the sensors, the delicate guidance
mechanisms on which they all depended. Which, if ruined, would leave them all to drift endlessly in a metal coffin.
"He has to be restrained, Earl. If you haven't the drugs then take care of him in some other way. Kill him if you
have to, but make sure he remains quiet."
"Kill him?"
"Why not?"
"Are you forgetting he's a sick man?"
"No, Earl, I'm not forgetting." Her teeth gleamed white beneath her upraised lip. "And I'm not forgetting a man on
Hoghan. Your comrade—but you didn't hesitate then so why hesitate now?"
"And if you were like him?" Dumarest met her eyes. "If you were sick and ill and needing help would you want
me to be your executioner?"
"If there were no other way, Earl—yes." She frowned as Mayna screamed again. "At least lock him in so he can do
no harm."
Dumarest stooped as he closed the panel, lowering his head; raising it as the momentary nausea passed. He saw
the look of concern on Dephine's face and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
 "Earl?"
"I'll be all right." And then, as she made to touch him, "Don't do that!"
"Why not? What the hell difference does it make now? You're sick, Earl. You look all in. At least come and rest for
a while."
"Later. Go and see how Charl is getting on. I've work to do."
"Earl?"
"Do it!" he snapped. "Just do it!"
He stood watching as she moved away, trying not to yield to the sudden weakness which assailed him, the pain
which clawed at every muscle.

***

The control room was locked. Dumarest pounded at the door, kicked it, then slipping the knife from his belt
rammed the sharp steel between the edge and the jamb, levering until the latch snapped and the panel swung open.
From the ulterior gloom Remille said, "Take one step over the edge and I'll burn you down."
"Captain?"
"You heard what I said, Earl. I mean it." The voice was thick over the rustle of heavy movement, the captain
moving in his chair. "Just stay away from me."
"I must know—are you sick?"
"What the hell could you do about it if I am?"
"Are you?"
"What the hell do you think?" Remille's voice was bitter. "My ship rotten with disease, my crew dead or insane,
passengers evicted—yes, I'm sick. Sick of the years of struggle I've spent and all for what? Quarantine and penalties
and my ship lost and that's if I'm lucky. And if I'm not—"
"You'll die," said Dumarest. "Is that what you want?" Remille made no answer, breathing heavily. A point of light
shifted as he moved, a momentary brilliance which vanished to reappear again as he blinked an eye. A sudden flurry
of activity from the tell-tales and Dumarest saw his face, strained and tense, the lifted hand and the laser it held, the
finger hard against the trigger.
"I'm not coming in," he said quickly. "I just want to talk." His knife was in his hand, a throw and the captain would
be dead. But he was limned against the light and no man, no matter how fast his reflexes, could lift a blade, aim it,
throw it with accuracy in less time than it took for another to move his finger. The captain might die, but Dumarest
knew that he would die with him. And he had no intention of killing.
"To talk," he said again. "You know the situation. Mayna's gone insane."
"I know."
"Then what about the course? Did he set it and feed it into the computer or was he running it from his head?"
"You're asking do I need him anymore," said Remille. "The answer is no. I don't need him, but you need me. If
you've any fancy ideas about taking over the Varden, forget them. It's my ship. If it goes then I go with it."
"And if you go?" Dumarest waited; then, when he received no answer said, "I've saved some of the drugs,
Captain. Enough to put you into a casket. You could ride Low until we reach our destination. A time-trigger could be
set and—"
"No."
"You'd wake and be able to make a landing. It would give you a chance. Even if you have the disease they might
be able to cure you. Life, Captain. Think of it."
"Is that what you came here to talk about?"
"Yes."
"Then you've wasted your time. I'm not leaving the control room. If you want to freeze yourself then go ahead,
but you're not going to freeze me."
"But—"
"Get out! I mean it, Earl, get the hell away from me. I'd rather not shoot but I will if I have to." The heavy voice
broke, the sound of breathing harsh in the gloom. "Leave me, damn you! Leave me—and don't come back!"
The corridor spun as Dumarest stepped back from the control room. He turned, almost falling against the
bulkhead, feeling the hard metal beneath his hands. He rested his forehead on it, leaning forward as sweat ran from
his face to drip on the deck. A sudden flood, of perspiration born of the tide of pain which rose to engulf him, a
searing, acid-like fire which turned every nerve into a channel of torment.
Dimly he heard the slam of a panel, smelt the scent of burning metal. The laser welding shut the control room
door. If he was to die Remille intended to die alone.
 Dumarest drew air into his lungs and slowly straightened. His head ached and he felt a little dizzy but the pain
had lessened a little as if the very fury of its onslaught had numbed feeling. He took three steps down the passage,
cannoned into a wall, took three more and almost fell. Grimly he regained his balance. As if from a far distance he
heard Mayna scream. Another echoed it, closer to hand.
"Earl! My God, Earl!"
Dephine! He waved her back as she came running towards him, her figure seeming to expand and diminish in his
sight.
"No! Don't touch me!"
She said, angrily, "Earl, you fool, you're not thinking straight. What are you going to do? Join Mayna? Lie on the
deck here and die? Stop being so damned noble and get some sense. Now lean on me and let's get you to a bunk.
Damn you, Earl! Do as I say!"
It was easier to obey than argue and the return of pain made it impossible to resist the arm she threw around
him, the pull which drew his own over her shoulder. Twice she had to halt as he doubled, retching, blood running
down his chin from bitten lips. Blood which dripped on a hand and made tiny flecks of red among the ebon blotches
which mottled his skin.
"You've got it," she whispered. "Earl, you've got the disease. God help me now!"

***

Once, as a young boy, Dumarest had torn the nail from a toe during a chase after game and, alone, had had to
hobble for miles over rough and stony ground. The pain then had been something he had imagined would never be
equaled, but now the memory of it was a pleasantry against the agony which suffused every cell of his being.
Pain which seemed to escalate, wave after wave each more intense than the last, a ladder of agony on which his
diminishing consciousness rode like a cork on water, bobbing, turning, writhing as he desperately tried to escape. A
wound would have brought blood loss and the attendant shock with its mercy of oblivion, but the thing which had
turned each nerve into a hyper-sensitive conductor of pain had, as yet, done no irreparable damage to his physique.
And, alone, pain does not kill.
"Earl!" A faint voice echoing from across unimaginable distances. "Earl!"
A touch and a lessening of anguish, a chance to breathe without searing torment afflicting the lungs, to move
without the muscle-tearing agony of cramps. To look upward and see, haloed in a nimbus of light, a mass of red hair.
Hair which shifted and shimmered and moved as if with a life of its own.
Hair which turned to the color of flame. "Kalin!"
"Kalin? No, Earl, it is I, Dephine." A mumble, echoes vastly magnified, words which boomed and rolled and
became thunder. And then became words again. "What can I do? More drugs? 'Dear God, guide me, what can I do?"
Words which turned into a susurration, a thin whisper, the scrape of a nail on slate, a pain in itself so that he
rolled and tried to close his ears and saw painted on the inside of his eyelids, images which spun and turned and
lunged towards him to stand and become familiar.
A face, gibbering, falling back with the hilt of a knife protruding like a growth from the orbit of an eye. An old
woman nodded, her eyes like insects, smoke rising to veil the space between them. A burst of gargantuan laughter.
"Earth? Earth? Where is Earth?"
A scream which continued, a rawness of the throat, an ache in the lungs. Light and flashing fire and, again, the
halo of red hair limned against a blur of white. Delirium.
Dumarest sank like a stone into the escape of hallucinations, illusions; the over-strained fabric of his mind
running from the intolerable prison of his flesh. Pain alone does not kill. He could not find the surcease of death. He
could no longer bear the relentless agony.
Only madness was left.
Madness and memory.
He was in a place of shifting patterns of light with strange shapes moving in wild abandon, cones and spheres,
polyhedrons and cubes, constructs of lace and squat forms which teased the eye with varying contours. A medley of
jumbled impressions; sensory stimuli received and registered by a brain which had lost the ability to distinguish
illusion from reality. Pictures drawn from the storehouse of memory and thrown against his consciousness as slides
projected against a screen.
Death was there, waiting as it had waited all his life; closer now, more avid to clutch and claim him for its own. A
black edging to the picture and one which dulled the bright colors of happy anticipation. An edging which turned
scarlet, which congested into a profusion of lines, took on a hatedly familiar aspect.
Became the Seal of the Cyclan.
 Faces wreathed in scarlet hoods, all alike in their skeletal aspect, skin taut over bone, heads shaven, eyes deep-
set, mouths lipless; only the burning intelligence in the sockets of the skulls giving evidence of life and dedication.
Cybers, men dedicated to the organization to which they belonged. Living robots of flesh and blood, incapable of
feeling emotion, knowing only the mental pleasure of intellectual achievement.
Hunters!
And he was their quarry. Chased from world to world, always having to anticipate where they would be next, how
they would strike. Not to kill—had that been their aim he would have long since been dead, but to take. To hold. To
question. To wring from him the secret he carried. The gift of Kalin.
Kalin with the hair like flame!
"Earl! My hands! Let got."
A well of darkness into which he sank, stars flashing, dying, replaced by others burning with transient glory, a
scatter of gems lying on the black velvet of a cosmic jeweler. Stars which formed patterns each the symbol of a
biological unit. Fifteen units which, correctly assembled, would form the affinity twin. The artificial biological
construct which could be either dominant or submissive according to the reversal of one of the units forming the
chain. Injected into the bloodstream the symbiote would nestle in the cortex and intermesh with the central nervous
system. The ego of a host would be diminished, reduced to a sleeping node while that of the dominant partner would
take its place. The effect was to provide a new body for the master-half of the twin. A surrogate which became an
actual extension of the ego. By its use an old man could become young in an alternate body, an old woman regain her
beauty. A bribe none could resist.
"Earl! Tell me about Kalin. Kalin, Earl, tell me about her."
A voice like the wind, formless, disembodied, a thing to be ignored in the pursuit of bitter memory and yet
enough to guide the direction of thought.
Kalin who had succumbed to temptation. And who, in the end, had given him the formula stolen from a secret
laboratory of the Cyclan.
A secret they had to regain.
A thing which would accelerate their domination of the galaxy, their aim and ambition. Once they had it every
ruler and person of influence would become an extension of their organization, the mind of the cyber residing in a
new body, moving it as a puppet, making it their own.
Incredible power, and the Cyclan would move worlds to regain what they had lost: the secret sequence of the
units forming the chain.
"Earl?"
Dumarest moved, fretful, images dissolving and being replaced by new. A horde of men busy at work, an entire
planet devoted to a single aim. Workers of the Cyclan busy trying to resolve the combination, but mathematics was
against them. The total of all possible combinations of fifteen units was high. Even if they could make and test one
every second it would take them four thousand years to cover them all.
"Earl! For God's sake answer me! Earl!"
The voice again, louder, demanding, imperious. A thunder in his ears. Dumarest forced open his eyes, they were
matted with dried pus, the lids heavy, the light streaming through them a red-hot sword plunging into his brain.
"Wa—" He tried again, mouth and lips refusing to respond, his tongue a puffed and cracked mass of raw tissue.
"Water… give me water."
It flooded over his lips and chin, made wetness on his naked chest. With the liquid gurgling came the voice,
rising, breaking.
"Thank God, Earl! Oh, thank God! I was so afraid. Earl! Keep living, my darling. Keep living!"
"How… long…"
"Days. Days and days. Don't go away again. Stay with me, Earl. Don't get delirious again. Stay sane, damn you! I
need you! Stay sane!"
A voice like a whip, the lash cutting through the fog, the terror he heard in it, the fear a stimulus to exert his
strength. It was barely enough for him to keep his eyes open, to form words.
"Water. Give me more water."
A shadow and a seeming deluge which filled his mouth and pressed into his lungs. Coughing he expelled it, a
spray which lifted like a fountain, glittering droplets falling like jewels. Dimly he was aware of his nudity, of the
stickiness of his body, its heat and aching discomfort and, above all, the fatigue.
"Tired," he mumbled. "Tired."
"Earl! Stay alive, Earl! Live!"
He would try but it was hard to think and impossible to remain alert. His eyes closed and, in the darkness,
Dumarest felt himself slipping back into the safe, warm haven he had constructed in his mind as a defense against
pain. A warren into which he would mentally crawl to suffer the grinding ache of disorientation.
The last thing he consciously heard was the harsh sound of a woman's tears.

Chapter Eight
The room was a jewel carved from an emerald, the light soft through windows with tinted panes, the coloring of
walls and floor matching that of the ceiling, the furnishings a variety of kindred shades. From the bed Dumarest
looked at it, ran his hands over silken covers shimmering with the delicate hue of early petals. Green, a restful color,
one designed to alleviate fear. He knew he must be in a hospital.
"Welcome to the living." A man stepped from behind the head of the bed where he had stood out of Dumarest's
field of vision. He was slender, of medium height, his face smooth and his voice gentle. He wore a uniform of dull
green adorned with silver patches on shoulders and cuffs. "A jest, but you must forgive me. Before you ask this world
is Shallah and you are in the Hammanrad Institute. My name is Doctor Chi Moulmein. Yours?" He nodded as
Dumarest gave it. "At least you have no doubt as to your identity. And you came from Hoghan, correct?"
"Yes. How—"
"All in good time." Smiling the doctor lifted a hand. "Let me say at once that you have made a remarkable
recovery. Even the fittest of men usually take a few minutes to gain complete orientation after such a long period of
unconsciousness, but you became almost immediately aware." He gestured towards a panel which stood attached to
the coils and pipes of a mass of complicated apparatus. "Again, my congratulations."
"For what? Living?"
"For having the will to survive. Without it your recovery would have been impossible. Chelha is not the most
gentle of plagues. However you have nothing to fear now. One attack makes you immune, if you survive it and you
can be released from quarantine when you wish."
Dumarest looked at the man, the assembled apparatus.
"How long?"
"Six months subjective, fifteen days actual. Slow-time, of course, but the treatment had to be interrupted to
permit recovery, checking and essential tests. We used the Rhadgen-Hartle technique of maintaining
unconsciousness by the use of micro-currents applied directly to the sleep centers of the brain. Perhaps you are
aware of it?"
"Under a different name, yes."
"Of course, but the RH method does have some advantages over the usual application and we are rather proud
of it. A system of induced electronic shocks which maintain the flexibility and power of the musculature," he
explained. "The patient wakes with no trace of the expected weakness and can resume an active life without delay.
You will have noticed that you are not hungry. A further benefit; the stomach has been nurtured on a diet of selected
roughage and concentrated staples. This, in addition to normal intravenous feeding, ensures a minimum of fat-loss
and tissue-wastage. I bore you?"
"No."
"It is my specialty, you understand and, to be frank, I was pleased at the opportunity of using it for so long a
period at a stretch. It will probably be advisable for you to spend a few days doing certain exercises, mainly for the
restoration of full coordination and automatic responses. This, of course, will be your decision. Now, as to how you
came here. You are curious, am I correct?"
Dumarest nodded.
"A signal was received from your vessel and a ship was sent to intercept and rescue. Messages had been received
from Hoghan warning of the outbreak of plague and so all precautions were at hand ready to be taken. You were
sealed, brought down to planet, installed in the Institute and taken care of. A lucky escape, sir, if I may say so. Not
one in a hundred can hope to recover from Chelha and not more than one in ten thousand is naturally immune."
Luck, and it was still riding with him. Dumarest looked at the room, the expensive appointments, the mass of
complicated equipment. Money, time, and care had been spent on him—who was footing the bill? And what had
happened to Dephine?
Both questions were answered at the same time.
"Your lady is taking care of everything, sir. She is a most remarkable woman and, in fact, she saved your life. A
natural immune which is rare enough, but one with intelligence and knowledge also. She realized that, unaided, you
would not survive the crisis and remembered a fragment of learning gained when she studied elementary medicine.
You would know about that, naturally, but she would have needed a grim determination to have carried out her
decision. A bold woman, sir, and a brave one. May I congratulate you a third time on your choice of a partner."
 Dumarest said, patiently, "You will excuse me if I seem dull, but I wasn't conscious at the time, as you must know.
Just what did she do?"
"To save you?" The doctor shrugged. "She could not, of course, have known that she was a natural immune but as
time passed and she didn't contact the plague she must have had an inclination that she was in some way favored.
The problem was how to pass her resistance-factor to you. Without the correct equipment she could not make a true
vaccine and it was essential that the appropriate antibiotics should be transmitted active and alive. I am not using
professional terminology, you understand."
"Get on with it, man. What did she do?"
"If the flesh is seared a blister will form," said the man a little stiffly. "The blister will contain a fluid which is
derived from the blood, containing none of the potentially harmful corpuscles but a kind of strained and refined
distillation which can be used as an inoculation-fluid. This is what your lady did."
"Burned herself ?"
"On the breast and thigh. Both wounds are now fully healed and, naturally, there are no scars." The doctor made a
small gesture as of a man suddenly reminded of something. "She is well and, like yourself, out of quarantine. I'm
sorry, I should have mentioned that before. Naturally you would have been worried."
"Naturally," said Dumarest, dryly. "Where is she now?"
"At this time of day most probably at the Krhan Display. You wish to join her?"
Dumarest said, "Get me my clothes."
The Institute itself stood on a rolling expanse of close-cropped sward; the building housing the display was set in
an oasis of flowers, giant blooms which held within their petals the blended colors of broken rainbows. The breeze
was blowing towards him and Dumarest caught their scent long before he reached the flowers themselves. The odor
was sweetly rich, stimulating to the nostrils, yet holding within itself the cloying stench of decay. The petals too were
thick and curled like segments of tissue and, as he headed towards the path, some of the great blooms turned to
follow his progress.
"My lord?" A guard blocked his path, eyes roving over Dumarest from head to foot. He wore his own clothes,
refurbished, the plastic glistening with a liquid sheen, the gray in strong contrast to the profusion of color. Like
himself they had been cleansed, checked, passed fit for normal circulation.
"My lord?" said the guard again, the title more a question than a deferential politeness. "May I be of assistance?"
"The Lady Dephine?"
"She is within." The guard gestured towards the curved entrance of the display. "And you? A patient? My
apologies, but—" He broke off, a little discomforted. Those who could afford the expense of the Institute were not
usually so somber in their choice of dress. "To the left as you enter, my lord. The lady is probably in the inner
chamber."
Music echoed with faint tinklings as Dumarest passed through the door, an electronic chime activated by his
body-mass, serving both to announce his presence and to warn those within that a stranger had come to join them. A
peculiarity for which he could see no need, as there had seemed none for the guard. Then, as he looked through the
shadowed gloom, the reason became obvious.
The walls glowed with color, patches of flaming brilliance interspersed with areas of muted luminescence, a
profusion of sparkles and shades, of glows and shafts and points, of pulses and ripples in each and every
combination of hue. Works of art constructed of metal and crystal, of trapped gasses and seething liquids, of
sponge-like ceramics and foils which hummed and moved as if alive.
Before one a woman stood, lost in rapture, her hands squeezing her naked breasts, her breathing a deep and
quickening susurration. Beyond her a man crouched in an attitude of attack, lips drawn back over snarling teeth,
hands lifted, fingers hooked, ropes of muscle standing clear on his naked arms and torso. A couple lost in each other,
so interlocked that it seemed as if they were one. A young girl who simpered and ran to stand with her thumb in her
mouth and invitation in her eyes. An oldster who drooled. A matron who stood with parted lips and cried in silence. A
boy who talked to the air in muted gibberish.
Dumarest passed them all, his boots soundless on the padded floor, light from the display shimmering from his
sterile clothing, the polished boots, the hilt of the knife riding above the right.
Dephine was in the inner chamber.
She sat on a circular couch which slowly turned in the center of the floor so that one seated could see the entire
extent of the inner display. It was in sharp contrast to that outside, somber tones now instead of stimulating
brilliance, lines and planes holding a subtle disquiet which seemed to darken the glowing constructs. Her eyes were
blank, emerald pools which glistened with reflected light beneath the carefully dressed mane of her hair. Eyes which
blinked and became alive when Dumarest stood before her.
"Earl!" She rose, hands lifted, the nails glowing as they turned to rest the palms against his cheeks. "Earl! At last!"
 "You've been waiting long?"
"An eternity! Earl, you look so well!" Her palms stroked his cheeks, ran down the line of his jaw, the tips of her
fingers resting on his lips, following the contours of his mouth. Her eyes were wide, luminous with unshed tears of
joy, her face bearing the radiance of a young girl. "Earl."
A sudden flood of natural emotion or a reaction to his presence caused by the effects of the display? Dumarest
stepped back, looking at her, conscious of the impact of her femininity, his own wakening desire.
"Dephine, you look well."
An understatement, she looked beautiful. Rich fabrics clothed the long, lithe contours of her body, gems shone at
ears and neck, wrists and fingers. More from the auburn cloud of her hair. Her eyes gleamed beneath the slanted
brows and, in the hollows of her cheeks beneath the prominent bone, luminous shadows danced to enhance the wide
invitation of her mouth.
He said, a little unsteadily, "Let's get out of here."
"Why, don't you like it?" Sitting she patted the couch at her side. "Join me, Earl. Let me feel the warmth of your
body close to mine. The life that is within you. The strong, so strong determination to survive. The only reason you
are with me now. Did they tell you that when you woke? That a lesser man would have succumbed?"
"This place—"
"A work of genius, Earl. Krhan was a master of his art. A visionary who took inert material and imbued it with
life." Her voice sobered a little. "He haunted the beds of the dying and recorded their every hope and fear and
aspiration later to use those recordings to program the structure of the artifacts which now rest all around us.
Extremes of emotion caught and reflected to be assimilated by those who come here to stand and concentrate and
become one with the emanations. You've seen them, Earl, you understand."
Auto-hypnosis which stripped away layers of inhibition and released secrets, desires and aspirations. And here
within the inner chamber?
"The culmination of his art, Earl," she said when he asked. "Sit and watch for long enough and time ceases to
have meaning. Death is robbed of its terror. Life becomes a pulsing surge of demand. Life, Earl, and emotion, and the
desperate hopes of those who have left their desires too late and, in dying, sent them to blaze in a final burst of
emotive appeal. Do it now, Earl. Can't you grasp the message? Do it now before it is too late. Do it! Do it!" Her arms
engulfed him, holding him with a desperate yearning, her body radiating a demanding heat. "Do it, Earl! Damn you,
do it now!"

***

A bird descended with a flutter of wings to land on the fleshy petal of a flower, to peck, to whir into the air again.
A free creature of the air, protected in this environment, a thing of grace and beauty.
As she watched it fly away Dephine said, "We need to talk, Earl."
He nodded, looking back at the building housing the Krhan Display. A trap set among riotous flowers, its insidious
attraction as subtle as the scent emitted by the bloom of a carnivorous plant. To it would come the ambulatory
patients of the Institute eager to taste the new excitement, experience the new thrills. To stand and release inhibitions
and act the parts transmitted by those who had died, taken and adapted by the artist. To indulge in stimulated
passion. To be watched by skeins of glowing luminescence.
To return again and again, drawn by the depictions as a moth is drawn to flame.
"How long?"
"Have I been waiting? Days, Earl, almost a week now. They had to check me out under slow-time. You needed
specialized treatment—but you know all that." She looked back at the massed flowers, the building with its rounded
roof. "The Krhan Display beguiled me. It was a way to pass the time. It holds truth, Earl."
"No. Dreams, illusions."
"The truth," she insisted. "How many die eaten with the regret of lost opportunities? The fury of having waited
too long? Of building for a future which, for them, no longer exists? Do it now, Earl. A fact which life has taught me. A
truth among others." Her voice grew hard. "So many others."
Too many, perhaps, and some of them only a facet of the truth she imagined she had gained. Glimpses of reality
distorted by false imagery and garnished by faded tinsel; the lure of promised excitement too often turning sour. How
often had she known disappointment? How often had she reached for a new thrill, a new experience, another
adventure? How many layers of defensive protection shielded the real woman?
A path led to a bench ringed with scented shrubs and he led the way to it, sitting, waiting for her to settle.
"What happened, Dephine?"
"On the ship?"
 "Yes… the others?"
"Charl died by his own hand. I went in to him and he pleaded with me to give him his compounds. One of them
must have contained poison."
"Mayna?"
"Dead too."
"How?"
"Does it matter, Earl?" She refused to meet his eyes. "He died, that's all you need to know. His screams were
driving me crazy and—" She broke off. "Forget it."
A knife plunged into the heart, the impact of a club against temple or spine, drugs to distort the metabolism,
there were many ways to kill a man.
Dumarest said, "Remille wanted to be alone. How did you talk him into landing?"
"I didn't. He made a recording and set the computer to throw the ship into orbit. They picked up the appeal and
came up to see what was wrong. Remille was dead. They sent the vessel into a collision-course with the sun and
brought us both to the Institute." She added, bleakly, "I think they would have sent us with the ship if I hadn't been
able to pay."
The jewels they had found in the loot—the answer to the expensive treatment which had saved his life.
Dumarest said, sincerely, "Thank you, Dephine."
"For what?"
"Doing what you could to save me. The doctor told me about the burns. Without those inoculations I wouldn't be
alive now."
"No, Earl, you wouldn't."
"And so I thank you."
"You thank me," she said, dryly. "Is that all? A few words quickly spoken?" And then, as he made no comment,
added, "If so it isn't enough. I want more, Earl. A lot more."
"There is little I can give," said Dumarest evenly. "But you have the jewels and can retain most of my share."
"It still isn't enough."
Simple greed? He doubted it, but had to be sure. "What then?"
Her answer was direct. "You, Earl. I want you."
Marriage? In the display they had been governed by passion, riding a tide of sensual pleasure, of desire, of lust.
She had been wild in her abandon, surrendering all restraint, concerned only with their union and careless as to who
might be watching. An abandon he had shared in an explosive release of primeval energy. There had been words in
the glowing dimness, things whispered in the language of lovers. Terms of endearment, protestations of affection,
promises which he had heard from other women and which he had learned to discount—when passion died such
things were often forgotten. And, influenced by Krhan's genius, neither had been wholly normal.
"Earl?"
She expected an answer, but he delayed giving it, letting the silence grow as he studied the lines of her face. It
was hard, cold, a tiny muscle twitching at the corner of her mouth. Her nails made little scratching sounds as they
rasped over the rich fabric of her gown.
Not the face of a woman declaring her love to a potential mate. But if not marriage then what?
"You're cold," she said at last. "Had I said that to another man he would have leapt to the obvious and be talking
of our future life together. Especially after what happened between us in the display. Yet you say nothing. Why, Earl?
Am I so repulsive?"
"Say what you mean, Dephine."
"Cold and hard and direct." She looked down at her hands as if reluctant to meet his eyes. "You're an unusual
man, Earl, but I knew that before we left Hoghan. And in the Varden you proved it again and again. The Varden—how
can I ever forget it? Days spent with death all around, not knowing if I would contract the disease, not even knowing
if Remille had sent the ship to plunge into a sun. Can you imagine it, Earl? Can you?"
The cold glare of light and a silence broken only by moans and screams of the sick and insane. Alone in a ship
which had become a tomb, the air tainted with the stench of burning flesh, filled with the restless mutters of
nightmare.
"It's over now," he said. "Over."
"Yes, Earl. A danger passed and a problem solved and for you that is the end of it. You will move on, visit other
worlds, meet other women, but you don't carry, as I do, the curse of your heritage. I had thought myself rid of it, but
in the Varden, and later when I felt the impact of Krhan's genius—Earl, it isn't easy to forget the past."
"Can you ever, Dephine?"
She caught the somber note in his voice and with an impulsive gesture reached out a hand and touched the side
of his face. A touch which turned into a caress as her fingers moved softly over his cheek, to rest on his lips, to lift and
be pressed against her own. A kiss by proxy; a thing often done in taverns by harlots with eyes as hard as the metal
which graced their nails. But this was no tavern but a bench set among scented bushes and the woman was regal in
self-assured pride.
A pride which crumpled as, tremulously, she said, "Earl! I need you! Please don't make me beg!"
"Need me for what?"
"For your strength, your courage, your skill. Because you are a man in every sense of the word. Because I am
afraid."
"Afraid?"
She said, dully, "I belong to an old and honored family. One so steeped in tradition that it has become a way of
life. Can you understand that? To live by a code which must not be broken. Of pride which can admit of no weakness.
Of reputation which must be maintained no matter what the cost. I was a rebel and when the chance came to escape
I took it. Since then I have done many things." Light glittered as she lifted her hands and looked at her nails. "Things
which could be regarded as having sullied the good name of my House."
"So?"
"I want to go back, Earl. I want to go home. Yet how can I be sure of a welcome? I could be challenged—there is
nothing so cruel as outraged pride. So you see why I need you. I must have a champion. A man to stand at my side
and to shield me with his strength. Just for a while, Earl, until I am accepted, then you can go your own way if you
want."
She had tended him and saved his life—he couldn't refuse.
"Very well, Dephine," he said. "I'll take you home."

Chapter Nine
Home was Emijar, a small world lying at the edge of a dust cloud, the solitary planet of a dying sun. From his
balcony Dumarest studied it, looking at the distant loom of hills, the rolling swell of terrain. From below came the
sound of voices and, leaning over the parapet, he could see small and colorful figures busy driving horned beasts
from pasture into stalls for milking. Boys at their labors as the girls would be hard at work spinning and weaving. The
children of the Family learning the essential disciplines of husbandry.
With his elbows leaning on the carved and weathered stone Dumarest examined the exterior of the house. It was
a big, rambling structure which had grown over the years, yet the new additions had blended with the old adding to
instead of detracting from the original conception. The tower in which he stood reared towards the sky, walls
enclosed small courtyards and the thick, outer walls were topped with crenelations. A house which was a
combination of farm and fortress. A building which had stretched to embrace generations of residents as it had
expanded to contain the accumulation of centuries.
A place of dust and cobwebs, invisible, intangible, but there just the same.
Dumarest straightened and turned and stepped back into the room he had been given. It was shaped like a
wedge, the floor of polished wood, the ceiling thick with massive beams, the walls softened by an arras of brightly
decorated fabric. The bed was wide and covered with a quilt stuffed with feathers. A chest stood at its foot and a low
table at its side held wine in a crystal decanter together with two goblets. The door was of solid wood, barred with
metal straps and thick with the heads of nails.
A knock and it opened.
The man standing outside said, "My apologies if I have disturbed you. Am I permitted to enter?"
"Do so."
"You are most kind, Earl. I have neglected you, an unforgivable lapse, but I crave your indulgence. The
excitement of Dephine's arrival—you understand?"
"I think so."
"To return after so many years!" The man made an expressive gesture. "An event which must be celebrated.
Already word has been sent to all members of the Family. But I am remiss. You are comfortable? The room is to your
liking? You have bathed?"
Dumarest nodded, studying his visitor. Hendaza de Monterale Keturah was Dephine's uncle, a man of late
middle-age, his short, stocky body clothed in somber fabrics, his tunic alone bright with the encrustation of colorful
badges. Symbols of achievement and rank, Dumarest knew. As important to the man as the bolstered weapon he
carried at his waist, the firearm no adult would ever be seen without.
Dumarest said, flatly, "How is Dephine? Has she been accepted?"
 "By me, certainly, but I have traveled in my youth and know that tolerance is a part of civilized living. Others are
less generous, but they will be won over given time and, if the worst should happen, well, she has her champion."
A calm acceptance of his role as if it were the most natural thing in the world which, in this society, it was.
Dumarest stepped back towards the window and stared in the direction of the city and the spacefield, fifty miles to
the west. A distance which had been covered by a raft in as many minutes. The sun was low, the smokey red of the
mottled disc dazzling.
As he turned, blinking, Hendaza said, "Earl, how much did Dephine tell you? You are close to her, I know, the fact
that you are her champion proves it. But how deeply did she confide in you?" And then, as if part of a ritual formula,
he added, "If my words offend you I apologize. If the apology is insufficient then I am at your disposal."
To participate in a duel, a ritual combat in which right was assumed to triumph. A thing in keeping with the great
house with its invisible cobwebs of ancient tradition which insisted on careful attention to minute detail.
"You don't offend me," said Dumarest. "She told me very little."
Little of importance, at least, though much which had to do with promises and what he would expect to find on
Emijar. A small trader had finally brought them to her home world, the third vessel they had taken since leaving
Shallah, tiresome journeys with tedious breaks as they waited for connections. Days in which they had talked and
nights devoted to passion.
"A strange and willful girl," mused Hendaza. "Even when but a child she had a wild streak in her which made her
object to discipline. Yet how can civilization survive without a firm basis of rules and customs? Each must know his
place and each must maintain both pride and position. Perhaps you have met similar cultures in your travels?"
"Similar," said Dumarest. Static societies doomed to fall apart beneath the impact of new ways, but he said
nothing of that. "When will Dephine be fully accepted?"
"After dinner tonight those who wish to object will be given their chance, but it will be a formality I'm sure. What
to do now? Some wine? A little exercise? A tour of the House? Come, Earl, let me show you around. There are others
you should meet; Lekhard for one, Kanjuk and young Navalok should amuse you." His laughter was a dry rustle of
contempt. "We shall find him in the chapel."

***

It was a dim place filled with shadows, the gloom dispelled at points by the glow of vigil lights. They rested
beneath a collection of broken weapons and, in the faint light from the floating wicks, the things seemed to move, to
shift as if gripped by unseen hands.
As Dumarest paused in the doorway he saw a thicker clot of shadow, a form which rose from where it knelt,
turning to reveal a white and drawn face, a pair of staring, luminous eyes.
"Navalok de Monterale Keturah," said Hendaza with a sneer. "One day, perhaps, he could rule the House—if he
ever finds the guts to win his trophy."
The rite to prove his manhood, the beast he would have to kill before he could claim adult status. A barbarism in
keeping with all the rest.
Dumarest called, softly, "Navalok? Come and talk to me. Come, boy, I won't hurt you."
"Do you think I am afraid of that?" The boy stepped forward, limping a little, his lips tightly compressed. He was
young, barely reaching to Dumarest's shoulder, and thin with a stringy leanness which could result from malnutrition
or the long, flat muscles of a natural athlete. In the gloom his eyes were enormous, the starting eyes of a helpless
beast which knows that it is trapped and can see no way of escape.
"A wise man is always wary of strangers," said Dumarest. "It is caution, not fear. A thing I learned years ago when
I was just a boy. And you, Navalok? How old are you?"
From where he stood Hendaza said, spitefully, "Long past the age when he should have become a man, Earl. He
is of my blood but I have to say it. You talk to a coward."
And listen to a fool. Dumarest said, mildly, "Could you leave us, Hendaza? I'd like to look around a little. Navalok
can guide me if he agrees."
"He will agree." Hendaza glowered at the boy. "This is Earl Dumarest. An honored guest. You will remember
that."
"My lord?" Dumarest waited as Hendaza left them alone. "Will you guide me?"
"Yes, of course, but there is no need of titles."
"From either side," said Dumarest. "Now, what have you to show me?"
Together they walked slowly down the length of the building. The floor was flagged with stone and the sound of
the youth's footsteps made a dull resonance from the vaulted roof.
"Tell me about these relics." Dumarest gestured to the items illuminated by the soft glow of the vigil lights. "They
are relics, aren't they? Things kept from the past?"
The boy halted before a shattered sword.
"Arbane used this against an olcept ten times his own weight. It ripped his stomach and brought him down but he
managed to kill it and return with the trophy before he died."
"And this?"
A broken spear with much the same history. The weapon used by a man who had killed and later died from
injuries received while killing. The list lengthened, the young voice rising a little as he warmed with his stories, the
names and deeds of those he envied rolling from his tongue.
Brane who had walked on bloodied feet to hurl his trophy before the Shrine. Tromos who had hopped. Kolarz
who had crawled. Arnup who had lost an arm and used his teeth and single hand to support his burden. Sirene who
with both legs shattered and one eye gone had writhed like a snail leaving a slime of his own blood and intestines.
Tales of blood and suffering, of the will overcoming the limitations of the flesh, a saga of those who had
struggled and won the coveted prize and who had died with fame and honor. Men who had wasted their lives to leave
nothing but broken weapons and distorted memories, but Dumarest said nothing of that.
"You see, Earl," said the youth, "It isn't enough just to kill. The trophy must be carried back to the Shrine."
"Is that essential for those who hope to rule?"
"Yes. A man must prove himself. Some go after a normal trophy and leave it at the Shrine and are content to rest
on their proven courage. Others, especially those in direct descent from the Elder of the House, must gain a trophy
accepted by all as one fit for the position they wish to hold. Nothing less than seven times the weight of a man."
Dumarest said, "Can you show me what an olcept looks like?"
The picture gave no indication of size and the colors were too garish to be true, but something of the ferocity of
the creature had been captured and set on the pane of painted glass. A long body upheld by four, claw-tipped legs. A
knobbed tail. A head consisting mostly of slavering jaw with grasping appendages to either side. Horns which curled
like upraised daggers. Fur and scale and spines of bone. A composite of bird and reptile with something of the insect
blended with the mammal.
"The dominant life-form of this world when the early settlers arrived," said the boy. "Much blood was spilled and
many Families broken before they were beaten back into the mountains. Now they have learned to leave us alone but,
at times, they swarm and destroy crops and fields, buildings and beasts in a wave of destruction. Nothing can stop
them aside from the massed fire of heavy weapons. Usually all that can be done is to remain safe behind stone."
Dumarest remembered the massive stone walls, the towers and crenelations. It had been no accident that the
house had adopted the features of both farm and fortress. "Why aren't they hunted?"
"They are. Their heads provide the trophies." Small beasts relatively easy to kill yet each destroyed made the
flock that much less of a hazard. A necessity incorporated into the social structure and used for a double purpose. A
triple purpose when it came to deciding the fitness of those aspiring to rule.
The women, of course, would be helped and even given kills to call their own. Then Dumarest remembered
Dephine, her savage determination, her almost feral heat in anger and love. Such a woman would scorn such aid and
she could not be alone. Here the females were equal to their men. "And the Shrine?"
It lay behind the chapel, an echoing chamber flagged with blocks of red and yellow, lights glowing like stars on
the marble walls, small points gathered thickly before the arched opening and the inner chamber. Within it rested a
slab of polished obsidian the surface cluttered with a variety of objects; a book, some instruments, a chronometer,
the injector of an engine, the plastic leaves of a record-file, a spool of thread, a jeweled toy, a dozen other items.
"From the First Families," said Navalok reverently. "Each placed here some object of personal value and, by these
things, they are remembered. Each House, of course, has its Shrine, for all hold the Firsts in veneration. As we hold
those of us who sit in the Hall of Dreams."
Ancestor-worship coupled with a primitive rite of puberty added to the rigid traditions and codes of a ritualized
way of existence. Once of value for the culture to survive, perhaps now a lead weight dragging it to oblivion.
"You sit in the chapel," said Dumarest. "And you pray for strength, the ability to be like those you respect and
admire. The heroes whose weapons you guard and whose exploits you remember. Yes?"
"Of course, Earl."
"Why?"
Navalok frowned. "I don't understand. I am weak and you must have noticed the way I drag my foot. An accident
when I was a child, but it has left me deformed. How can I hope to gain a trophy without the help of those best suited
to give it?"
"They are dead, Navalok." Dumarest was patient, the conditioning of a lifetime could not be eliminated by a few
words. And to deride would be to arouse a reactive antagonism. "They are dead," he said again. "All of them."
"But they gained their triumph."
 "And died doing it. Is that much of a success? Wouldn't the achievement be greater had they returned unscathed
to hurl their trophies before the Shrine?" Dumarest smiled as he posed the question, his voice deliberately casual. "In
my experience the man who remains unscarred after a fight is the one to be feared, not the one displaying his lack of
skill."
For a moment, watching the play of emotion over the young face, he thought that he had gone too far too fast.
Only a fool could have missed the implication and no one likes to be told that his heroes were stupid rather than
brave. Then, as Navalok opened his mouth to reply the air shook to the deep and solemn note of a bell.
"The curfew," he explained. "The gates are now closed and the House sealed for the night. Soon it will be time for
dinner, Earl. It would be best for us to part now and get ready."

***

Dinner was held in the great hall and was obviously the high point of the day. Dumarest joined the throng of
guests standing before the tall, double-doors, his gray tunic in sharp contrast to the others adorned as they were with
a plenitude of badges. Even the women wore similar symbols, stars fixed to sashes draped over one shoulder and, like
the men, they were armed.
"Earl!" Hendaza came bustling through the assembly two others at his heels. "Allow me to introduce you to those
whom I mentioned. Earl Dumarest, Lekhard de Monterale. Lekhard, this is—"
"I know who he is." The man smiled with a twist of his thin lips. Young, arrogant, he radiated an aura of self-
assurance. His tunic was a blaze of ornamented badges. "We both know, eh, Kanjuk?"
Hendaza said, stiffly, "I take offense at your attitude, Lekhard."
"So you take offense." The man shrugged. "If you want satisfaction it can be arranged. The usual place when the
bell tolls at dawn?"
"No." His companion, a tall man with a smooth face and enigmatic eyes, rested a gemmed hand on the other's
sleeve. Like Hendaza he was of middle-age. "This is no cause for a quarrel, Lekhard. You were rude to interrupt and
Hendaza was right to remind you of your lack of manners. We do not want our guest to think we are barbarians."
"Does it matter what a stranger thinks?" Lekhard's eyes roved over Dumarest's plain tunic, halted at his
weaponless belt, dropped to stare at the hilt of the knife thrust into his boot.
"Yes, my friend, Dumarest is armed." Kanjuk smiled as if at a private jest. "You were slow to notice that. Now that
you can accept him as an equal we can act like civilized men. You have visited many worlds, Earl?"
"I have."
"And seen many cultures, no doubt. Have you met other societies like our own?"
"As yet I have seen little of it."
"And so have no evidence on which to judge. Well, time will cure that. I would like—" He broke off as trumpets
sounded from the doors which now swung open. "It is time we went in to dinner. Later I would appreciate the chance
of resuming this conversation. Lekhard! To me!"
Kanjuk raised a hand as he moved off into the throng now streaming through the opened doors. At his side
Hendaza said, "Head for the upper tables, Earl. You sit next to Dephine. As her champion it is your right."
She smiled as he took his place, reaching across the space between them to touch his arm, gemmed fire winking
from her fingers. She was resplendent in a gown of embroidered fabric, the sash draped over her shoulder bright with
badges, the pistol at her belt resting in a holster of gilded leather.
"You are happy, Earl?"
"I am here. Just what I am supposed to be doing is something else."
"You are my champion." Her fingers gently scratched the back of his hand. "With all that implies. But don't let
appearances deceive you. On Emijar men can smile as they murder and murder as they smile."
Dumarest shrugged away his hand from beneath her nails, not bothering to probe her meaning. Instead he
studied the great hall and the assembly it contained. All the Family, it seemed, had come to welcome Dephine. They
sat at long, narrow tables set on the stone floor, each loaded with a variety of foods and wines. At the lower end of
the hall, separated a little from the others, were the tables occupied by those who had yet to win their trophy. Social
inferiors not as yet regarded as having the right to an opinion.
Navalok was among them, his face somber as he picked at his food.
Dumarest reached for a fruit with a golden rind and lifted it from where it rested on a mat of leaves. The skin
broke beneath his fingers to release a flood of sickly sweet juice. The flesh was tart, slightly acid, dissolving to a
chewable mass of fiber.
At his side a man said, "So far no challenges, but there is time yet before the final bell."
"You expect one?"
 "I? No, but who can tell what is in other minds?" The man sipped a little wine. "If any should come Alorcene will
do his best to negate them. Dephine was always his favorite."
"Alorcene?"
"Keeper of the Scrolls." The man gestured towards the highest table. "Ah, there he is. I thought he wouldn't leave
it much longer."
The sharp note of a bell sounded above the hum of conversation and, as silence fell, an old man lifted his hand.
"According to ancient tradition and with the will of those who guide the destiny of this noble House let all listen
and pay heed. To this place has returned the Lady Dephine de Monterale Keturah. Of those present do any deny her
right to remain? To rejoin the Family? To resume her rightful place among us? If so speak that all may hear."
Dumarest reached for another fruit. The episode was a ritual at one with the rest and a part of the ceremony he
had been warned to expect. The public announcement, the avowal of intent, the opportunity for those who held old
grievances to have them aired. Nothing would come of it, or so Dephine had sworn. His very presence would take
care of that.
Again the ring of the bell, the solemn intonation.
From a table lower down the hall a woman rose and said, clearly, "I deny her right. She left under a cloud. There
was a suspicion of theft."
"Full reparation has been made. Thrice the sum involved has been returned to the injured party. Forgiveness has
been granted and no animosity is now borne. Do you wish to challenge?"
"If reparation has been made—no."
The bell sounded again as the woman sat, the third and last time for any present to object.
Dumarest narrowed his eyes at a flurry from the far end of the hall. From the doors a man strode with an
arrogant impatience towards the upper table. A tall man, his scarred face edged with a ruff of beard. One who wore a
tunic heavy with badges. One who had timed his entrance well.
Halting he shouted, "I am Galbrene de Allivarre Keturah. I accuse this woman of theft, of lies, of harlotry. Of
breaking her word and of ignoring her promise. I say she is a disgrace to the Family. A vileness which should be
erased. I challenge her!"

Chapter Ten
The room was flanked with alcoves each containing a sculptured form; the cold eyes of depicted men and
women staring blindly at the group around the table. In its center rested a lamp of glowing crystal, streamers of red
and yellow, blue and emerald, azure and dusky violet painting shifting hues on the stone, the faces and clothes of
those gathered.
"Galbrene," said Dephine bitterly. "The fool. Who would have thought he'd nursed a grudge for so long?"
"His pride—"
"To hell with his pride!" She glared at Hendaza, cutting him short, careless of any affront. "Why wasn't he
stopped? I had your word there would be no trouble and now this. A public challenge and one that can't be settled
privately. Or can it? Lekhard?"
"Even if he would agree it would be difficult," he said, flatly. "And it is unthinkable that he will agree. A public
challenge must be met and be seen to be met. If not his own honor will carry the taint and suspicion of cowardice."
"Kanjuk?"
"My dear, what can we do?" The man spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. "Galbrene will not be denied.
And it isn't a matter of a personal insult which could be settled with due regard to form yet without real danger to life.
He has claimed you insulted the House and, I must tell you, there are many who agree with him. An unfortunate
occurrence, but one which cannot be either ignored or dismissed."
Dumarest said, "Why not?"
It was the first time he had spoken since the dinner had ended and those present had gathered in the room.
Beyond the doors men and women milled in anticipation, the air filled with the hum of speculation. A hum which
held a feral sound, a savagery he had heard before.
One underlying the rasp of naked steel, the harsh panting, the thud of feet in the ring where men faced each
other with bared knives and fought to the death. Blood and pain to titillate a watching crowd. Wounds and death to
provide a spectacle for the jaded and bored. Dumarest remembered the burn of edged steel, the warmth of spilled
blood, the shock of pain, the stench of fear. Remembered too the sudden expression in the eyes of an opponent as
his own blade had driven home. The stunned, incredible realization that, for him, life had ended.
"What?" Lekhard turned with a lithe, animal-like movement, a wash of blood-red light painting his features, a
mask from which his eyes glittered like jewels. "What are you saying?"
"I asked a question," said Dumarest evenly. "In my experience most things can be settled in more than one way."
"You don't understand," said Kanjuk. "On Emijar there is only one way to settle such an insult and all know it. The
challenge must be met."
"Without armor," added Lekhard. His tongue caressed his lower lip. "Surely you have knowledge of our customs?"
A society which lived on the edge of violence—the guns carried were not toys. Yet to avoid the escalation of
feuds certain rules had been evolved. Duels were fought with the contestants wearing armor which limited the
vulnerable area. Limbs could be broken and painful wounds received, but the possibility of actual death was slight.
The victor gained a badge from the vanquished, a token scalp, and the more obtained the greater the admiration.
But a public challenge such as had been made to Dephine would be to the death.
She said, forcibly, "It must be stopped. Earl, you cannot fight the man."
"He must!" Hendaza looked from one to the other. His eyes were determined. "As your champion, Dephine, he can't
refuse."
"He can and must!"
"No!" Lekhard was as determined as the other. "For one thing to refuse would be to gain the derision of the
House. That you could, perhaps, bear. But there would be more. The gauntlet, for one. And for your champion—" he
made the word a sneer. "—well, we do not treat cowards lightly on Einijar. Such men are taken and left unarmed in
the haunts of the olcept. None have ever returned."
Dumarest said, "Dephine, just what does Galbrene have against you?"
In the following silence he looked from one to the other, seeing each trying to avoid his eyes, each masking his
face in his own way; Lekhard with a sneer, Kanjuk with a bland expression, Hendaza with a frown. Only the woman
was outright.
"Once, Earl, years ago now, I promised to marry him."
"And now he wants to kill you?"
"Yes."
"An odd way of showing his love."
"Love has nothing to do with it, Earl. Even the word itself doesn't mean to him what it does to you. It is a matter
of pride. He chose me and I rejected him. I broke my given word. I made him a mockery in the eyes of his
companions. If he could that man would tear me apart with his bare hands." Pausing she added, "I'm sorry Earl. I
didn't know this would happen. If—" She broke off as Alorcene entered the room.
He crossed to the table, sat, his face expressionless. His hands, in the colored streams of light, looked like scraps
of paper or thinly scraped bone as they rested before him. Hands which matched the thin dryness of his voice, quiet
now in startling contrast to what it had been in the hall.
"I have questioned Galbrene de Allivarre Keturah and his claim is just. He has the right to challenge. You,
Dephine de Monterale Keturah, have only the right to defend either in person or by use of a champion."
Dumarest said, "Her life at stake for a broken promise?"
"It is our way," said the old man quietly. "But it is not her life at stake but her reputation. Should you fall she will
be ostracized, scorned, disavowed. She will be expelled from the House, the Family, from this world. But you, Earl
Dumarest—you will be dead."

***

Through the uncurtained window he could see the stars, a glitter of distant suns each with its own worlds, their
pattern broken by the sprawling blotch of an interstellar dust cloud, its edges haloed with a faint luminescence. From
the balcony could be seen the night-shrouded land, the distant hills a wavering, ghostly line in the cold glow of the
heavens. Beneath the parapet lay sheer stone, more in an unbroken expanse for twenty feet above, the wall ending in
the overhang of a peaked roof. Things he had spotted in the fading daylight, barriers now augmented by the sealed
portal, the watchful guards on walls and roofs.
A precaution against external enemies but one which kept men in as well as out.
Lying supine on the wide bed Dumarest stretched, easing muscle and sinew, his thoughts busy with odd scraps of
assembled information.
The Shrine—would the items it contained hold any information as to the whereabouts of Earth? If the First
Families had landed here long enough ago it was barely possible that an old navigational table would give the
coordinates he had searched for for so long. Would Navalok permit him to search? A good start had been made to
win his friendship, but more could be needed. The boy was a dreamer, one cursed by having been born to the wrong
society at the wrong time. Earlier he would have been quietly disposed of so as not to contaminate the gene pool
with his undesirable characteristics. Later he could make a place for himself as a thinker, a poet or an artist, a planner
or a teacher. Now he was caught between two fires, tearing himself apart with the desire to prove himself according
to the customs of his Family yet lacking the physical attributes which would make it possible.
But he would try and, trying, he would die.
Dumarest turned, thinking of his own problems.
An hour after the great bell sounded at dawn he would have to fight and, from what he had seen of Galbrene, the
man was no stranger to combat. The badges he wore proved that, each a trophy of victory as the gun he carried
showed his courage against the olcept. And, as Lekhard had pointed out, the man had not been satisfied with a minor
kill. He had gone after bigger game and Dumarest knew what it took to face a ravening beast with nothing but a scrap
of edged and pointed steel.
He heard the knock and had risen and was at the door before it could come again. The passage outside was lit
with a smokey yellow light which gleamed from the gems set in the mane of auburn hair.
"Earl?" Dephine glanced at the naked blade in his hand. "Did you expect an assassin?"
"Get inside." He closed the door after her, thrusting home the thick, wooden latch. "What do you want?"
"To talk. I couldn't sleep and I missed you." Her eyes met his as she tilted back her head. "A light?"
The curtains rasped from their rings as he drew the thick material across the panes. An unnecessary precaution,
perhaps, but it was late and curiosity could be aroused. For a second he fumbled in the gloom then, as light blazed
from the lamp, Dephine came towards him, arms extended.
"Earl!"
He ignored the invitation.
"Galbrene was a surprise," he said, dryly. "One I could have done without. Could there be others?"
"I didn't know, Earl," she said, quickly. "I told you that. It shouldn't have happened and, on any other world, it
wouldn't have mattered. He could have been taken care of without all this ridiculous formality."
"On any other world it wouldn't have been necessary." Dumarest watched as she poured wine. "Theft, lies and
harlotry," he murmured. "How long ago was it, Dephine? Eight years? Ten? Twelve?"
"Why?"
"Galbrene has either a long memory or you made a hell of an impression."
"Both." She met his eyes without smiling and deliberately drank some wine. "Do you want me to pretend that I'm
a pure little innocent who didn't know what she was doing? All right, so I'm guilty of everything he accuses me of, but
so what? Are you any better? A killer? A man who lives by violence? Have you any right to judge?"
"Have I judged?"
"No," she admitted. "You haven't. Not from the very first. You took me for what I was, but treated me as if I were
all the things a man hopes to find in a woman. Not as a cheap whore or a thief or a liar or someone who should have
known better. Not like these fools who look at me and then at you and decide it would pay them to keep a shut
mouth. You, Earl—you're a man!"
"Tell me about Galbrene."
"What is there to tell? He wanted me and, yes, we were betrothed. It was an arrangement and one of the reasons
I wanted to get away. And I stole also, that I admit, but I needed money for passage and other things. And I didn't
know that I'd ever want to come back. I didn't know that until after I'd met you and then, in the ship, with death all
around and you lying so ill, dying I thought—Earl, if I'd known how to pray I'd have done it then! Prayed for you to
live and to love me as I love you. To want to be with me so that we could find happiness together. To build a home,
Earl. A home!"
The dream of every wanderer of space; to find a woman who would look at him with love in her eyes, to have a
place to call his own, to rear children, to put an end to loneliness.
Yet his home was not here. It had to be on Earth—if he could find it.
He watched as she turned away from him and drank the rest of her wine. His own he left untouched and she
looked at it then to where he stood. "Earl?"
"I asked about Galbrene."
"To hell with him! I've told you—"
"Nothing of importance," he said coldly. "I want to know how he thinks, how he feels, the way he gets himself
ready for action. Has he a weakness which could be exploited? What is his strength?"
"I don't know, Earl," she admitted. "It's been too long and, anyway, his tactics might have changed. He's older
now. Anyway, what does it matter? You can beat him. You can take him in any way you want. Just keep him moving
and—"
"He'll fall in my lap?" Dumarest shook his head. "If you think that then you're a fool. No fight is ever certain.
Always there is the unknown factor. No man is invincible no matter what he thinks. Or," he added grimly, "what others
might like to think. He could win, Dephine, remember that."
For a moment she stared at him, wide-eyed, then turned to pour wine, the neck of the decanter rattling against
the rim of her glass.
"Earl, you mustn't die! You mustn't."
He smiled at her intensity.
"I mean it, damn you!" She threw the glass of wine to one side, coming to stand before him, hands resting on his
shoulders. "No matter how you do it, Earl, you must live. Life has so much to offer when this is over. I'll be fully
accepted and we could many and settle on land to the south or close to the field if you'd prefer it. Well have money
enough to live comfortably. Enough to support children, Earl. Children!"
Her voice, her body, held temptation. There was strength in her and fire and a beauty which belonged more to the
wild than to the conglomerations of civilization. A temptation which she enhanced as her arms lifted to wreath his
neck, the full warmth of her body pressing against him with familiar urgency.
"Earl!" she whispered. "Earl, my love! My love!"
A fighter who dallied with women before a bout was a fool. Gently Dumarest pushed her away.
"Goodnight, Dephine."
"Earl? You—"
"Goodnight."

***

Dawn broke with a flood of color, streamers of red and orange, russet and gold, amber and strands of purple
which hung like gaudy banners in the sky. Banners matched by the pennants surrounding the combat-area, the bright
badges worn by the spectators on tunics and sashes.
The stands were packed but there was no jostling, no voices raised in argument and Dumarest knew why. An
armed society is a polite one; when a look or word can bring injury or death then neither are lightly given. And
surrounded by people ready to gun down anyone killing without cause an aggressor was forced to have regard for the
code.
Hendaza said, "You have no doubts as to the procedure, Earl? If there is anything you need to know don't hesitate
to ask. As your official mentor and aide it is my duty to help you in any way I can."
He had done his best, arriving an hour before dawn, fussing as Dumarest had bathed, worried at the little he had
eaten. Now he stood at his side in the opening leading to the arena—a courtyard ringed with rising tiers of stone
which served as seats. In another opening across the empty space Galbrene would be waiting.
Dumarest said, in order to please the man, "Are all challenges fought like this?"
"Not exactly. We stand as you are now but we are armed. Pistols—and the first one down or hit yields the day. We
walk at the signal and fire at will." He rubbed at his chin, perturbed, torn with conflicting loyalties. Dumarest was a
stranger, Galbrene was not, yet he liked Dephine despite what she had done.
"But all serious challenges are to the death?"
"Yes."
"And if the victor should decide to be merciful?"
"I don't know." Hendaza frowned. "I don't think it has ever happened. But if—"
The blast of a trumpet drowned what he was saying. A second note and the ritual began.
Dumarest stepped forward, seeing the shift of shadow in the far opening, the sudden appearance of a man. Like
himself Galbrene was naked aside from abbreviated shorts. His hair was freshly cropped and his beard was little more
than a fuzz the shorn hair offering little chance of a hold. Oil shone on his body so that little gleams of reflection
accentuated the firm musculature beneath the skin. Ropes and ridges of muscle packed with animal-like power. The
body of a man who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of physical perfection.
Dumarest slowed a little, feeling the coolness of sand beneath his feet, the firmness of stone beneath the layer of
grit spread to ensure good traction. Galbrene walked a little wide-legged, the result of the bulging muscle padding the
inside of his thighs. His arms too were lifted away from his body, thick biceps and massive forearms ending in broad,
splayed hands and fingers.
Dumarest could understand Hendaza's shocked incredulity when he had demanded they meet without weapons.
"But, Earl, you can't! It would be madness!" The man had wanted him to fight with pistols—but that would have given
Galbrene the advantage. He had used guns all his life. A knife would have given Dumarest a better chance, but to
demand one weapon was to open the door to an alternative demand. The whole point of the code was that the
opponents should be as equal as possible, the only way to ensure that right would triumph.
And so they were to fight almost naked and hand to hand.
 "Fool!" snapped Galbrene as they came closer. "Why waste your life on such a harlot? Yield now and I will be
merciful."
Dumarest hesitated, appearing to consider the offer, noting the slight bunching of the toes of Galbrene's right
foot, the swing of his left arm.
"If it can be made to look good I'm willing," he said. "I didn't expect anything like this. Dephine—"
He broke off as Galbrene charged, stooping, taking the rasp of a bunched fist over his shoulder, twisting and
feeling the slamming blow of a foot against his side. His own hand grabbed at the ankle, slipped on the oil, rose with a
stiffened edge to hit hard behind the calf. He had tried for the knee but it had been beyond reach. Deliberately he
made the blow weak.
They broke and circled, hands lifted, feet sidling on the sand. Again Galbrene rushed in, hands pummeling, a knee
jerking upwards, his head lowering in a butt to the face. Dumarest moved to one, side, dodged the knee, took a blow
on the upper arm, sent his own clenched fist rising upwards to pulp the tissue of the nose.
"Fast!" Galbrene dashed blood from his lip with a sweep of his hand. "You move like a greased olcept. But how
long can you keep it up?"
Longer than if he wasted breath in talk. Dumarest backed, dodged as the other rushed again, wove from the
reaching hands and struck twice at a bicep. Blows which could have been delivered to the air for all the damage they
seemed to have done.
"Fast but weak!" Galbrene laughed. "And you claim to be a champion? Dephine could have done better. Too bad,
my friend, but now you die!"
A quick end to the combat and a greater enhancing of his own prowess. A mistake, one Dumarest had helped
him to make. Galbrene, confident of his own physical superiority, had forgotten the danger of guile.
Dumarest dropped as hands reached towards him, spinning to one side, his hand grabbing up a mass of sand,
stinging grains which he threw into the other's narrowed eyes. As the cloud of grit wreathed Galbrene's head he rose,
hands poised, the edges like blunted axes as they struck at the point where the neck joins the body. Blows which
would have broken an ordinary man's neck, ruptured arteries and sensitive tissue. Blows which met solid muscle
which did not yield.
Dumarest felt a fist drive into his stomach, another scrape the edge of his jaw. Excited, unthinking, Galbrene
pressed forward, eager to pound, to pulp, to destroy. His massive fists were like hammers which beat and beat as if he
were a smith working at an anvil. Blood from his broken nose ran unheeded over his face to smear his chest and
dapple the sand with carmine stains.
Dumarest ran. He turned and raced over the sand, to halt, to run again as like an engine of destruction Galbrene
pounded after him. A race to gain time, a retreat in order to clear his head of the flashing stars the other's fists had
created. Movement to wear the other down a little, to rob his blood of needed oxygen.
A small gain, but in the arena small gains could spell the difference between victory and defeat.
"Slow down!" yelled Galbrene. "Stand and fight like a man!"
A demand echoed from the stands where men and women leaned forward, shouting, faces avid, eyes reflecting
their hunger. The lust for blood and pain and death, the primeval desire always to be found when the veneer of
civilization was torn away and the true nature of the beast was revealed.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
The shouts were like the beat of a drum, a command to Galbrene, one which spurred him on to gain even greater
fame than he possessed. The weakness of the culture to which he belonged; a society which insisted that a man
always needed to prove himself without end.
"Kill!"
Dumarest halted, turned, ducked as the arms came towards him to rise within their circle, his hands stabbing
upward with stiffened fingers, hitting the soft flesh beneath the chin, the windpipe and larynx. As the arms locked
around his torso he swept his hands up and back, sent them forward to stab at the eyes. The left missed, the fingers
catching the heavy brow to slip upwards to the cropped hair. The right plunged home, turned the eye into a thing of
ruptured tissue and oozing fluids, sent blood to gush over the cheek and shoulder as, too late, Galbrene jerked his
head to one side.
"Kill!"
Hurt, the man was still dangerous, the more so because of his pain. Dumarest felt the arms tighten and struck
again at the neck, the remaining eye. Galbrene, eager to save his sight, leaned back, his arms slackening a little and
Dumarest ducked, rammed the top of his head beneath the other's chin, jerked down his elbows and, resting his
hands on Galbrene's shoulders, lifted his feet and slammed them hard against the point where the thighs joined the
body.
A move which, had it worked, would have torn him from the crushing constriction of the arms.
 One which failed.
Galbrene snarled, moved, and Dumarest felt his feet slip from the oiled skin. He settled them again on the other's
insteps, his own arms circling the thick torso, fingers interlocking, the muscles of back, shoulders, thighs and loins
straining as he fought the pressure which threatened to splinter his ribs and drive the jagged ends into his lungs. The
constriction which, unless stopped, would snap his spine like a rotten twig.
"Kill!" The shouting was another thunder to add to the roar in his ears. "Kill!"
Galbrene was strong, but his head was being bent backwards and his back arched as he yielded to the pressure. A
loss of leverage which alone was saving Dumarest's life. One which the other could regain by throwing himself down,
twisting free his head, using his legs and massive arms to their full advantage.
Dumarest felt him shift, felt a foot slip from where it rested, the other as Galbrene jerked back his legs, sensed the
coming jerk which would free the trapped head. Releasing the grip of his arms he sagged, turned limp as if stricken
land then, as Galbrene shifted his own grip and moved his head, Dumarest lifted up a knee in a savage blow at the
groin.
Had it landed as he intended it would have killed, as it was the knee hit bone as Galbrene twisted, slid up over the
stomach to be trapped as again the enclosing arms exerted their pressure. Dumarest sent the other to join it and rode
for a moment with both legs doubled, knees resting against Galbrene's stomach and then, with an explosive release of
energy, he burst clear and was hurtling backward to land on the sand, to roll, to spring to his feet and dart in again to
the attack.
To pause as Galbrene swayed.
A momentary pause made in order to gauge the situation. The man looked dazed, turning vaguely so as to
present his blind side towards Dumarest. An advantage only a fool would waste.
"In, Earl! In!"
Dephine's voice, high, shrill and close. During the fight they had moved to where she sat on the lower tier, now
leaning forward, both hands extended before her, the fingers pressed together and pointing into the arena. A thing
Dumarest noticed before he reached his opponent and sent his hands to do their work, the stiffened edges crashing
against vital centers, repeated blows delivered with blinding speed which sent the man slumping to the ground.
"Kill!" screamed Dephine. "Kill him, Earl!"
But there was no need. Galbrene was dead.

Chapter Eleven
The chapel was as he remembered, the gloom dispelled only by the tiny flames of the vigil lights illuminating the
broken weapons, small patches of brightness to reveal the sacred things. A custom Dumarest could understand; each
man had his sacred thing, something set apart in a special place or carried like a vision in heart or mind. For some it
was a scrap of cloth, a gem, a faded image, a tender memory. For himself it was an entire world, his home, Earth.
"Earl?" Navalok rose from where he had been kneeling his face taut in the glimmering light. A face tense with
strain and marred by envy. "I saw you fight," he said. "They didn't know I was there but I managed to sneak in and
stay out of sight until the battle had commenced. Twice I thought he had you but both times you recovered to gain
the final victory." He added, wistfully, "I wish I could fight like that."
"A wise man doesn't need to fight at all," said Dumarest.
"You aren't wearing his badges." The luminous eyes examined the plain tunic. "It is your right to wear them, Earl.
They will tell all of your prowess. Didn't they offer you the badges?"
The badges, the gun, some items of personal jewelry which he had taken.
"And the gun," said Navalok. "Why aren't you wearing a gun?"
"I haven't the right."
"But—" The boy paused, frowning. He was troubled at the contradiction; Dumarest had killed an armed adult in
fair fight and by the custom all the man owned in the way of personal gear was his as the spoils of victory. And yet
he, a proven fighter, carried no gun. No visible and accepted proof of his manhood.
"The gun was proof of Galbrene having won his trophy," said Dumarest. "It was his trophy, not mine. Until I gain
my own I have no right to carry a gun. Isn't that the case, Navalok?"
An appeal to his knowledge. An adult talking to him as if he were an equal. A red tide of pleasure rose to suffuse
the pale cheeks.
"Technically you are correct, Earl. A small point, perhaps, but one of importance. To defy the custom would be to
invite challenges and there could be many who would be eager to prove themselves." He spoke like an old man who
has spent too many years breathing the dust of books. "In any event gaming a trophy would be, for you, a mere
formality."
Again the envy, the wistful longing, emotions too long repressed and triggered into stinging wakefulness by his
sight of the recent combat.
Dumarest said, "How would I go about it?"
"Go into the hills, find an olcept, kill it and return with its head to place before the Shrine." Navalok added, "No
guns, of course, only hand-weapons such as a sword, a spear or," he glanced at Dumarest's boot, "a knife."
"Do I need witnesses?"
"Usually a youngster is accompanied by an adult when he sets out to make his kill, but there is no law insisting on
it. Just return with a trophy—that will be enough."
A small thing, quickly said and casually mentioned, but Dumarest could sense the fear in the artificially stilted
voice, the sick longing which must make the boy's life a hell. To venture out, to kill, to return in triumph.
The dream of one branded as a coward.
Dumarest turned, avoiding the luminous eyes, looking around the chapel. Nothing seemed to have changed but
something was missing. Something he had expected to find.
Navalok said, when he mentioned it, "Galbrene isn't here, Earl. He has been taken to the preparation rooms of the
Hall of Dreams."
"Is that normal?"
"He died in combat. Before he is laid out for those who wish to pay their homage he must be presented as they
remember him. Later he will be taken and set in his place there to sit and dream for eternity."
Dumarest said, "You know these things. Is that how yon spend your time? In studying the traditions and customs
of your Family?"
Navalok said, dully, "My father died in the crash which left me with a twisted foot. My grandfather fell to a death-
challenge. My mother formed a new alliance and has a younger son. By custom and tradition I should take my place
at the Highest Table and don the authority of the House. It is necessary for the one who rules to know the history of
the Family and be able to pass judgment on the right of any challenge and any appeal. To be weak is to risk
dissension and destructive partisanship. It has happened before when brother fought brother and no man could be
sure of who was a friend. So I study in order to be able to pass the tests of fitness and knowledge. Fitness as to
determine judgment, of course, the other—"
Dumarest saw the eyes move to the broken weapons, the lights, the thing they represented. Strength and courage
and the visible proof of manhood. He remembered Hendaza's sneer. The boy must gain his trophy soon or be
relegated to the lower strata there to be scorned and treated with disdain never to take his high position.
A problem, but not his.
"The preparation rooms," he said. "Where Galbrene is lying. Could I see him?"
An unusual request, he could tell it from the sudden shift of the eyes, the abrupt look of wonder. A man defeated
was, by his victor, a man forgotten.
"Yes, Earl, if you want."
"I do. Is it far?"

***

It was where he should have known it would be, set close to the House, forming an integral part of the structure
and now overlaid by a maze of rooms and chambers. The great doors were clear and it was obvious the walls had
been extended and would be again in order to accommodate what rested within.
Dumarest followed Navalok as the boy guided him to a room which stank of chemicals. A dimly lit place
containing stone slabs set on a stone floor, runnels channeling the flags and leading to a drain. A second chamber
held a great vat of noxious liquid in which naked bodies like flensed beasts floated beneath the surface, held down by
broad straps weighted with lead.
An old man, armed with a long wooden paddle, stirred the liquid and held up a hand to cup an ear as the boy
shouted at him.
"Who? Galbrene? He isn't ready yet."
"I know. Where is he?"
"Waiting presentation. In the annex." The man thrust his paddle irritably into the liquid. "Hasn't a man enough to
do without young fools asking stupid questions? Get on your way, now. Move before I splash you!"
Galbrene lay in a smaller room, one scented with floral perfumes and lit by the gentle glow of yellow lamps. He
rested supine on a wooden table, a decorated cloth covering his body, his hands crossed over his chest. In the soft
lighting he seemed to be asleep.
 "Earl?"
"Leave me," said Dumarest.
"But—"
"There is something I must do." And then, with quick invention, "A homage I must make to ease myself of the
burden of his anger. It is a custom of my people."
And explanation enough to anyone born into a culture obsessed by tradition and ritual.
As Navalok padded from the room Dumarest leaned forward and studied the body. The damage to the eye had
been masked and the nose set straight. The blood, sweat and oil had been washed away and, aside from a slight
puffiness of the lips and the dark mottle of bruises on the throat the man looked unharmed.
A jerk and the covering fell away to leave the dead man naked.
Slowly Dumarest inspected him, turning over the body and lifting the arms. He found it beneath the left shoulder-
blade, a small, dark-edged puncture, one which could have been made with a heavy bodkin. He leaned close and
sniffed at it, pressed the surrounding flesh with his thumbs and sniffed again. A wound too small to have attracted
attention and those who had washed and prepared him had no reason to search for anything unusual. Even if they
had spotted it it would have meant nothing to them.
Navalok was waiting in the room containing the stone couches. One was occupied now by the body of a young
woman, the soft flesh marred by wounds in the stomach and chest.
"The Lady Sepranene," explained Navalok. "They've just brought her in. She challenged the Lady Glabana and
wouldn't listen to good advice. She insisted it should be without armor and she had the right."
"To die?"
"To insist. Glabana, so she claimed, was making advances to her lover. The act wasn't denied and after she had
publicly accused the woman a challenge was inevitable."
Dumarest said, dryly, "Of course."
Navalok caught the tone and was quick to defend the dead girl.
"She had no choice, Earl. Glabana slapped her face in public. She could have drawn and fired then and the act
would have been justified but she adhered to the code."
And died defending a brittle honor. Dumarest looked at the young face wreathed in twisted curls, the lissome
lines of the lush figure and his lips thinned at the waste.
Watching him Navalok said, "You don't approve, do you? Is that why you're not wearing Galbrene's badges?"
"There would be no point."
"But—"
"What will happen to her now? The dead girl, I mean."
"She will be cleansed and prepared as Galbrene was prepared. After she has lain in the chapel she will be treated
before taking her place in the Hall of Dreams." He glanced to where the old man stirred the fluid in the open vat. "It
will take several days."
Time enough for the chemicals to penetrate the tissue, to harden soft fibers and dissolve points of potential
corruption. To seal the flesh in a film of plastic, perhaps, or to petrify it, to protect the body against the ravages of
time.
To produce monuments to the dead.
They rested in the great hall of the adjoining chamber, massed ranks of them, men and women placed to either
side of a central aisle. They faced the external doors, now closed, empty space stretching before them, the plain
stone floor fitted with benches to take the anticipated burdens. The bodies of those who would, inevitably, die.
"The Hall of Dreams," whispered Navalok. "Each of them gained his or her trophy which is why there are no
children. All died honorably, some of age, most of wounds, but none ever disgraced the Family. Here they sit and
dream for eternity."
Lifelike figures who sat and stared with open eyes, the flicker of lights dancing and giving them the appearance of
life. Eyes which seemed to follow Dumarest and his guide as he stepped forward between the benches to stand in the
central aisle. Curiously he studied the figures to either side.
A man, one elbow resting on his knee, his hands gnarled, the fingers curled, the gleam of a ring bright against the
withered flesh.
"A victor," whispered Navalok. "One who later died of his wounds."
Another who leaned back, head a little turned as if listening to a voice from behind. A third who looked as if he
might be coughing. A fourth who, with lifted hand, tugged at an ear.
And the women were similar in their staged actions; one smoothing her gown, another picking at a thread, a third
who, with pursed lips, gave the appearance of blowing a kiss.
Hundreds of them, thousands, the vastness of the hall was packed with mummified figures.
 Dust rose beneath Dumarest's boots as he walked towards the shadowed rear of the hall. The stone of the walls
changed its nature, became striated with minerals, grained and mottled with time. The air too held an acrid scent, one
of dust and stagnation. Reaching out he touched a figure, caught it as it fell. It was surprisingly light. The clothing it
wore crumpled to powder beneath his hand.
"Earl! Be careful!"
Dumarest ignored the admonitory whisper from his companion. He looked from the back of the hall to the figures
seated lower down towards the doors. Their clothing had altered little, a static culture froze fashion as it did
everything eke, but some differences were obvious.
As it was obvious that those who had been placed in the far end of the chamber were old. Old with the crawl of
centuries, of millennia.
Navalok gestured to where a small group occupied a raised platform. "The Elders of the First," he whispered.
"They are of those who first came to Emijar."
It was natural to whisper, the ranks of silent bodies seemed to be listening, and the atmosphere of the place held
a brooding solemnity. Dumarest strode to the platform, stepped onto it, leaned forward with narrowed eyes to study
the figures it contained.
The light was bad, dim from suspended globes and dulled with accumulated dust, but it was enough for him to
distinguish the motive each wore on their garments; a disc surrounded by tapering spikes.
"What is this?"
Navalok craned his head and followed the finger pointing at the yellow fabric.
"I don't know, Earl. It had something to do with their religion, I think. That device was worn by the Guardians of
the Sun."
The sun?
The sun!
Had they known only one?
Dumarest looked at the silent figures, the contours of their faces, the shape of their heads. Compared with
Navalok the differences were slight but unmistakable. If priests they may not have married and their genes would
have been lost to the common pool. A select group, then, guarding an esoteric secret?
He said, "In your studies, Navalok, did you learn from where the original settlers came?"
"From another planet, Earl. Where else?"
"Its name?"
"I don't know. The records were lost in a fire shortly after the First Families made Emijar their home. In fact
nothing is left of them aside from the things in the Shrine and those—"
He broke off as if conscious of having said too much, a fact Dumarest noticed but ignored. Later, if at all, would
be the time to press.
"The Shrine, boy," he said. "Take me to the Shrine."
The journey was not long but each step had been taken before many times in other places and, always, such
journeys had led to disappointment. A quest which seemed to have no end. A mystery which had yet to be solved. A
world lost as if it had never been and yet he knew that it existed and was to be found. Would be found given time and
the essential clue. The one fact which would supply the coordinates and guide him back home.
Would fate, this time, be kind?
"Earl?" Navalok was worried at his silence, his expression. "Have I offended you?"
"No."
"If I have it was without intent. No insult was implied in anything I may have done or said. If for any reason you
have cause to feel offense then I apologies, humbly and without reservation. Please, Earl. You must believe that."
"I believe it." Dumarest turned to look at the anxious face and smiled. "How could you insult me? We're friends,
aren't we?"
"Friends?" Navalok blinked.
"Of course." Dumarest dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Didn't you want for us to be friends?"
"Yes," Navalok stammered. "Oh, yes, Earl. I—I'd like that very much."
A smile and a few words, cheap to give but what seed could bear a richer harvest? Those who took a perverse
pleasure in deriding the unfortunate lost more than they knew and risked more than they imagined. No human being,
no matter how insignificant, can safely be demeaned. Always there is present the danger of restraints snapping, of
self-control giving way beneath the impact of one insult too many. Of pride and the need to be an individual bursting
out in a tide of relentless fury.
A thing Dumarest had learned early in life but which Lekhard had not.
He straightened from where he leaned against a wall his voice, like his face, holding a sneer.
 "Well, Earl, as I guessed, you find our little freak entertaining. There is, of course, no accounting for tastes, but
surely there are others more suited to your whims?" His gesture made his meaning plain. His laughter, devoid of
humor, made it obscene.
Dumarest felt the boy tense at his side, the sound of his sharp inhalation, and cursed the unfortunate meeting. To
maintain the newly formed friendship he would have to act in a manner which the boy expected which, in this society,
meant only one thing.
He said, curtly, "What do you want, Lekhard?"
"I? Nothing, not from you or from any man." Lekhard stressed the gender. "But Dephine was anxious and asked
me to look for you. It would be best if you hurried back to your mistress."
Another insult to add to the rest. Dumarest studied the man, saw the way he stood, the way in which his hand
rested near the butt of his gun, the expression in his eyes. One he had seen before across countless rings. The look of
a man enamored with the desire to kill.
Quietly he said, "Navalok, instruct me. How do I challenge this man?"
"Earl! You carry no gun!"
"Answer my question."
"He has." Lekhard moved from where he stood and halted a few feet from the couple. "Until you have proved
yourself you have no right to issue a challenge. The killing of Galbrene makes no difference. It was the act of an
animal and I've no intention of following his example and meeting you or any man with bare hands. If you want to
challenge me then earn the right to carry a gun. Until then remember your place."
"And that is?"
"In the dirt, scum! In the filth where you belong!"
Dumarest snarled, "I am armed. My knife against your gun. Give the word, boy."
"No, Earl! You—"
"Give it!"
He moved as the youth shouted, wasting no time on snatching the knife from his boot, darting forward and to one
side as Lekhard clawed at his gun, closing the distance between them before the weapon lifted free of its holster. His
left hand clamped on the wrist, twisting as his right sent fingers to close on the other's throat.
As the gun fell from the nerveless fingers to clatter on the stone of the floor Lekhard sagged, his face mottling,
only the hand at his neck preventing him from crumpling to the stone.
Dumarest held him, counting seconds, then threw him to land sprawling against the wall.
"You—" Lekhard rose, coughing, rubbing at his throat. "I'll kill you! My gun—"
"I'll take care of it." Dumarest picked it up and held it casually in his hand. "You can collect it later from the Lady
Dephine. I'll tell her you loaned it to me for examination." He added, bleakly, "Or you can tell her the truth as to how I
obtained it. Her and everyone else of the Family. The choice is yours."
A choice which was none at all—Lekhard would not want to be shamed by the truth. As he left the chamber
Dumarest turned to Navalok and threw him the weapon.
"Here. Take it. Does it make you feel more of a man?"
A mistake which he recognized as the boy caught the pistol. For him to own a gun was to be a man, but it had to
come in a certain way, one hallowed by tradition.
"I can't take it, Earl. It isn't mine." Reluctantly he handed back the weapon. "But, Earl, the way you faced him! To
best him with your bare hands."
A performance which had mainly been for the boy's benefit.
Dumarest said, curtly, "Let's get to the Shrine."

Chapter Twelve
A century earlier and there would have been armed men standing in honor, a guard carefully chosen and each
man jealous of the privilege. A generation ago and older men would have tended the sacred place, sitting and
dreaming of past glories, of the strength and vitality of their youth. Now there was only a crippled boy to tend the
lights and to sweep the dust and venerate the past.
He said, "Earl, this is where the trophies are thrown when the hunters return after having made their kills."
Dumarest looked down at the floor, the place at which he pointed. It lay before the opening of the Shrine, the
stone slightly concave with repeated washings. In imagination he tried to visualize the severed heads and the crowd
who had watched the ancient heroes. Now there would be no crowd, only an official of some kind to record the
achievement. Alorcene, perhaps, or an assistant. And even he would probably have to be summoned.
 "Word is sent from the Watcher," explained Navalok when he mentioned it. "Always there are men stationed in
the highest tower. They see the immediate surroundings and, of course, word would also be sent from the raft-
enclosure."
"And?"
"Men will come to witness the trophy. The notation is made in the records and, later at dinner, the gun is given in
ceremony."
A standard weapon each identical aside from personal adornment to the one he had taken from Lekhard.
Dumarest examined it, a primitive thing with a revolving chamber holding five cartridges. The caliber was large, the
charge, he guessed, small. The bullet would have high impact-shock but low penetration—to be expected in a
weapon intended for use in a crowd.
"Earl, would—" Navalok broke off as Dumarest met his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing." The boy gestured towards the opening. "You wanted to inspect the Shrine."
Not the Shrine but the items it held. Dumarest strode to the slab of polished stone and looked at them. Rubbish
for the most part, bits and pieces, some seeming to belong to other, larger artifacts, all showing signs of the ravages
of time. Of use and time, the leaves of the plastic file were scuffed a little as well as faded and the metal of the
chronometer held a dull patina which covered a worn inscription.
Dumarest rubbed at it with his thumb and held it closer to the light. Narrowing his eyes he read…OTA.F TE..A.
The few discernible letters were followed by a disc surrounded with tapering spines—the symbolic image of a sun.
Dumarest lowered the instrument. The words could spell out the name of the ship and place of origin, the
symbol would be a general identification device such as even now was used on the multiple commercial space lines.
The Songkia-Kwei used the symbol of an open flower—the lotus. The Aihun Line a twisted helix.
Something, a name of—where?
He examined the instrument again, tilting it so as to throw the letters into prominence.
TE A
TELLA—No, TERRA?
TERRA!
An alternative name for Earth.
Navalok had been watching. He said, anxiously, "Earl, is anything wrong?"
"No." Dumarest took a deep breath and set down the chronometer. He could be reading too much into too little.
The almost obliterated words could have meant something entirely different and, even assuming the last would have
been the planet of origin, it need not have been Terra. And yet the chance existed and could not be ignored. "Do you
have any more items like these?"
"Not here, Earl. There are Shrines in other Houses as I told you, but they are much the same."
And impossible to visit or examine. Dumarest knew of the jealous pride each Family maintained, the almost
fanatical isolation they kept from each other. With time and money, perhaps, it could be done, but he had neither. And
it might not be necessary. He remembered the boy's previous hesitation, his obvious reluctance to reveal information.
A secret he could be hiding and one Dumarest had to know.
"A pity," he said, casually. "I'm interested in old things. It would be nice to find more of them somewhere. Are you
interested in the past?"
Navalok blinked at the suddenness of the question.
"I—yes, Earl. I am."
"The old days," mused Dumarest. "When men landed to settle new worlds. Think of the challenges they had to
face. The dangers they had to overcome. Each item of their equipment is a thing of veneration. Every scrap could tell
us something new. If you knew where there were more of these things you could become an authority, Navalok. Your
fame would spread and learned men come to consult you on their problems."
The wrong approach, the boy was not interested in academic distinction. Dumarest recognized it and said, "The
House would be proud of you and you would earn the respect of the entire Family. Women would beg you to father
their sons as they did the heroes of old." A shrewd guess but, Dumarest felt, a right one. He ended with a shrug. "Well,
it would be nice, but unless such things can be found it must remain only a dream."
To press more would be to press too much, to arouse an antagonism or to wither their new-found friendship. For
too long the boy had been rejected, used with cynical contempt, ignored. He had built up a layer of defense and, to
threaten it, would be to turn trust into suspicion.
And the information, if he had it, would be a closely held secret.
Dumarest strolled from the opening, his face bland, a man who had seen all there was to see of any interest. As if
by accident the gun fell from his pocket to clatter on the floor. He picked it up, turning it, bouncing it on his palm,
conscious of the boy watching, the hunger in his eyes.
As he put the weapon out of sight Navalok blurted, "Earl, there is such a place. I know where more of these
things are to be found."
Dumarest was deliberately obtuse. "A museum?"
"No. It's in the hills. I found it one day when my father took me out in a raft. I think he was looking for game. We
landed and later I went exploring on the slope. I found a cave. The light was bad but I saw things like those." He
gestured towards the objects littering the polished slab of the Shrine.
"And?"
"My father said it was an important discovery. He was going to report it but on the way back something went
wrong. The raft crashed and he was killed and I—" He looked at his twisted foot. "I didn't say anything."
A child, hurt, bewildered, keeping the discovery to himself for reasons he couldn't have consciously known.
And now?
"I'll guide you if you promise to help me, Earl," he said in a rush. "If you'll teach me how to kill an olcept. If you'll
help me to gain my trophy."

***

Dephine said, her voice edged with anger, "Earl, you're mad! Insane! The thing is ridiculous!"
He said nothing, watching as she paced the room with long strides, her hair a tumbled mane, her skin glistening
with a moist warmth. She had just bathed and, as she walked, each step revealed the long, flowing line of her thighs
through the slits in her robe.
"You can't do it, Earl!" She halted before him and he could smell the perfume she wore, the slightly sweet odor of
decaying blooms. "You can't!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's dangerous, you fool, that's why. Men get killed hunting an olcept, women too, my own sister—well,
never mind. But I don't want you hurt or killed, Earl. You mean too much to me for that."
He said, dryly, "Is that why you killed Galbrene?"
"Killed Galbrene?" She frowned. "I didn't kill him, Earl. He fell beneath your hands. Everyone saw it."
"They saw him fall," he corrected. "But I didn't kill him and we both know it. He was dazed when I made the final
attack, dying where he stood. Didn't you think I could manage him?"
"Earl, you're wrong. I didn't touch him."
"Why bother to lie?"
"I'm not, Earl. I swear it!"
For a moment he held her eyes then his hands reached out, caught her own, lifted them so the gleaming nails
pointed towards the ceiling. Beneath the curve of sharp metal on her right index finger he could see the tiny hole of a
surgical implant; a narrow tube which had been buried in the flesh. The finger of her left hand held another. It spat a
minute cloud of vapor as he squeezed the first joint, the nodule he discovered beneath the skin. On the ceiling a tiny
dart hummed to vanish into the plaster.
An effective range of about ten feet, he decided, more if the target were unclothed. The dart would bury itself
within the tissue by ultra-sonic vibration and be coated with a blood-soluble poison.
"An assassin's weapon," he said. "It goes well with the nails."
"One never used before, Earl. You can believe that."
"What difference if it has?"
"None." She rubbed at her hands then stared her defiance. "And what business of yours is it if I did? What I've
done before we met is no concern of yours. As what you've done is no concern of mine. For me, Earl, life began
when I met you. Real life, I mean, not the shallow searching for adventure that had gone before. I love you, Earl.
Don't you understand that? I love you!"
"And you killed Galbrene to prove it?"
"I killed to save you and would do it again if I had to." Turning she swept across the room, knocking against a
small table in her agitation, sending a delicate vase to shatter on the floor. "Galbrene had you. I thought he would
break your back. The man was like an animal in his strength. Can you honestly say that you could have beaten him on
level terms?" She didn't wait for an answer. "It was a chance I daren't take. You had moved close, were within range,
all that remained was to make sure I hit the right one. Your attack covered his fall."
And protected her position. If nothing else Dumarest could appreciate the desire to survive which consumed her.
She shrugged as, dryly, he mentioned it.
"So I was thinking of myself a little too, Earl. Can I be blamed for that? You know what would have happened to
me had you fallen. But you didn't fall and everything is fine now. So why are we arguing?" Her smile held invitation.
"Surely there is something more entertaining we could do?"
The nails, the secret weapons, the smile, the turn of her hips and the sidelong glance, the allure she knew so well
how to project. All the hallmarks of the accomplished courtesan and yet, as she had reminded him, what had her past
to do with the present?
And, as she had also pointed out, who was he to judge? "Earl!"
She was close to him, the robe open now, the parting revealing the long, lissome lines of her body, the contours
of which he knew so well. Why not just accept her as she was, to ride the tide of seductive passion to whatever shore
might be waiting? "Earl?"
He smiled at her frown and gently reached up to touch the crease between her eyes, smoothing it away with the
tips of his fingers.
"Are you going to help me get a raft, Dephine?"
"No! Ask Hendaza."
"I have. He referred me to Kanjuk who, quite politely, referred me to you." Dumarest kept his voice casual. "A
matter of traditional privilege, I understand. When I return with a trophy things will be different."
"Earl! No!"
"A small one." His smile widened a little. "The size won't matter. But once I have it I won't have to beg for favors.
And," he added, "I won't have to risk being shot for insulting a superior."
"Lekhard?" She glanced to where the man's gun lay on a table. "He never gave you that to simply look at, Earl.
There's been trouble between you, hasn't there?" She frowned again as he remained silent. "I don't trust that man.
He's dangerous."
"Jealous would be a better word. Is he in love with you?"
"Love?" Her shrug was expressive. "Call it greed, the desire to possess, to own. He wants to prove himself a
better man than you are by taking something you own. A fool, but others share his folly. Too many of them are eager
to best you in the arena and in bed." She looked thoughtfully at the gun. "Maybe if you carried one of those they
would think twice. You're right, Earl, you need a trophy. But you don't have to get it the hard way."
"No," he said. "That's why I need to go into town."
"To buy a gun?" She smiled with quick understanding. "Get it from the trading store run by the Hausi. It's close to
the field." Slipping a ring from her finger she handed it to him. "This should fetch enough to buy what you need. I'll
authorize the raft, but what of the driver?"
"I can handle it."
"But you'll have to take someone with you."
"I will," he said. "Navalok."

***

The town was small, a collection of low buildings, a tavern, a hotel for those held on business, the usual
warehouses holding goods waiting shipment. The trading store was a large building containing an open room backed
by a counter. Leaving the boy in charge of the raft Dumarest went inside.
"Welcome." Telk Yamamaten came forward from an inner room, his eyes shrewd beneath heavy brows. His skin, a
dark chocolate, was scarred with the markings of his Guild. "How may I help you?"
Dumarest placed the jewelry he had won on the counter.
"You wish to sell?" The Hausi grunted as he stirred the heap with the tip of a finger. "This is cheap stuff. Flawed
gems and coated base-metal. From Galbrene?"
"You know?"
"There isn't much happens on this world that I don't get to hear about, Earl. I may call you that?" He continued as
Dumarest nodded. "I knew your name an hour after you'd landed. The fight before the body was cold. Why didn't you
take the gun and badges?"
"Would they have been worth anything?"
"The badges, no, but the gun would have brought a little. But you were wise to refuse it. A thing like that can have
a big effect on the way they regard you." He added, dryly, "Am I telling you something you hadn't thought of
yourself ?"
"I'm always willing to learn."
"Now you're being polite. That helps too when it comes to dealing with the Families. They're on the way out, you
know. Dying."
"Decadent?"
 "Decadent and dying." The agent held up a hand, the fingers splayed. "A Family," he explained. "The Keturah, for
example. The name covers the entire genus, the fingers are branches, the Allivarre, the Caldillo, the Pulcher and so
on; but all stem from the same root. They won't marry outside their Houses and so they're all inbred to a high degree.
The others Families are the same. The only way they can survive is to break the pattern, marry outside their Houses
and revitalize the gene pool. It won't happen, of course. Tradition is against it."
Dumarest said, "How much for the jewelry?" It lay between them, a few rings, a bracelet, a torus of interwoven
strands studded with minute gems, a brooch. He added the ring Dephine had given him.
Yamamaten examined it, dropped it on the heap of other items.
"Five fifty rendhals," he said. "That's a little more than the cost of a short High passage."
"Cash?"
"Yes—I can do a little better for trade."
"I want the passage," said Dumarest. "I'll take the rest in kind. On hire if that's possible. You've a ship due soon?"
"The Ahdil if it's on schedule. Captain Ying is a friend of mine and I'll arrange a passage. You object to working if
necessary? No? Well, maybe I can work something out. Leave it to me." A casual arrangement but a Hausi did not lie
and the word of the agent was his bond. "Now, about the other things?" He stared his surprise as Dumarest told him
what he wanted. "You going on an expedition or something?"
"I want to explore a cave."
"And camp out?"
"For a few days, yes."
"It's your business, but be careful. The olcept move around quite a bit in the hills and they could be attracted to
where you are. I'd advise a heavy-duty laser, expensive, but worth it. No? A gun then, at least. Why beg for trouble?"
"Let me see the gun." It was similar to the one Lekhard had worn. Dumarest spun the chamber and snapped the
trigger a few times. Yamamaten shrugged at his expression.
"It's standard to the Families and there's no point in stocking anything else. A holster? Ammunition?" He pursed
his lips at the amount. "That's enough to start a war."
"No, just enough to teach someone how to shoot."
"The Lady Dephine? She doesn't need to be taught. She might be out of practice but, at one time, she could hit a
mark with the best of them."
"You knew her?"
"She left shortly after I came to Emijar. That was years ago and I never thought she'd return. Once they get away
they stay away—those with the courage to make the break. But she was unusual, full of fire and ready to challenge at
the drop of a word. Fast too, so I've heard, and a little vicious. She'd aim to maim rather than to kill."
"Perhaps she was giving the fallen a chance?"
"Maybe, but they didn't look at it like that. Anyway, she's back now so what does it matter? A local girl who made
good." The agent smiled and added, dryly, "But you'd know about that."
Dumarest said, "Has she been inquiring about ship-arrivals?"
"No. Is there anything else?"
"One thing—how do I kill an olcept?"
"Kill an olcept?" The agent narrowed his eyes, suspecting a joke and ready to be annoyed at the affront to his
dignity. Then he said, slowly, "You mean it. Hell, man, you just take a gun and shoot it."
"And without a gun?"
"Of course! You want a trophy! Sorry, Earl, I didn't catch on. Well, the best thing to use is a spear. One with a long
blade and checks at its root. You ever seen an olcept? No? Know what they look like? Good. Well, the gripping
appendages aren't too serious, they use them to grip at food. In fact—here, let me show you."
He led the way to the back of the store, through a door and into a walled courtyard. Doors lined it behind which
rested goods for barter, shipment and trade. In the open compound rested a creature about a foot long.
"That's a young one hatched just a week ago. It'll do nothing but eat and it'll grow while you watch it. In about a
month it'll be a yard long and then I'll cut its rations."
Dumarest squatted better to study the olcept. Even though small it looked vicious. The snout turned towards him,
deep-set eyes burning, the tail lashing and sending dirt leaping from the ground.
"They eat all the time," said Yamamaten. "And they never stop growing. The rate is constant but, of course, the
larger they get the slower they grow. A matter of mass-intake and metabolic conversion, but you aren't interested in
the biological data."
"Why do you keep it?"
"As a watch-dog. If anything comes over that wall it won't get away alive. They can be trained given patience and
will follow a few simple orders. Just like a dog, in fact. When it gets too big I'll have it shipped to a zoo or set it free in
the hills." The agent picked a long, thin wooden rod from a bundle which stood beside the door. "Now remember this.
The brain is here." He tapped the creature on the reverse of the sloping skull. "It's small and well protected by thick
bone. It can't easily be reached from above but if you can get the thing to rear you'll be able to reach it from beneath.
Strike up and towards the tail from just behind the hinge of the lower jaw. For a big one you'll need a blade at least
two feet long, plenty of thrust and a liking for having the flesh stripped from your bones by the front claws."
"The heart?"
"In the center just behind the front legs." Again the tip of the rod marked the point. "If you want to hit the spine
aim here." The agent moved the rod. "The bone is thin and flexible. You can reach the gut from either side just before
the back legs. Be careful of the stomach-plates, though, and watch the tail." He grunted as the creature snapped off
the end of the rod with a flash of gleaming white teeth. "I don't have to warn you about the jaws."
"Any peculiarities?"
"You've hunted," said Yamamaten. "Not many would think to ask that. Well, they don't like to face the sun so it
helps to keep it at your back. They can smell better than they can see so keep to windward. And they can hear better
than any other animal I know. Move and they'll hear you, spot your position and move in before you know it. And
don't try to run. They can catch a running man before he's covered a score of yards." Smiling he added, with grim
humor, "Aside from that they're easy enough to kill."

Chapter Thirteen
From where he hung over the side of the raft Navalok shouted, "There, Earl! There—to the right and down!"
From his seat at the controls Dumarest saw a scarred slope dotted with scrub, a patch of shadow and something
which could have been the opening of a cave. Cutting the power to the antigrav units he allowed the vehicle to fall
and come to rest on the slope below the opening.
"Navalok! Wait!"
The boy ignored the command, springing from the raft to run up the slope towards the opening. Dumarest
followed more slowly, eyes searching the terrain, noting each rock and clump of scrub. Predators were rare this high
in the hills, but there could be stragglers and even a small olcept was to be treated with respect. Above the sun beat
down from the zenith and the sky, a clear azure, stretched cloudless to the horizon. A fine day—the second they had
been searching.
"Earl!" Dumarest heard the cry of triumph then the bleak admission of failure which followed. "No. No it isn't the
one. It's just a shallow cave like all the others. Earl, I'm sorry."
Dumarest led the way back to the raft, lifted it as the boy climbed in. He set the controls so as to hover twenty
feet above the ground.
"Navalok, listen to me. When you left the House with your father you headed north. Right?"
"Yes, Earl, as I told you. We traveled from an hour after dawn until noon when we set down and made camp. We
ate and I went wandering over the slopes. It must have been say, two hours after landing, maybe a little more."
"And?"
That's it, Earl. I found the place and called my father and we examined it and he said we should return to the
House without delay. We climbed into the raft and he set the course and—" His voice broke, but he forced himself to
continue. "And then we crashed."
"When was that? Late in the afternoon?"
"Yes. It was dusk before they found us. My father was dead and I was hurt. For a long time I didn't know what had
happened, just that I kept having dreams of falling. When I was strong enough they told me father was dead." He
added, bleakly, "And that I would be a cripple for the rest of my life."
A lie, a simple operation could cure the boy's injured foot, and Dumarest wondered at the stern morality which
had prevented it from having been done. The pride of bearing visible wounds, perhaps, or the result of some harsh
tradition born in the past. A matter which faded into insignificance beside one of greater importance.
Where was the cave?
The boy had been certain he knew exactly where it was to be found. He's been wrong and had since compounded
the error. Now he was searching with a wild, desperate abandon, trusting more to luck than anything else. A fact he
must know and Dumarest had waited for him to realize it.
"Let's start from the beginning," he said. "When you headed north at what point did you aim? Your father must
have had some guide. A peak, perhaps, or a pass, try to remember." And then, as the boy began to speak he snapped,
harshly, "Think, boy! Think! Close your eyes, remember. You are with your father again, just setting out. It is a clear
day and the raft is moving towards a certain point. You know what it is. Tell me!"
 "The Prime of the Triades, Earl." Navalok opened his eyes. "It's the highest of three peaks and lies a little to the
east of true north. But we've checked it."
One peak of several, the boy impatient, claiming to have recognized familiar signs, guiding the raft well to the
east of the Prime. Dumarest lifted the vehicle higher and sent it towards the specified point. Before he reached it he
sent the raft towards the House, turned, headed towards the peak as if they had come directly from the ancient
building.
"There!" Excitement made the boy's voice shrill. "Earl! There!"
"No."
"It is, Earl. It is."
The spot at which he pointed was too steep for anyone to make camp and, despite the shadow of an opening,
Dumarest moved away from it. A jutting promontory lay a little to one side and lower down, scrub thick at the edges
and a natural spot for a raft to make a landing. From a height of a dozen feet Dumarest examined the stony dirt, saw
the traces of a long dead fire.
"Do others come here?"
"Yes, Earl. It's a favorite place. Often fathers bring out their children for private tuition."
Long hours spent in learning how to handle a gun. A good place for teaching and one Navalok's father would
have known. Dumarest landed, checked the area, and leaving the raft moved towards the uprising slope of the hill.
"Left or right, Navalok? Can you remember?" Then as the boy hesitated, he said, "It was past noon. Which way
was your shadow? Behind you, before you, to one side?"
"Behind me," said the boy after a moment's thought. "I walked towards the sun. This way, I think." His hand lifted,
pointed. "Yes, Earl. This way."
A small boy wandering at random over rock-strewn slopes, his face towards the sun. The light and the bad footing
would have kept his head lowered and so narrowed the field of his vision. His father, watching, would have suspected
no danger so the path must have been one of relative safety. A section of the hill clear of scrub, then, and one of easy
access. And it was in the nature of an agile young boy to climb.
As it was the tendency of a child to exaggerate the size of an opening.
Navalok had been looking for an open cave—what he had found was a narrow vent half-hidden by fallen debris
and masked by a mass of scrub.
Looking at it again he said, dubiously, "I'm not sure, Earl. The place I found was larger and more open."
The reason he had missed it before, but Dumarest was no longer trusting the boy's memory. Time would have
wrought changes, rock could have fallen and the passage of years would have thickened masking vegetation.
"We'll check it out," he decided. "Navalok, get back to—" He broke off, looking into the sky, seeing the tiny shape
sweeping towards them, the outline of an approaching raft.
Dephine had ridden alone. As she settled the vehicle down beside the one Dumarest had used she said, dryly,
"Well, Earl, this is something new. I'd never have taken you for a teacher."
Beside him Navalok lifted the pistol, aimed and fired, the echoes of the report rolling from the slopes to die like
muted thunder.
"Another miss!" He lowered the gun, his voice echoing his disappointment. "I can't understand it. Back in the
House at the range I did better than this. Now I can't seem to hit a thing."
"That's because you're trying too hard," said Dumarest, patiently. "Think of only one thing at a time and make
sure you do that thing well. As it is you're trying to draw, aim and fire all in a split second. Forget the speed of the
draw. Forget trying to get off a lot of shots quickly. Now reload and try again." Turning to Dephine as she stepped
towards him, he said, "Out for a ride?"
"Out looking for you, Earl. How long are you going to stay away from my side?"
"Well be back tomorrow."
"Why not tonight?" The scent of her perfume filled his nostrils as she rested her hand on his arm. "Why waste
time with the boy when you could be with me?"
"Tomorrow." Dumarest frowned as the gun roared and again the boy missed. "I've promised to help him and I
keep my word."
"To a cripple?" She recognized her mistake and quickly altered her tone. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have said that.
The poor fool can't help what he is but the traditions of the House are strong. Only the fit deserve to survive and to
breed. A woman's instinct, Earl. Beneath the skin we are all alike. We all want the best father we can get for our
children. The strongest man we can find to provide."
"There's nothing wrong with Navalok."
"His foot—"
"Can be healed and you know it. All it takes is money."
 "And the rest?" She shrugged as the boy fired and again missed. "How long would he last even if he did manage
to win his trophy? The first challenge and he would be down. The first argument and he would be dead. You're
wasting your time, Earl. He isn't worth it."
"It's my time, Dephine."
"And I am waiting for you, Earl. How long must I wait? I expected you back with your trophy yesterday. We could
have been married today. Tomorrow would have seen us in our new home. Am I so repulsive that you prefer the
company of a lame boy to what I offer? Must I tell you again that I love you? Earl, damn you, must you torment me?"
A woman in love, pleading, forgetting her pride in the face of a greater need. Standing before him she looked
radiant, her hair a flaming glory, her body one of feline grace.
"Tomorrow, Dephine." He needed time in which to search. "Tomorrow."
"And tonight?"
"We'll camp here."
"Not here, Earl. The olcept are on the move and are heading this way. Return to the House and be safe. You
promise?" She didn't wait for his answer, confident in his obedience, the power of her attraction. "Tonight, Earl. I'll be
waiting."
As her raft lifted Navalok said, "Shall I keep on shooting, Earl?"
"Until you hit the target, yes."
"You didn't want her to see us searching," said the boy shrewdly as he thrust fresh cartridges into the pistol.
"That's why you had me shoot, isn't it, Earl? Don't you want her to share our secret?"
As yet they had nothing to share, but the boy had guessed the answer.
Dumarest said, "Look at that point of rock. Keep looking at it and raise the gun. Think of it as a finger which you
are pointing to the spot your eyes are fixed on. Concentrate. Don't squeeze the butt too hard. Just close your finger,
gently, and don't do it until you feel that you, the gun, is pointing at the target." He grunted as stone chipped a few
inches from the point. "Better. Try again."
Fire and keep firing until the sky was clear. In clear air sound traveled a long distance and the woman's ears were
sharp. A woman who was determined to get her own way and would do anything to bend him to her will. One who
would destroy any clue leading to Earth if she thought it would take him from her side.
As the tiny mote of the raft finally vanished Navalok said, "Enough, Earl?"
"Enough. Now let's go and see what we've found."
The scrub was sturdy, the roots deep, the plants yielding reluctantly as Dumarest tore them free. Loose stone
followed, debris rolling down the slope as he cleared the mouth of the narrow vent. It was in the form of a rounded
arch, the keystone bearing a worn symbol, a barely discernible disc surrounded with tapering rays. The lower part of
the opening was blocked with a mass of gritty soil and shattered stone.
Dumarest tore at it with hands and knife, coughed in a cloud of rising dust, then squinted through the opening. A
child could have passed through it with ease. An adult, years ago, with a little wriggling. Fresh falls had piled on old,
the roots of the scrub splitting stone to add to the detritus.
"I could get inside, Earl." Navalok thrust himself forward.
"No." Who could tell what might be lurking within. "Help me clear this opening."
Thirty minutes later a path had been cleared for the two of them.
"This is it, Earl," said Navalok as he stared into the thick gloom. "The sun must have been just right when I
entered it last. It caught something which gleamed. It was that which attracted me, I remember it now."
"You said the light was bad."
"It was, aside from that one bright place. But I could see what was inside. My father too, Earl, he had no doubt as
to the importance of what we'd found. If we wait perhaps the sun will shine inside."
"There's no need to wait," said Dumarest. "I've brought lights."
They were powerful flashlights which threw cones of brilliance into the opening to be reflected back in a dazzling
brilliance. Moving the beam Dumarest saw a rounded roof carved with vine-like decorations and set with scraps of
crystal in various shapes. The walls too, what he could see of them, were also carved and decorated with strips of red
and yellow, amber and green, orange and umber material which held and diffused the light to cast a roseate glow.
Holding back his hand Dumarest said, "Give me the gun."
Reluctantly Navalok parted with it. The weapon at his waist had given him the assurance of a man, without it he
felt a child again. He watched as Dumarest checked the load.
"Earl?"
"Wait here. Follow when I call. Stay well back until then. If anything is living in there it may try to break out past
me. If it does I don't want you to get hurt."
Navalok said, wonderingly, "Earl, you talk like, like father."
 "Maybe I feel like him. Stand back now."
Dirt showered from beneath his knees as Dumarest edged himself up and into the opening. He thrust forward the
light in his left hand, the gun ready to fire in his right. It swept up and level as something seemed to move and glare at
him, his finger easing its pressure just in time. The light, not the thing had moved and the glare came from a mask not
a living face.
Quickly Dumarest scanned the area, sending the beam back into the furthest corner of the cave before focusing it
on the mask again. It was an idiot's face, the mouth down-turned, the empty eye-holes adding to the vacuity of the
general expression. An object which radiated a sadness and an empty despair. Turning towards the opening he saw
another, almost its twin aside from the fact that this was a depiction of humor, the mouth upturned, the eyes blank
though they were, seeming to hold a secret merriment.
"Earl?" Navalok called from outside. His voice betrayed his anxiety. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. Come and join me:" Dumarest handed him the gun as he slid down the heap of debris to stand at his side.
"Holster this, I want my hands free. Where is the bright thing you saw before?"
It was set high on the rear wall facing the opening; a large disc set with the familiar rays, the whole a dully
gleaming golden color. If the opening were cleared the sun, at certain times, would shine on it and be reflected as if
from a mirror.
"The Guardians of the Sun," whispered Navalok. "It's the same symbol they wore on their clothing, Earl. You saw
it in the Hall of Dreams. But what does it mean?"
A church, a shrine, a place of worship. A cave in which people gathered to pay homage, to remember. Dumarest
swept up his torch and saw the gleaming reflections from the crystal in the ceiling, down and saw the glow of warm
and lambent colors from the material set all around. The stars? The dawn and sunset? A place in which to recapture
the past, to be at one with something held sacred.
The sun.
Which sun?
He looked at the rayed disc its blank face telling him nothing. At the items set all around; the fragments of
machinery, small objects which could have been the personal possessions of those now long dead, the scrolls and
books and oddly shaped pieces of metal, plastic and crystal. Above the opening the empty, smiling mask told him
nothing. A thing set to mock those who would know more than they should? Another symbol depicting—what? The
torch flashed as he moved the beam to study the other mask, the one of inane idiocy, the down-turned mouth,
tragedy as distinct from comedy. The two faces of a universal coin, laughter backed by tears, happiness by misery, joy
by sadness life by death.
"Earl!" whispered Navalok. "Earl, look at the ceiling!"
Dumarest shifted his eyes and froze, stunned by what he saw.
The winking points of brilliance shining by the reflected light of the torch, points which vanished even as he
studied them. Impatiently he moved a little, the points shining clear again as the beam of the flashlight hit and was
reflected from the rayed disc.
"Patterns," said Navalok wonderingly. "They make patterns. Earl. But of what?"
Of stars. Of the Zodiac. Of the constellations seen from Earth.
Here, in this place, could lie the clue which would guide him home!

Chapter Fourteen
From where he stood at the far end of the room Navalok said, "Nothing, Earl. I've checked every inch. The walls
are solid."
"The floor?"
"The same." The boy sounded tired. "No trapdoors, no loose flags, nothing but solid stone as far as I can tell.
There could be something under the debris, but I doubt it." He added, curiously, "What are we looking for, anyway?"
A secret vault or hiding place in which important and valuable data could have been stored. A chance and one
Dumarest had to investigate; even a negative result held an answer. The clue, if it existed, must be in the chamber
itself and not hidden secretly away.
But where?
He swept the light around the place again. Beyond the opening the sky was growing dark with the onset of dusk
and soon it would be night. For hours he had checked each item of the store the place contained, finding nothing
which told him more than he already knew. The scraps and pieces, each valuable as a relic or as a fragment of the
past, were no more than they appeared.
 Votive offerings, perhaps. Things placed in this shrine for safekeeping or as a donation to generations yet to
come. Who could fathom the intent of those long dead? Yet some things were plain. The cave for one, a natural
structure which had been enlarged and lined with blocks of stone each fused to the other by laser-heat. A place
intended to resist the ravages of time. One set in a special fashion so as to catch the rays of the sun which, reflected
from the rayed disc, illuminated the ceiling and revealed the pattern of stars.
A pattern he had memorized and one he had seen before. The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins, And next the
Crab, the Lion shines, The Virgin and the Scales, The Scorpion, Archer, and Sea Goat, The Man that holds the
watering pot, The Fish with shining scales.
The mnemonic which contained the twelve signs of the Zodiac; the constellations as seen from Earth. A clue he
had garnered on Technos, seen again on Shajok, and now it was repeated here. Alone it told him nothing new, but it
was proof that, whoever had built this place, had come from or knew of Earth.
"Earl, it's getting dark outside." Navalok shivered. "This place is funny. It gives me the creeps."
The influence of those who once had assembled here sending their emanations across time. Trying, to relay a
message, perhaps, an answer.
Dumarest shone his torch again on the disc and looked at the glitter of the artificial stars. They were a secondary
aspect as were the warm glow of depicted sunsets and dawns as the beam glowed from the strips of material lower
down. Something to augment the main purpose of the chamber? It had been built by the Guardians of the Sun and
the rayed disc occupied a position of natural prominence.
And, if the depicted constellations were those as seen from Earth, then the sun could only be the planet's
primary.
Earth's sun!
Dumarest looked down at his hands and saw their fault trembling. Never before during his long search had he felt
so close to success, so certain that it was to be found. If he was correct, and logic said he must be, then the people
who had settled Emijar had come from his home world.
"Earl?" Navalok hitched at the gun bolstered at his waist. "Are you going to stay here much longer?"
For as long as it took to find the answer.
"Why? Are you getting hungry?"
"Aren't you, Earl?"
"No, but if you want to fix a meal go ahead." The boy had helped all he could and his presence was a distraction.
As he headed towards the opening, now a deep purple, Dumarest said, "Be careful, Navalok."
"Of what, Earl?" The boy smiled and touched the gun at his waist. "Anyway, I'm armed."
Alone Dumarest swept the torch around in another examination. Reflected light glowed from the masks, the
rayed disc, shone from the ceiling, the walls, warm swathes of color blending with crystalline twinklings. The sun, it
had to be the sun, every instinct drove him towards it. Why else should this place have been built in the position it
occupied? Why the reflection from the orb transmitted to the depicted stars? Why the name?
Guardians of the Sun.
Guarding what? A memory? A heritage?
The knowledge of how to return?
In the light of the torch the rayed disc seemed to shimmer, little strands of color playing over the surface as if it
had been coated with oil. Dumarest stepped closer, tilted his head to stare through narrowed eyes, seeing in the glare
a mesh of shallow lines close-set as if part of a refraction grating used to determine a spectrum.
Lowering the torch he stepped back and looked around for something on which to stand.
Then froze as, from outside, came the sound of a young voice shouting, the sudden roar of a gun.

***

The raft was on the flat promontory, the spark of a fire beside it; small flames which shone bright in the purple
dusk. As Dumarest thrust himself through the opening he saw the flash of a gun, heard the rolling echoes of the
report.
"Earl!"
Navalok was crouched beside the vehicle, face turned towards the slope, the gun in his hand firing as he shouted.
In the flash Dumarest could see a bulk beside a heap of stone, a shape which seemed to flicker, to move. He swung
the beam of his flash towards it and saw a dull ocher hide, the gleam of exposed teeth. An olcept, perhaps drawn by
the sound of the previous gunfire, now moving in for the kill.
Dumarest shouted, hurled himself down the slope, dirt showering from beneath his boots. The beam of the flash
wavered, danced over the raft, the crouching boy, the fire, the ground, the beast which had scented prey.
 "The gun, boy! Keep firing!"
The blast alone would shock the sensitive hearing, the flash dazzle the eyes, the whine of bullets perhaps force
the thing into caution. An old teaching of those who trained young soldiers, the art of covering fire and a distractive
barrage based on the principle that, while a man was protecting himself, he couldn't fire back.
An effective means of keeping a human at bay, but the olcept was far from human and obeyed a more primitive
law. Dumarest saw it move as he reached the level ground, a flash of teeth, the scrabble of claws and the whine of air
as the knobbed tail lashed towards the boy. He fired as it hit close beside him, the side of the raft bending to the
impact, the graze of the natural club sending him spinning to lie sprawled on the ground, blood at his temple.
Stunned or dead—in either case he was out of the fight. Dumarest had to face the beast alone and he had nothing
but his hands, the flash, and the knife in his boot. No natural advantage but his brain.
As the olcept rushed towards him he sprang to one side, raced to the edge of the promontory and turned, the
flashlight in his left hand, the naked blade of the knife poised in his right. The creature had halted at the fire, the long
snout questing, the eyes like rubies from the reflected glow. A thing about nine feet long and three high, not a large
specimen of its kind but its weight would be at least three times that of a man.
A machine designed to kill, the claws capable of disemboweling at a stroke, the tail able to crush a skull or snap a
bone, the teeth set in powerful jaws which could bite a man in half. An animal, armed and armored and, to itself,
invincible. One which would be a stranger to the concept of fear. A predator which lived to eat and killed so as to eat
to live.
Sparks flew as it lunged over the fire, snout extended, claws ripping at the gritty soil. Dumarest waited poised,
Aiming the beam of the light into the deep-set eyes. An artificial sun which dazzled the thing and caused it to halt, tail
lashing, head turning as it scented the air. A momentary pause but before it could move again Dumarest had sprung
forward and to one side, leaping over the compact body and racing towards the raft.
In it were the spears he had bought, the weapons with which the boy would gain his trophy. Long-shafted, with
edged and pointed blades, the shaft protected by out-curved crescents of steel, they had been designed to penetrate a
tough hide and to block the rush of a stabbed beast. A good weapon if used with skill—useless unless he could get
his hands on one before the olcept attacked.
Instinct saved him. Dumarest dropped, rolled, felt the brush of air across his scalp as the tail lashed the spot
where he had stood. Turning the beast snapped, teeth gouging the soil where he had lain, the snout moving as, still
rolling, he slashed out with the knife and dragged the razor-sharp edge across the flared nostrils. A superficial injury
which caused no real damage but which sent a flood of blood dripping from the injured organ. Blood which would
blunt the sense of smell.
Rearing, the olcept screamed.
It was a thin, high, shrilling sound, one born of rage and designed to freeze prey into immobility by the grating
harmonics. The instinctive reaction of a beast which had been hurt and one which gave Dumarest the chance to
climb to his feet.
The flashlight had been knocked from his hand and lay to one side, the beam throwing a cone of brilliance over
the ground, one edge touching the side of the raft. A guide to the weapons within, but to try and reach them was to
risk too much. To run from the olcept was to invite swift and sudden death.
"Navalok! Can you hear me? Navalok!"
A chance, the boy, if dazed, could be recovering and with the gun he could at least provide a distraction, but he
made no answer and Dumarest knew that he was alone. As the olcept rushed he moved, darting backwards, lunging
forward, the knife a blur in his hand, the point reaching for the snout, the edge rasping over scales, sliding to cut at the
side appendage, to send the severed tissue to the ground.
Like an uncoiling spring the beast spun, tail whining through the air, lashing beneath Dumarest's boots as he
jumped high into the air. Landing he threw himself forward, the knife like a sword as it stabbed at the junction of a
rear leg with the body, the point reaching the soft portion and burying itself deep in the gut.
A savage stab which freed a shower of blood, a shower which gushed into a flood as, twisting the blade, he jerked
it free.
Again the olcept screamed. It reared high on its back legs, turning, tail and snout and talons ripping the air in a
circle of rending destruction. Dumarest felt the blow across his chest as, too late, he hurled himself backward. A blow
which stripped plastic from the buried mesh as the claws gouged deep.
He landed hard against the side of the raft and threw himself over it, snatching at a spear and lifting it as the
creature, vicious with pain, came after him. The long blade stabbed at the jaw, sank into the soft flesh beneath the
chin, was torn free as the beast shook its head, stabbed again at the eyes.
Stabbed and hit and sank deep into a socket as the front talons ripped splinters from the shaft, smashing the
weapon from Dumarest's hands as, desperately, he jumped from the far side of the raft.
 The knife was gone, the spear, the gun lying beside the boy was probably empty. And facing him was a half-blind
animal savage with pain and determined to kill. One which paused and, with head cocked, snuffed at the air.
One eye was gone, its sense of smell impaired, only its acute hearing remaining intact. Cautiously Dumarest
stooped and, sheltered by the body of the raft, gathered up a handful of stones. Rising he threw one to land beyond
the creature. It hit with a harsh rattle and, as the head turned towards it, he threw another with the full force of arm
and back and shoulder.
A primitive missile which hurtled through the air as if flung from a sling to hit the remaining eye, to pulp it, to
leave the olcept blind.
Dumarest was moving as it reared, screaming. Rounding the raft he snatched up the spear and lunged forward,
the blade lifted, extended, the point held at an angle to the ground. As it pricked the underside of the throat he
dropped, ramming the butt against the side of his boot, forcing it hard against the ground. The shaft bent as the
weight of the creature drove the point up and into its throat, its brain, the weakened shaft snapping as, threshing, it
flung itself from side to side.
Releasing his grip on the spear Dumarest threw himself to one side, rolled, climbed to his feet. In the glow of the
flashlight he could see the glimmer of his knife and, as the beast turned away from him, he snatched it up. The olcept
was badly hurt, perhaps dying, but it could still take revenge. Dirt rose in plumes from beneath its feet as, the
shattered spear dragging from beneath its jaw, it spun and twisted in blind agony. Blood sprayed to spatter the raft,
the ground, the limp figure of the boy. Another step and it would be on him, claws ripping at the unconscious figure,
tearing the flesh as they tore at the ground.
Dumarest shouted, moved, shouted again, drawing the thing towards him, backing, darting in to sting with the
knife, to back again until, at the edge of the promontory, he gave a final yell then darted aside as, blindly, the olcept
rushed, to fall over the edge, to crash down the sheer slope and pulp itself on the ground far below.

***

Navalok groaned, stirred, suddenly reared where he lay in the body of the raft.
"Earl! I—Earl!"
"Steady." Dumarest was beside him, one arm thrown comfortingly about his shoulders. "It's all right, Navalok. It's
all right."
"The olcept?"
"Dead." Dumarest added, casually, "You killed it."
"I killed it?" The boy echoed his incredulity. "But how? The gun? Did I shoot it?"
"No. You missed each time."
"The light was bad and it came so fast there was no time to aim. I remember it coming for me and then there was
a blow and I saw stars and… and…?" He frowned, trying to remember. "My foot twisted under me. I remember that.
Then—I killed it, you say?"
"Yes."
"But how, Earl? How?"
Dumarest lifted a canteen wet a cloth and held it to the injured temple. The raft hovered thirty feet above the
ground and a dozen from the edge of the promontory where the beast had fallen. It was late, the stars bright in the
sky, the air still with a sleeping hush.
"Earl?"
"Lie back and relax. Just do as I say." As the boy obeyed Dumarest switched on a flashlight and, in the reflected
light of the beam, lifted each eyelid in turn and studied the whites of the boy's eyes. They were clear of bloodclots
and the bone at the temple was unbroken. "You were lucky, Navalok. No real damage and nothing but a minor
concussion. Can't you remember what happened?"
"Only that I was hit, Earl and that I fell."
"Then you managed to get to your feet again and—" Dumarest broke off, shaking his head. "Are you certain you
can't remember killing the olcept?"
"Did I?"
For answer Dumarest lifted the tunic he had removed from the unconscious youth. It was smeared and stained
with blood. More blood marked the hands, resting in the quick of the nails, lying thickly on the boots. Traces he had
purposely made.
Frowning the boy shook his head. "Earl, I—"
"You were hurt and probably dazed," said Dumarest quickly. "But I had no time to worry about that. The thing
came for me after you'd been hit and I had to run. When I turned you had a spear and were moving in to the attack. I
yelled out, but you didn't answer, and the next thing I knew you were stabbing at the beast. You got it in the guts and
then, as it reared, you managed to get the point under the chin. The shaft snapped then and the olcept charged. It was
dying and must have been desperate. Anyway, it went over the edge. You'd collapsed and, at first, I thought you were
dead. I guess we were both lucky."
"And you carried me into the raft and lifted?"
"Yes, there could have been others." That, at least, was no lie. "I washed you down as best I could and made you
comfortable. You were breathing so all I could do was to wait."
Wait and whisper in the unconscious boy's ear, his voice directed at the subconscious, implanting the suggestion
of false memories and bolstering the story he had just been given. Words spoken and reinforced as the lad had turned
and muttered prior to waking.
A lie which had given him the proof of manhood he craved.
"You've won your trophy," said Dumarest. "When it's light we'll collect the head. Now I want to get back to the
cave."
Nothing had changed. Outside there had been blood and death, pain and violence, but within the chamber silence
still held sway and the ghosts of the past thronged close as if to whisper their message.
Dumarest stood at the foot of the dirt blocking the opening, the beam of the flashlight bright as it impacted
against the rayed disc of the depicted sun. A symbol which he was certain held more than it seemed.
For a long moment he studied it, hearing the small sounds from outside where Navalok, in the raft, washed the
blood from his clothes and body. Happy sounds, the boy was vibrant at his gain, the trophy, the gun he could now
wear with authority, the place which soon would be his as a leader of the Family. A happiness Dumarest had given;
one he wished he could share.
The sun.
Guardians of the Sun.
The message, if there was one, had to be connected with the symbol dominating the chamber. Again he stepped
close to it, seeing the play of light over the surface, the interplay of shimmering colors as the beam was refracted
from the grating.
A code? Tiny dots formed to spell out words? An equation of some kind? A set of coordinates? A recording
hidden somehow in the disc itself ?
Fallen stone lay heaped at the foot of the debris. Dumarest gathered it, formed a pile, mounted to its summit and
found his hands still inches below the disc. Heightening the pile he rested the flashlight in the dirt so the beam shone
full on the disc, his shadow occluding the light as he climbed. The thing was thick, heavy, held firm against the wall.
Lifting the knife from his boot he thrust the point beneath the lower edge and heaved. The tempered blade bent a
little but he thought he detected a trace of movement. Lifting the steel he jerked at the side of the disc, felt a
resistance, jerked again and went tumbling backwards as, suddenly, like a door the rayed orb swung towards him.
The back was hollowed, ringed with a series of patterns, dots arranged as were the artificial stars. In the center,
held by clips, rested an oblong strip of plastic.
It sprang free as Dumarest tugged at it and he examined it as he stood on the floor of the chamber. An almost
opaque strip of material bearing nothing in the way of figures or words. He held it before his eyes and saw only a
murky coloration. A scrap of plastic without any possible intrinsic value yet it had been kept in the most sacred place
of this shrine.
An object of veneration—but what?
The reflected light was dim and he looked at it again as he held it before the lens of the flashlight. In the bright
illumination the colors became clear, a swathe stretching from red to violet marked with dark lines of varying
intensity.
A spectrum?
Dumarest turned the flashlight, his hands quivering a little, conscious of the sudden acceleration of his heart.
Placing the strip over the lens he shone the beam on the floor. An adjustment and he corrected the focus a little, not
much and the pattern shown was far short of that thrown by a projector, but it was clear enough for him to be certain
as to what he had found.
The plastic held the spectroscopic record of a source of illumination and that source could only be a star.
It had to be a star.
A sun.
Each had its own spectrogram and no two were alike. As a thumbprint would identify one man from millions so a
spectrogram would identify one star from those that thronged the galaxy. And this pattern, he had no doubt, belonged
to the sun which had warmed him as a child.
Sol.
 Earth's primary.
He held the clue which could guide him back home.

Chapter Fifteen
There were nooks in the House, small places set in secluded ways, some graced with delicate carvings, others the
repository of lichens and vagrant beams of light which threw soft illumination over stone and bench and the worn
flags of the floor. The roof too was a series of flat spaces, some edged with crenelations, others flanked with high
walls so that for most of the day they were filled with shadow.
Places which were the favorite rendezvous of lovers and to which Dephine was no stranger.
"Look, Earl." She pulled at his arm and led him across worn stone to where a buttress made a private spot in the
corner of a scented garden. Massed in pots a profusion of herbs made an enticing aroma, their fronds hanging down
over the walls and trailing on the ground. "I used to come here often as a child. There was a bench and I used to sit
and scratch at the wall. See?"
The bench had gone but the scratches remained; thin lines drawn with a childish hand; a crude picture of a
bearded man, a stylized vessel of space, a verse which held within its stanzas an empty yearning.
"Even then I wanted to get away," she murmured. "To escape. The House was like a cage and I was a bird pining
to be free. Well, I did get free—and found the entire galaxy was nothing but a larger cage. Can freedom really exist,
Earl? Is there any world on which a person can stand and be subjected to no restraint devised by man? Is there no
place devoid of the power of those who are consumed with the desire to rule?"
He said, quietly, "If there is I haven't found it."
"And you've traveled further than most and seen a greater variety of worlds." She pressed close to him, her hand
resting on his arm. "And you know how to handle men. Navalok will be your friend for life."
"I did nothing."
"No?" She turned and smiled and let her fingers trace the scars on his tunic, the ripped plastic beneath which the
protective mesh shone with a metallic gleam. "You gave a boy his ambition. You took a cripple and turned him into a
man. Is that nothing? How many on Emijar would have done as much? To kill and give another your trophy."
"No." Dumarest was firm. "Navalok made the kill."
"Or so you made him believe. And he does believe it, Earl. As do others. They can't conceive of anyone
relinquishing a trophy to another when he has yet to gain one for himself." Again her fingers traced the scars on his
tunic. "But I know better. You are kind, Earl. Gentle and kind. A boy would do well to have you for his father."
And her for his wife. The implication was clear as was the invitation in her eyes. To marry, to settle down, to rear
strong sons and lovely daughters, to grow old and leave his seed to continue his line on this world. To forget his
dreams and accept the warm and solid comfort of present reality. To cease his search for Earth and to take what she
offered. Her fingers tightened on his arm. "Earl?"
"Let's go down," he said. "Hendaza will be waiting for us." The man was happy, seemingly relaxed, his smile
coming with quick naturalness as he lifted his hands to touch those of Dephine and her companion.
"Earl, the Family has much to thank you for. I add my own, special gratitude. Navalok is now, at last, a man."
The ceremony was over, the notation made in the records, the youth now proudly bearing a gun at his belt
Dumarest remembered how eyes had followed him as he had struggled beneath the weight of the severed head to
hurl it down at the opening of the Shrine. Hendaza had radiated an almost tangible relief and Dumarest guessed that
his previous contempt and acidity had been intended as a spur. One now withdrawn and a genuine concern taking its
place. Fatherless, the boy had found a mentor. Hendaza would take the place of the missing parent.
Lekhard had been edgy, sneering, turning away as he had met Dumarest's eyes. From him, later, there could be
trouble but that was not Dumarest's concern. And Kanjuk, Lekhard's companion, had spoken to him and led the man
from the assembly as if he had been a child.
Hendaza shrugged as Dumarest mentioned it.
"Lekhard is too ambitious and would have caused trouble had Navalok delayed obtaining his trophy for much
longer. As you may have guessed I tried to spur him to courage in my own way. Now, as a potential Elder of the
Family, he will crystallize various loyalties. Kanjuk knows that and will keep his friend in check."
"And if he doesn't?" Dumarest was blunt. "Navalok can't meet a challenge."
"He must if necessary." Hendaza was equally blunt. "That is the price he pays for being accepted as a man. But if
Lekhard should challenge him without just cause he will face, not just one young man, but a line of others each of
whom will challenge him in turn. Eventually he will fall. This he knows."
A mad dog taken care of in the traditional manner, Dumarest could appreciate how it would be done. Other
Houses he had known would have called on the aide of assassins, here on Emijar they were more honest—or naive.
"And you, Earl?" Hendaza glanced towards Dephine. "When are we to celebrate your obtaining a trophy? Soon, I
hope?"
"Perhaps."
"It will be soon, Hendaza," said Dephine firmly. "He would have had it by now but he had no wish to spoil
Navalok's moment of triumph."
"A commendable attitude and one worthy of a man of proven courage. You should be proud, Dephine."
"I am." She smiled with possessive affection. "Very proud. Earl—" The smile changed to a frown as he moved
away. "Earl!"
He said, without turning, "I'm going to see Navalok."

***

The boy was at practice. He stood at one end of a firing range, facing targets shaped in the image of a man, the
gun in his hand lifting, to steady, to fire. A light set behind the targets showed where the bullets had struck.
"I'm getting better, Earl. I can hit a man each time I fire now."
"You can hit a target," corrected Dumarest. "A target can't shoot back."
"Neither can a man if he's dead." Navalok lowered the gun, reloaded it, slipped it into his belt. "Watch this, Earl!"
He was a boy, proud of his skill, a child eager to demonstrate his ability. The gun lifted from the holster, leveled,
fired. On the target a light shone through a hole in the forehead.
"There!"
Dumarest said, dispassionately, "Navalok, you're a fool. Why aim for the head when the body offers a better
target? And what if your opponent is wearing armor? If you want to play this stupid game then do it properly."
"Stupid?"
"If you want to kill a man then do it. Get in hard and fast and, above all, get in first. Don't give him a chance. To
do that is to invite death. Don't waste time in talk. Just act and get it done with."
"But Earl, the code—"
"Is a game. Why else do you wear armor at times? To fight and not get hurt—so why fight at all. Now listen to
me. Lekhard is no friend of yours and will challenge as soon as he can. How will he do it? Insult you?" Dumarest
thinned his lips as the boy nodded. "Right, when he does make sure that witnesses overhear. Be polite and above all
don't lose your temper. Look at him as you would vermin. Refuse to be pushed and he will try harder and then, when
you've enough provocation, draw out that gun and kill him."
"In public?" Navalok looked startled. "But, Earl a challenge has to be met with due formality."
"Just kill him," snapped Dumarest. "And argue about it later. Let Alorcene check his records for precedents. He
will find them. No society could have grown as yours has without men killing others at the slightest provocation.
Restore some of the old traditions—and watch how the challenges suddenly lose their appeal."
"Face him in public," murmured the boy. "Warn him first and then—"
"You don't give any warnings," snapped Dumarest impatiently. "He isn't a friend. He isn't anything but an animal
you have to kill before he kills you. So kill him." He added, more gently, "You'll only have to do it once, Navalok. Just
let the others see that you don't intend to play their game according to their rules and you might have a chance. It's
your life, remember. Don't throw it away."
"I won't, Earl. I'll do as you say—if I can."
He would try and either success or the dead-weight of accepted custom would lead to his death, but Dumarest
had done his best and could do no more. Now it was the turn of the other to give.
"I need a raft, Navalok. Can you get me one?"
"No, Earl, you need—"
"An accepted member of the House." Dumarest was sharp. "You have the right, now, and I want to go to town.
Will you take me?"
They left as dusk softened the outlines of the hills and early stars began to glimmer in the skies. The boy was
silent, sitting hunched and thoughtful beside Dumarest as he sent the raft skimming low and straight towards the field.
It was empty of vessels as he'd known and, setting down the raft, Dumarest dropped over the side.
"Thank you, Navalok."
"Shall I wait for you, Earl?"
"No."
"You're spending the night here?" The boy looked at the deserted streets, the somber bulk of shadowed buildings.
All were dark aside from the hotel from which came glimmers of light and the sound of thin, reedy music. "Earl?"
 Dumarest said, "Take the raft back to the House. Goodbye, Navalok."
He walked to the hotel without looking back, thrusting open the door and stepping into a long, narrow room. It
was almost empty, a scatter of men wearing various liveries sitting at small, round tables. At the far end a staircase
rose to the upper rooms. On a low dais an old man blew into a bagged flute his gnarled fingers caressing a series of
holes.
"Your pleasure, sir?" A squat man wearing a greasy tunic had stepped from behind a low counter. "My House is
honored. Some wine?"
"You have rooms?"
"The choice of a score. Always it is the same until a ship arrives. But first, some wine?"
It was rough, holding the tang of smoke and metal, too acid for his taste and a fitting accompaniment to the
music.
As he refilled the glass the squat man said, "A vessel should be calling here soon. The Ahdil is about due and,
naturally, there could be others. A matter of days only, but waiting can be tedious if only for a single night, so if you'd
rather not be alone?"
His glance as he posed the question was suggestive.
"No," said Dumarest. "All I want is a room."
It was small, cramped, the bed sagging, the floor of bare, unpolished wood, but it was cheap and would serve.
During the night Dephine came to join him.

***

She entered like a ghost to stand by the door, looking at Dumarest who, roused by the creak of wood, had risen
and was facing her, the naked blade of the knife in his hand glimmering in the starlight coming through the narrow
window.
He said, quietly, "Why are you here?"
"Can't you guess, Earl?"
"Navalok—"
Told me. He had no choice. He is waiting below with the raft."
"You shouldn't have come. Your reputation—"
"To hell with that!" Long legs carried her over the space between them. "Do you suppose I care what others
think? My life is with you, Earl. With you—not those worshipers of tradition. Couldn't you smell the dust in the
House? Feel the cobwebs brush against your face in the passages and halls? The past dominates everything they do,
but I live for the present. I long for the future. Our future, my darling. Ours!"
She moved a little and illusion transformed her, the robe she wore gleaming with the whiteness of a shroud, the
mane of hair, bleached by the starlight, turning to silver, even the hollow contours of her cheeks taking on an elfin
quality, a delicacy which collapsed time and space and made a fragment of the past suddenly real.
Derai!
But she was long gone, long dead, lost on a lonely world, dust now, all her beauty spent. As others were lost and
with them their dreams of happiness. As Kalin was lost.
But, always, the search for Earth remained.
Dumarest looked at the knife in his hand. As he put it down Dephine said, flatly, "You came here to wait for a ship.
You want to leave. But why, Earl? Why?"
"This isn't my world, Dephine."
"And not really mine, now. But we could be happy here. There is a place I know, one I used to visit as a child.
There is a lake and a house and we could be alone. Alone and happy, Earl, that I promise you. I would be everything
to you—give you all any man could ever need."
A lamp stood on a low table against the wall. Dumarest lit it and watched as the flame crawled up the wick to fill
the room with a warm and yellow light. One which banished the illusions as if there had been ghosts running before
the newly risen sun. Auburn hair, not silver; an embroidered robe, not a shroud; a strongly determined face; not the
childish weakness of the one he had known. Not Derai and, aside from the slight resemblance of the hair, not Kalin.
"I saved your life, Earl," said Dephine softly. "Have you forgotten that?"
"No."
"And you owe me something. There are cultures in which once a man admits to this his life is no longer his. It
belongs to the one who has saved it."
"And there are others which holds that if a man saves the life of another he is responsible for whatever that man
later does." Dumarest shrugged. "Take your pick, Dephine, which do you choose?"
 "Neither—and don't make me feel so ashamed, Earl. Do you think it easy for me to plead? I am a Keturah and we
have our pride. But I need you. I can't let you go. You just can't walk away and leave me." Her voice grew a little
ragged. "You spoke of reputation—well, consider it. Don't shame me before my Family. They think we plan to get
married. At least go through the ceremony and give me the respect they hold so important. What would it matter to
you? A few days, a couple of weeks at the most Earl, would it be so hard?"
She stepped close before he could answer, her arms circling his neck, the warmth of her body a fever beneath her
clothing.
"Please, darling." Her voice was a seductive murmur, music to enhance the scent of her hair, the perfume of her
flesh. "You are too kind to be so cruel as to leave me so soon. Give me a little time and then, if you want, we can
leave together. There will be money and we can travel in luxury. You and I as one, darling, together for as long as you
want. For as long as you need me. And you do need me, Earl. You need me as I need you. My love! Oh, my love!"

Chapter Sixteen
Dawn broke with a light wind and gusting ram, chill drops which clung to the window and dressed the panes with
pearls. Dumarest rose and looked down at the sleeping woman. Sprawled on the bed, her hair spread in an auburn
cloud on the pillow, the long, lissome lines of her figure relaxed in satiation, she looked older than when awake and
dressed. A maturity which had little to do with the passage of years. More than time had impressed the tiny mesh of
lines at the corner of each eye, the slight pucker of flesh running from nose to mouth, the hardness of the jaw and
brows.
Then her eyes opened and, suddenly, the face was no longer a bitter mask but that of a vibrant and lovely
woman.
"Earl!" She stretched, arching her body, hands lifted, nails gleaming in the early morning light. "I had such
pleasant dreams. We were married and we had a child, a son who looked just like you. We'd gone on a picnic and an
animal came towards us and we all rode on its back into a field full of tall grass and wonderful flowers. Do dreams
mean anything, darling? I knew a woman once who swore they did. To her a bad dream meant a bad day and when
she had one she'd write it all down on a piece of paper covered with inscribed charms and burn it. She'd do that
before receiving—well, before starting her day."
"And did it work?"
"Who knows? She was young and to the young all things are forgiven." She stretched again and he could see the
neat row of bone where her rib-cage showed beneath the taut skin. Ridges broken only by the mounds of her breasts.
A lithe figure, one suited to hardship, but one he was sure which had been cosseted in youth. "Did you dream, Earl?"
"A little." A lie, he had lain wakeful through the night.
"Nice dreams?"
"Until they were broken. A ship landed an hour before dawn."
"A ship?" For a moment she stared blankly at him and then, abruptly, surged upright. "A ship? From where?"
"I don't know," he said patiently. "I haven't been out yet. All I know is that a ship landed and is now standing on
the field. And what does it matter where it came from?"
"As long as it will take you away from Emijar?"
"Yes."
"You say that!" Her eyes widened to show a rim of white around each his. "After what we've been to each other!
What you promised! Earl, I love you. You can't leave me now. You can't. Not after last night."
A woman's illogic, they had been lovers since leaving Shallah—why should the present incident carry such
importance?
He said, quietly, "I'm not going to argue with you, Dephine. We both know what I promised. Anyway, why be
upset? All I want to do is to take a look at the ship."
"Is that why you're up and dressed? Earl! You can't leave me! I won't let you!"
He backed as she lunged towards him, feeling the touch and scrape of her metal nails on his face, the impact too
light to have broken the skin. His own hand lifted, came down to slap her cheek.
"Keep those damned nails to yourself ! I warned you what I'd do if you used them against me again!"
"Earl, I'm sorry!" Tears filled her eyes, falling as she turned to splash against her naked thighs. "I couldn't help it.
It's just that the very thought of losing you makes me desperate. Please try to understand. I'm in love with you. For
God's sake, man, don't you realize what that means?"
Sweetness and pain, the ineffable joy of affection and the haunting fear of loss. The vulnerability of total
surrender. The willing discarding of all defenses and the embracing of the unknown. How easy to hurt a creature who
loves. A word, a sneer, a curt gesture, a momentary indifference. How easy to suffer anguish.
How quickly to lose the paradise of the mind and senses.
He said, thickly, "Yes, Dephine, I know what it means."
"Then you forgive me?"
"I forgive you. Get up and get dressed and join me below. If I'm not there wait for me."
"You'll wait for me? You promise?"
"The ship won't be leaving yet," he reminded her. "And if Navalok's still waiting he'll be hungry."

***

The boy sat in the lower room, his face peaked, his lips blue as he hunched before a smoking fire. A devoted
attendant who had spent the night in the raft, entering the hotel only at dawn.
"I saw the ship land, Earl," he said. "The raft is ready if you want to use it."
"I won't."
"But—" His eyes moved towards the stairs. "I thought that you and the Lady Dephine would be traveling back to
the House."
"Before you go anywhere you need to eat." Dumarest went in search of the owner and gave him instructions. To
Navalok he said, "I've ordered food to be served. When Dephine comes down have her eat breakfast. Have a good
meal now."
He left the boy hugging a steaming mug of tisane, stepping outside and feeling the chill drive of rain. The ship
rested on the field, a twin to the one which had brought him to Emijar. The port was open and the ramp was down
but there were no signs of anyone loading. The rain could have delayed the discharge of any cargo the ship may have
carried and it was too early for workers to be at the warehouses.
"Earl!" Dephine called from the door of the hotel. "Earl, wait for me!"
Dumarest slowed and waited until she joined him. The rain dusted her hair with glittering gems. Together they
walked to the trading post where the agent, more than anyone, would have information on the vessel. Early though it
was he had risen and was hard at work. A sheaf of papers rested before him on the counter and a man wearing a
captain's uniform sat drinking coffee at his side.
"Earl! A moment." Yamamaten finished checking the list. "This seems to be in order, Captain. I've a small
consignment of hides, some selected grain and a variety of woven material for you. Little profit, I'm afraid, but it
should cover your expenses." His eyes flickered towards Dumarest. "And a passenger if the price is right."
The captain grunted, "Stop your haggling, Telk. You know my price."
"I know what you ask, Captain, but that isn't always what you get. Earl, meet Captain Ying. Captain, your
passenger if we can settle a price."
Dumarest met the cold stare of a man who had the eyes of a snake. The face matched, thin, wedge-shaped, the
lips little more than a gash. A hard man plying a hard trade.
"So you want to ride with me," he said. "Is Telk holding your money?"
"Yes."
"Then we can settle a price. Be at the field at sunset."
"Sunset!" Dumarest turned as he heard the exclamation. Dephine lifted a hand to her lips and forced a smile. "So
soon?"
"Why wait?" Ying gave a frosty smile. "There's no profit in hugging dirt." He added, thinking he knew the reason
for her concern, "If it's too soon there's another ship heading this way. It would have been here before me if its
generator hadn't broken down. It had to put in at Orteja for repairs. Maybe you could get a passage on that."
"No," said Dumarest. "I'll ride with you, Captain. I'll be at the field at sunset."
A good looking woman, thought the captain as they left the trading post. Any man would be reluctant to leave a
woman like that though the reluctance had been on her side, not his. And they had the entire day to do what they
wanted though, from the look of her, there was little they had left undone.
He said so and the agent smiled and settled down to discussing the price knowing that agreement was certain but
enjoying the opportunity to haggle.
As they left the building Dephine said, "So you meant it, Earl. You're going."
"Yes."
"And if I wanted to come with you?"
He said, "You have until sunset to arrange it. I cant pay for your passage. I haven't any money."
"Then how—" She broke off. "Of course, Galbrene's personal jewelry. I should have known." Halting she turned
to look at him, tilting back her head, the gesture revealing the long column of her throat. The rising sun caught her
hair and turned it into lambent copper; a halo graced with dying rainbows from the droplets of rain still clinging to
the strands. "Earl!"
She was lovely and she knew it. A superbly built woman with a face matching her nature. One who would be at
the side of the man of her choice no matter where he might choose to go.
Dumarest said, flatly, "Dephine, I have to go."
"To search for your world," she said, fiercely. "To risk your life a thousand times in order to chase a legend. All
right, Earl, Earth exists, I won't argue, but even if you find it will you have found more than you're throwing away at
this moment?"
"I don't know."
"But you must look." Smiling she shook her head, a mother gently chiding a child, a wife, the eccentricities of her
man. "I'm not good at saying goodbye, Earl. Even now I can't quite believe that you are going to leave me. It doesn't
seem possible that we shall never see each other again. But one thing before you go. Please."
He could afford to be patient. "What?"
"Let us have a picnic. One in the place I spoke to you about where there is a lake and a house and the land is
kind. It will be like living my dream. A few hours of happiness, Earl. Something for me to remember when you are
gone."

***

Navalok handled the raft, sending it high into the clear air. The rain had ceased shortly after dawn and the sun
now blazed with a comforting warmth. The breakfast had been good and his passengers seemed to be in harmony.
Food and wine had been packed in a hamper and it promised to be an excellent day.
Looking at the youth Dephine said, "Return in a few years, Earl, and maybe you'll see a boy you'll recognized.
One who will look like you and whom I will teach never to be afraid."
"Are you telling me you're pregnant?"
"Would you believe me if I did?" She smiled at him, her eyes enigmatic. "And could you ever be sure that I wasn't
telling the truth?" Then, before he could answer, she leaned forward and said, "To the right, Navalok, through that
pass and then to the left. The house is in a hollow about a mile beyond."
It sat like a gem in an emerald surrounding, a place of faceted stone and a gabled roof with up-swept eaves and
windows which looked like smiling eyes. The lake was a mirror edged with reeds, bright with floating blooms. Birds
flashed among them like streaks of painted wind and, in the limpid depths, fish sported with an agile grace.
A haven. A place to rest and relax as the sun rose in the sky and the heat increased to still the air and cast a
brooding stillness over the area.
Dumarest refused to swim, watching as Dephine dived and swum and climbed from the water to shed droplets in
glinting showers as she shook the mane of her hair. Dressed, she sat beside him as Navalok ran with youthful energy
beyond the house to inspect the garden of shrubs and scented plants.
"You like it Earl?"
"Yes."
"It could be yours. All of it."
He said, dryly, "And the price?"
"To love me, Earl. Simply that. To love me enough to want to stay."
A temptation, and she had been right, what more could he hope to find than what was here? But the choice was
not that easy.
And then, casually, she said, "To love me as much as you once loved Kalin."
Frowning he said, "Kalin? I don't understand."
"No?" She turned to face him, her eyes pools of secret amusement. "I think that you do, Earl, Kalin was very close
to you, wasn't she? A woman who loved you so much that she—well, does it matter now? But I know about her, Earl.
I know!"
The nightmare in the Vorden when he had lain sick. The delirium. Dumarest remembered that mind-aching time,
the face he had seen haloed with light, red hair which had woken a fragment of the past.
She had probed as he had guessed, driven by nothing more perhaps than a woman's curiosity, but from his
answers she had learned.
How much?
"You are a man with a past, Earl," she continued smoothly. "Kan Lofoten hinted as much when I asked him how
he could trust you. He mentioned information he held about a certain organization who would pay highly to get you
into their hands. Very highly, Earl."
 "And you are greedy, Dephine. Well, what animal is not?"
He saw the look in her eyes, the recoil as if he had slapped her in the face.
"You're a clever actress," he said, bitterly, "but you followed a trade which taught you how to manipulate men. All
the protestations of love, the passion, the promises, the bribes. Even to the extent of hinting that you carry my child
in your womb. All for what, Dephine? To make sure that I would remain in one place? That I would be available when
the Cyclan came to collect me?"
"You knew! You bastard, you knew!"
"No." He looked at a face which had grown ugly. "I only suspected. Your concern and sudden need of me. To be
your champion, you said, but why come to Emijar at all? You hate the place and were far from popular when you left.
So why risk your prize? Why else but to make sure I would be at a predetermined place?"
From behind the house Navalok called, his voice high, his words indistinguishable.
"A clever plan, Dephine. You learned of my value to the Cyclan when I was ill. Did you contact them while I was
under treatment on Shallah? Did they tell you exactly what to do or did you promise they would find me in your
keeping here on Emijar? The latter, I think. You would want to retain control. A mistake. I thank you for it."
"You—"
"I saw your face when the Captain told us of the damaged vessel," said Dumarest. "The one which had to put in
for repair. It would have been here yesterday aside from that. Does it carry a cyber? More than one? Your reward?
How much did they promise you, Dephine? No matter how much it wasn't enough."
He saw the flicker of her eyes, the change of expression which told him all he needed to know. Even in delirium
he had retained the secret of the affinity twin. She didn't know the arrangement of the sequence chain—if she had he
would have been left with no choice.
Rising he shouted to the boy. "Navalok—take me back to town."
Dephine said only one word. "Lekhard!"

***

He came from the interior of the house, smiling, a gun leveled in his hand. A man who glowed with the desire to
kill, to wipe out imagined insults in a bath of blood.
He said, tautly, "You took my gun away from me once—now try to do it again."
"Lekhard! No! He must be kept alive!" Dephine rose to approach the man, to stand beside him, one hand
caressing his arm. "He means a fortune to us, darling. And nothing you could do to him would be worse than what is
waiting. If he tries to move shoot at his legs. Smash his knees and leave him to scream his throat raw with pain, but
don't kill him."
"I want to kill him. He has touched you. Looked at you as if you were his own."
"I suffered it for your sake, my dearest. So that we could both be rich. If you can imagine how I felt after such filth
had touched me you would wonder how I could do such a thing. And when he spoke of marriage! I, a daughter of the
Keturah, married to a thing like that! Later, my dear, we shall laugh about it."
Dumarest didn't look at the woman and paid no attention to what she was saying. All his concentration was on
the man. Lekhard was like a bomb balanced on a razor-edge—a word, a look, and he would explode in a burst of
insane destruction. Even to warn the woman about his state was to invite a burst of missiles. Bullets which, at this
range and with his experience, could not miss.
And then Navalok, answering his summons, came running from the back of the house.
The woman saw him, the man, both turning as he skidded to a halt. A fraction of time in which their attention
was taken from Dumarest. A split second in which he acted.
His knee rose to meet the questing hand, the knife lifting as his foot fell, the hand lifting to swing forward with the
full power of arm, back and shoulder. A move which Lekhard spotted from the corner of his eye. One which spun him
back to face Dumarest his hand lifting, the finger tightening on the trigger. To fall back as the knife slammed into his
throat to send blood gushing from his mouth in a crimson stream.
Dying he fired.
The blade had severed his larynx, thrust into the neck to reach the spine, to kill as surely as a bullet in the brain.
But his finger had been closing, the muscles tense, the death-convulsion enough to complete the action. The gun
roared, flame stabbing from the muzzle, the bullet riding a blast of expanding gases to catch Dephine in the chest to
bury itself in her lungs, the heavy ball creating havoc among the delicate tissues.
"Earl!"
Dumarest caught her as she fell, blood running from her mouth, one hand clawing at her waist to fall empty from
her holster.
 "Earl, I—" She coughed and sprayed his face with blood. "You win, you bastard," she whispered. "You win. You
lucky—"
Luck which had ruined the generator of the Cyclan vessel and delayed it long enough for him to escape. Which
had led him to say just enough while in delirium for the woman to have seared her flesh in a desperate effort to save
his life. Which had caused Navalok to create the distraction which had given him the opportunity to kill.
Now he watched, wide-eyed, as Dumarest gently laid the dead woman on the ground.
"She was beautiful," he said softly. "And she loved you."
Dumarest closed the staring, now empty green eyes.
"Earl?"
"Take me to town, boy. Just take me to town."
To the ship which was waiting. To the suns and stars of the galaxy. To the worlds which teemed in the empty
spaces, where it was possible to forget.

HAVEN OF DARKNESS

Chapter One
Delusia came unexpectedly so that she continued riding towards the north, forgetting the passage of time in the
stimulating conversation with Charles. He looked well as he rode easily at her side, his clothes the same as she
remembered him wearing when, shortly after they had first met, he had attended her on a hunt. The bag had been
negligible; some vermin tossed aside on the homeward journey, but the pleasure had been great. They had wandered,
hands touching, talking of a variety of things with a irresistible torrent of words. Normally shy she had found a
release in his presence while he, perhaps amused at her young eager attention, had relaxed the guard he usually wore.
Now, riding close to her side, he was the same suave, charming man she had known when little more than a girl.
A long time ago now and she had known him when he looked other than he did at the moment. There had been lines
tracing the smooth curve of his cheek and a sagging of the flesh beneath the chin. The old, familiar manner had
become crusted with accumulated layers of distrust and, when he had finally died, killed in some stupid quarrel, he
had resembled an old and tired man rather than the youth she chose to remember.
"Charles!" She lifted her whip and pointed ahead to where a narrow cleft showed in the bleak wall of the Iron
Mountains. "That gully, you see it? The first to reach it claims a forfeit. Go!"
A childish game and one she hadn't played for years now and she had a moment's wonder as to why she should
choose to play it now. A return to her youth, perhaps, her childhood? The fiction of a happier time? If so she knew
better, for her childhood had not been happy and the things it contained were best forgotten.
Leaning forward, heels drumming, she concentrated on the race. Beneath her she could feel the surge and pulse
of muscle as her mount sent iron-shod hooves against the bare rock of the foothills. In her nostrils she could smell
the odors of sweat and hair, of leather and oil, catch too the sensual scent of the beast; a mare close to seasonal heat
—had that scent triggered her own femininity?
The drumming of the hooves softened as they hit a film of drifted soil; grains carried by the winds and trapped in
the shelter of the cleft. Dull echoes rose to be caught and reflected by the soaring walls of either side. Before them
shadows lay dense, somber banks of thickening darkness which hid what lay beyond and seemed to hide the hint of
movement.
Abruptly the mare came to a halt, raring, forelegs rising, eyes rolling, foam dropping from bared teeth and muzzle.
A move which almost threw her, would have thrown her had she not been about to check the forward motion of the
animal.
"Steady, girl! Steady!"
Charles, of course, had vanished, but she thought nothing of him as she ran her hands over the head and muzzle
of the frightened beast, soothing the animal with words and touch. And the mare had reason to be afraid. She had
ridden too long and wandered too far and now it was dangerously close to night. Looking up she saw the edges of the
gully framing a strip of purple sky palely flecked with the ghosts of stars. The suns were invisible, coming into view
only when she had left the mountains and begun the journey home.
They were lower than she had thought and she cursed the delusia which had robbed her of elementary caution.
Already the day was dying, the light diffused, the air holding a metallic taint, but with luck, she decided, she could just
about make it. If it hadn't been for the stupid race with Charles she would have had no doubt but now, literally, it was
a matter of life and death.
"Go!" She snapped to the mare. "Run for your life now, girl. Run!"
She helped, easing the stirrups, loosening the reins, placing her weight so as to help and not to hamper the
rhythm of the animal. There was little more she could do. To have halted and removed the saddle would have lost
time and the saving of weight was not as important as it would seem. The beast was accustomed to the saddle and
she was not skilled in bare-backed riding.
"Move, girl! Move!"
It was no time to be gentle. The spurs she wore more for decoration than for actual use dug into the heaving
flanks, the sting of the whip accentuating their message of urgency. Beneath her she felt the animal bound, fresh life
sent to tiring muscles, the stride lengthening a little now they had reached flatter ground. Behind them the bulk of the
mountains began to shrink as the ground streamed past around and below. The speed of their passage created a wind
which thrummed against her face and caught her hair, tearing it free from the golden clasps which held it, fanning the
thick, black tresses and sending them to stream like a silken pennant from the rounded contour of her head.
"On!" she urged. "On, girl! On!"
The sound of her voice acted as had the whip and spurs. Foam flew from the muzzle and the lungs strained in the
barrel of the chest. A machine, bred and trained for strength, speed and obedience, the animal raced through the
thickening darkness towards the haven which alone could save it. On its back the woman, sensing its fear and terror,
conscious of her own, bit at her lower lip until blood stained her chin, the gleaming white perfection of her teeth.
Ellman's Rest, a gnarled and oddly shaped mass of wood and stone, the great tree surrounded by the rock which
it had shattered by the relentless fury of its growth, appeared on her right. Wisps of night-mist wreathed it, tattered
veils which blurred detail so that for a moment she thought it was a creature of the unknown standing with
outstretched arms to snatch her from the back of her mount, to crush her, to rend the limbs from her body and to tear
free her internal organs. A moment of illusion, then the thing was behind and now only a few miles lay between her
and the castle.
"We're winning," she said to the laboring animal. "Keep it up, girl. We're winning!"
The suns were behind her, the magenta and violet, their discs blended, now both below the horizon. Night was
closing in, limiting her vision so that it was impossible to make out detail more than a few feet to either side, a little
more ahead. Before her the trail wound like a snake, the narrow path curving between boulders, around looming
mounds, straightening only to twist again. A bad road to take at speed even in the full light of day. One suicidal to
attempt at a gallop on the edge of night.
"On, girl! On!"
The crest lay ahead, beyond it the curve, then the slope and, at last, a clear view of the castle. Once past the crest
the road ran downhill and, beyond the curve, it was wide and evenly smooth. A place maintained for racing but never
before had she raced with such determination to win. She would, she thought as they neared it, set a new record.
Certainly it would be one which she never intended to break under similar circumstances.
Then, as something moved in the dimness, the animal shied.
There had been no warning, no intimation and, lulled by the nearing safety, she had relaxed a little. Too late she
grabbed at the reins, felt the animal rear, and then was falling, hurtling through the air to land with a bone-jarring
thud, her vision laced with darting flashes. As they cleared she rose and looked around. The animal had fallen and lay,
screaming, on the dirt.
"It's hurt," said Charles. He stood at her side and looked at the stricken beast. "A broken leg, see?"
She didn't need the guidance of his pointing finger to discover the injury.
"Something frightened it. An animal of some kind crossing the trail." His voice was soft, even. "Nothing you need
worry about. But the animal—you'll have to kill it."
The mare was young, healthy, a magnificent specimen of her species. She could be drugged, the leg mended with
internal splints.
"You'll have to kill her," insisted Charles. "It's too dark to do anything else. You know that. You have no choice. At
least be kind."
To the animal and then, perhaps, to herself. She looked around, shivering, feeling the skin crawl on her back and
shoulders. The pull and drag of her loose tresses felt like hands tugging at her scalp. Their touch rasped dust and dirt
over her tunic, little scraping sounds which, because near, rose above the screaming of the beast.
"Steady, girl!" She took small steps forward, talking, smiling as she spoke, one hand behind her, the fingers lifting
the compact laser from her belt. "Steady, girl! Steady!"
The animal looked at her, eyes rolling, ears pricked, teeth bared in fright and pain. She stepped closer, kneeled
beside the head, lifted the laser to rest its muzzle within the confines of an ear.
 "Now," said Charles firmly. "Now!"
A click and it was done, the beam drilling through flesh and bone into the mass of the brain bringing quick and
merciful peace.
Rising she looked down at the dead animal. It would be waiting for her and, should she follow it, they could ride
again. As Charles would be waiting and so many others. A touch and it would be done.
"Lavinia! Lavinia, don't!"
She heard the shout and the thud of racing hooves, turned to see the dim figure in the dying light. Roland with a
spare mount at his side.
"Up, girl!" he said urgently as he drew to a halt at her side. "Mount and ride!"
Delusia? The animals were real and Roland was alive as far as she knew. Quickly she mounted and felt the pound
of hooves as the beast carried her down the road. Ahead loomed the bulk of the castle, the gates wide, closing as
they rode past them, slamming shut as the great curfew-bell sent throbbing echoes into the air.
"My lady, you are safe!" Old Giacomo, his face creased and seamed like the skin of a dried fruit, helped her to
dismount. "The Old Ones heard my prayers!"
"And mine, my lady." A younger man, his son, she thought, touched a finger to his brow with due respect for her
rank. Already he had presumed too far. "I also begged for the Old Ones to protect you."
"And I, my lady! And I!"
A sussuration, a chorus of voices, muttering, blending into a drone, turning words into things without meaning.
For a moment she swayed, seeing the great courtyard filled with a great assembly, the host dotted with familiar faces.
Fan de Turah, Ser M'tolah, Chun Chue, Tianark L'ouck—uncles and cousins and forebears whose portraits now hung
in the galleries. Nobles who had come to stay and fight and die for the Family. Strangers whom she had never known
but who now filled her castle. Generations which had lived and died before her own parents had been conceived.
"Lavinia!" Roland was at her side, his hand on her arm, his face anxious. "My dear, are you ill?"
"No."
"You look so pale." Gently he pushed back the thick strands of hair which had fallen over her cheek. "And your
tunic is soiled. Did you fall?"
"Yes." She anticipated his concern. "It was nothing. Some bruises, perhaps, but nothing more."
"Even so a physician should examine you. Tomorrow I will send for one or, better, accompany you into town."
"No!" Always the tone of authority irritated her and yet she realized her sharpness had been uncalled for. He
meant well and, of them all, he alone had ridden out for her. "No, Roland," she said more gently. "I'm not hurt. A hot
bath and some massage is all I need."
He said, stiffly, "As you wish, my lady. I have no right to order, and yet I think you are being unwise."
"My lady?" She smiled and shook her head. "Roland you are my cousin and my friend. What need of such stiff
formality? And where would I be now if you had not come to rescue me?"
A question he chose not to answer. Instead, as they walked from the courtyard towards the inner chambers, he
said, "You were late, Lavinia. I was worried. What happened? Delusia?"
"Yes." She threw back her hair as they entered the corridor leading to her apartment. "Charles came to ride with
me. He looked as I remembered him when we first met. Do you remember?"
"I was off world at the time," he said. "A business trip to Olmeyha."
"But you remember Charles, surely?"
"Yes." He looked down at his hands. They were thin, the knuckles prominent, the fingers too long for perfect
symmetry. Only the nails, carefully polished and filed, revealed the fastidiousness of his nature. "Yes," he said again. "I
remember him."
"The way he talked," she mused. "He opened doors for me which I didn't even know existed. The things he had
done and intended to do. Had he lived I think I would have shared them."
"As the consort of an aging degenerate?" His tone was sharp, savagely dry. "Charles was older than you
suspected, Lavinia. You were young then, little more than a child, trusting, impressionable, a little—"
"Foolish?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you meant it." Anger glowed in her eyes and turned the dark orbs into pools of smoldering fire. "Is that what
you think of me?"
"No. Lavinia, don't jump to conclusions."
"Young," she said. "Little more than a child. Trusting. Impressionable. Well, perhaps all that is true, even though I
was more than a child. But foolish? No. Not unless it is foolish to ache to learn. Stupid to want to be a woman. Do you
still think I was a fool?"
"To be charmed by Charles, yes." Stubbornly he refused to yield. "I knew him, perhaps not too well, but better
than you did. He was a lecher, a gambler, a degenerate. Think, girl, it was written on his face. You saw him at the last."
"He'd been ill!"
"Yes." Roland looked again at his hands. "Yes, he'd been ill."
Wasting from the effects of a corrosive poison fed to him by an outraged husband, but what need to explain that?
The girl was enamored of a dream, the slave to memory.
She said, gently, "Roland, my friend, we have been quarreling and that is wrong. I owe you my life. Between us
should be nothing but harmony. If I have offended you I beg your forgiveness. You will give it?"
He took her extended hands into his own, feeling their soft firmness, their grace, their warmth. Tilting his head he
looked into her eyes, deep-set under high-arched brows, studying the glow of light reflected from her cheekbones, the
line of her jaw. The mouth was full, the lower lip, swollen from the impact of her teeth, a ruby pout. Her ears were
small and tight against the curve of her skull. The hair, disheveled now, was an ebon mane streaked with a band of
silver.
"My lady!" He stooped so as to hide the worship in his eyes.
"Roland!" Her hands freed themselves from his grasp, one touching his hair, running over the thinning strands.
"My friend! My very good friend!"
"Lavinia!"
"I must bathe and change." She turned from him, seeing a figure standing beside her door, waiting. "We shall meet
again at dinner. And, Roland, once again my thanks."
Charles accompanied her through the portal and stood watching as she stripped. The bath was hot, the scented
water easing aches and pains, a cloud of steam rising to dim the lines of the chamber, the figure of her maid.
"A dreadful thing, my lady," she said. She had heard the news as servants always did. Often Lavinia had wondered
just how they knew all that was going on. "To think of you being shut outside! Lord Acrae insisted the curfew
shouldn't be rung until he'd brought you safe inside and he set men to enforce his orders. But what if something had
happened, my lady? Suppose his mount had fallen? What if night had fallen before you were back inside?"
"If you had wings, girl, you'd be a bird."
"My lady?"
"Forget it." It was cruel to talk in ways the girl couldn't understand. "True night falls when the curfew is sounded,"
she explained. "Or, to put it another way, only when the curfew bell is rung has true night fallen. Do you understand?"
"I—I think so, my lady."
She didn't and Lavinia waved her away. She was too ignorant to understand the subtle difference between night
falling and a bell sounding the failing of night. A bell could be delayed and Roland had done just that. He had been
shrewder than she'd known. The difference could only have been in minutes, perhaps, but those minutes would or
could have made all the difference. At least the Pact had not been obviously flaunted and the Sungari had no grounds
for complaint.
"Charles?" She looked through the drifting steam but the figure had vanished. Delusia had passed. It would return
but she missed him.
Would they have married had he lived?
Lying in the steaming, scented water she ran her hands over the curves and silken skin of her body. It was a good
one, she knew, even though not as young as once it had been. The time for marriage had come and gone with her
father failing in his duty, her uncle more concerned with his own affairs, her mother turning to the past and finally
swallowing poison to be with the object of an early passion.
Alone she had worked to maintain the Family estates, the castle, the house in town. Retainers needed money for
food and clothing, dowries had to be provided for the female servants, homes and work for the men. Some of the
young had become restless and had left to move on and try their luck on other worlds. There had been friction with
the Sungari, the Pact barely maintained and lost crops had created hardship. And now Lord Gydapen was turning
difficult.
"My lady?" The maid was at the edge of the bath. "Are you ready for your massage now?"
"Later."
"But soon it will be time for dinner and your hair needs to be dressed and—"
"Later." Lavinia stretched, guessing the girl had a lover waiting, not caring if she had. Let the fellow wait, he
would appreciate the girl all the more for having his pleasure delayed. And he, the girl also, must learn that, above all,
her wishes were paramount. "Later, I said. Argue and I'll have you whipped!"
It was harder to relax this time, the irritation lingered. Gydapen and the irritation, a good combination, one giving
rise to the other. Perhaps she should encourage his attentions? His estates were to the south, rich lands providing a fat
harvest, a gain for her and food for her people. A marriage would be politically wise if otherwise distasteful. Rich he
might be but Gydapen was lacking in certain attributes which would have claimed her attention. His height for one;
how could she bear to look down on her consort? His girth could be lessened and his age was no real handicap; the
extra years would hasten his natural end. Love, of course, did not enter into it.
Could she bear to marry without love? To allow a man to touch her body as she touched it now? To use her, to
breed children in her belly, to make her a thing of his own?
She knew the answer even as she turned in the water, restless, conscious of her needs, the demands of her flesh
aroused by the thoughts of desire. If a sacrifice had to be made for the Family then she would make it. If Gydapen
could provide peace and security and demanded her body as the price then she would pay it.
But it would be nice to marry for love.
Lying in the water, eyes half-closed, drifting in an ocean of erotic fantasies, she thought about it. A man who
would come into her life as Charles had done, sweeping her off her feet, overwhelming her with his masculinity. A
man of culture and sophistication, gentle and yet knowing when to be cruel, masterful and yet knowing when to
yield. A man she could trust to stand at her side. A father for her children. A lover to be enjoyed.
A dream to be enjoyed as the bath was to be enjoyed. A self-indulgence which must remain limited to a brief
duration. Her maid could hope for such a man, every servant in the castle, every daughter of a minor noble, but she
stood alone. And, even if she was free to choose, where on all Zakym could such a man be found?

Chapter Two
The guard was neatly uniformed in scarlet and emerald; bright colors which made him conspicuous but which did
nothing to reduce his dignity. A man of middle-age, his face round and unsmiling, his voice was firmly polite.
"All persons arriving on Harald are required to deposit the cost of a High passage with the authorities.
Exceptions, of course, are made for residents and for those traveling on inclusive tours arranged by reputable
companies. Do you fall into either of the latter categories, sir?"
Dumarest said, flatly, "You know the answer to that. No."
"Then I must ask you for the deposit. A receipt will be issued, naturally, and you can claim repayment on
departure."
"And if I haven't got it?"
The guard shrugged. "You could, perhaps, arrange for a passage to another world. If you lack even the money for
that then you will be confined to a special area. Those with work to offer will seek you out. In time, with luck, you
could gain enough to move on."
A lot of time and even more luck. The stranded would have no chance of breaking free of the trap. Those
offering work would pay only minimal rates and what money earned would go on food. It would be impossible ever
to gain the price of a High passage. Even if a man managed to get enough to travel Low, riding doped, frozen and
ninety per cent dead in a casket designed for the transportation of animals, the odds were against him. Starved,
emaciated, such a journey would be certain death. Only the fit could hope to survive and even they ran the risk of the
fifteen per cent death rate.
Dumarest said, dryly, "Usually when a man is stranded on a planet he has the chance of making his own way.
Why the compound?"
"Desperate men are dangerous. Harald is a civilized world. We want no man-shaped animals hunting in our
streets."
"And no paupers, either?"
"And no paupers." The guard looked over his shoulder towards the town. It seemed a nice place, tall buildings of
at least a dozen stories rising above the painted roofs of sprawling dwellings. Even the field was well laid out, the
perimeter fence tall and ringed with lights, the warehouses set in neat array. The compound, Dumarest guessed,
would be placed well away from the public eye.
Lowtowns usually were.
"You have the deposit?" The guard was growing impatient even though his tone remained polite. Old enough to
have learned caution he knew that a harsh and brusk manner would gain him nothing except, perhaps, a knife in the
throat. And Dumarest looked the type of man who knew how to handle a knife.
"I have it." Dumarest counted out the money, thick coins issued by the Jarmasin-Pontianak Combine and
recognized on a hundred worlds. He frowned as the guard held out a pad. "What's this for?"
"Your thumb print. It's for your own protection," the guard explained. "A receipt can get lost or be stolen but no
one can steal your thumb print. The right hand and rest the ball within the square. Your name?" He wrote it down,
apparently unaware of the momentary hesitation. "Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Is there any limit as to duration?"
 "None." Now that the formalities had been seen to the guard was willing to talk. "Of course, should you run into
debt, become a public charge or show criminal tendencies action will be taken. As I said we have a nicely civilized
world here and we want to maintain our standards. If you run into trouble your deposit will be on hand to ship you
out if the need arises. We don't believe in hurting ourselves to keep the useless." Deftly he changed the subject. "Are
you here for any special purpose?"
"To look around. To work, maybe. There is work?"
"Plenty. You'll find details at the agency. If you want a hotel I'd recommend the Wanderer's Rest. It's a nice place,
clean and not too expensive. My wife's sister runs it. Tell her I sent you and she'll do her best."
"I'll think about it," said Dumarest.
"You do that."
"I will."
That and other things. His name and thumb print registered at the gate, both obviously to be fed into a computer,
a record impossible for him to erase and a signpost to any who might be looking. And some would be looking, of that
he was sure. A mistake to have paid the deposit, perhaps, another way could have been found, but it would have
taken time and needless risk. Speed then, he decided. He would do what he had come to do and do it fast.
Dumarest slowed and looked around. A wide road ran from the field now busy with traffic and pedestrians. Men
and women, neatly dressed, their faces telling of comfortable living, wandered on either side. Shops with large
windows of glass or transparent plastic offered a variety of goods for sale. Taverns echoed soft music and the scents
of food.
A nice, warm, comfortable world and Dumarest could understand the desire of the inhabitants to keep it that
way.
A car slowed to halt beside him, the driver, a young man with a peaked cap adorned with multi-colored piping
smiling from his seat.
"Want to ride, mister?"
"No."
"I'm heading into the city. Half a deci gets you there. A cut-rate, mister, and why hurt yourself for a little money?"
His smile widened as Dumarest sat in the passenger compartment. "Anywhere special?"
"You know the Wanderer's Rest?"
"Sure." Eyes too old for the face slid towards him. "It's a home for the senile. You want a little action then leave it
to me. Some luxuries, maybe? A girl or two? Some gambling? Name it and it's yours."
"Just take me where I said."
Leaning back Dumarest studied the town. The buildings were all in good repair but with a pool of cheap labor
readily available that was to be expected. As was the absence of beggars and the usual touts to be found at any
landing field, but the driver had already said enough for him to know that what he saw was a facade over the usual
vice.
"Right, mister." The driver held out a hand. "The Wanderer's Rest. Two decis."
"You said a half."
"Man, you're crazy. The fare is two. You want to argue I'll call a guard."
Dumarest looked to either side. Down the street he caught a flash of scarlet and emerald. Opposite a pair of
women were gossiping and, lower down, a young couple walked arm in arm.
"Two decis." The driver snapped his fingers. "Come on, man, give. I've no time to haggle with a yokel."
"Two decis," said Dumarest. He fumbled in a pocket, leaning close, hiding the driver from view. The man
squealed as fingers closed like steel claws around his arm. "Is a broken arm worth it?"
"You! I—" The man gulped as fingers dug into flesh and grated against bone. "No, mister! No!"
"Two decis?"
Sweat beaded the driver's face as he stared into the hard visage inches from his eyes. The hand gripping his arm
was threatening to tear the muscle from the bone, to snap the limb. The pain of impacted nerves was a fire searing
naked tissue.
"No! A mistake! For God's sake, mister, let me go!"
"To shout for the guard? To argue about the fare?"
"No!"
"Changed your mind about cheating me?" Dumarest climbed back into the vehicle. "Drop me in the middle of
town."
It ringed a plaza set with fountains and flowering shrubs, shaded by graceful trees and dotted with convenient
benches. Some children played at the foot of a statue; a cluster of men with their faces turned upwards to face the
sky. It had been cast from a reddish metal now bright and smoothly polished. A man stood before it a duster in his
hand. He was dressed in gray, wore a round hat and had a wide collar of dull, black metal clamped around his neck.
Dumarest said, "How much do they pay you?"
"Pay me?" The man turned, blinking. "Who are you, mister? Why do you ask?"
"I'm curious. Well?"
"I don't get paid," said the man, dully. "But for each day I work I get five decis knocked off my debt."
And, if he tried to run, the radio-linked collar could be activated to blow the head from his shoulders.
"What about your deposit?"
"What deposit? I was born here." The man turned to wipe his duster over the statue. "At that I'm lucky. They
won't let me starve and I'm given shelter. My wife left me, of course, and my kid disowned me but, in seven years,
three months and eleven days they'll unlock this collar and set me free."
"And, if someone paid the debt?"
"I'd be freed at once. I only owed money, mister, I didn't hurt anyone. Even if I had I could buy my way out after
taking my lashes. You—no."
"Something?"
"You look like a stranger. If you want some good advice get off this world as soon as you can. Without money
you'd be better off dead and, if you've got some, they'll be after it. The vultures, I mean. But who the hell ever takes
good advice?"
"I do." Dumarest handed the man twenty days of freedom. "This isn't charity—I don't believe in it. I'm buying
information. Where can I find the best computer service in town?"
It was housed in an ornate building which reared close to the edge of the city. Glass reflected the light of the
setting sun as Dumarest made his way towards it and he paused, looking at the intricate stone-work, wondering who
had paid for it and why.
Inside he found out. The receptionist was svelte, young, vaguely interested in his requirements. A woman, he
guessed, with more than work on her mind. Patiently he explained his needs.
"Computer time, certainly, that's what we're here to deliver. Now if you will let us have the relevant documents
and authorization—"
"What authorization?"
"Why, the permission to use the documents for the purpose your claim." Long eyelashes dropped to cover
impatient eyes. "Is it really necessary for me to explain?"
Dumarest said, coldly, "I am a personal friend of the Director. He has asked me to conduct a test of your attitude
towards the general public. I find it most interesting. Now, if you please, I would like your name and status." His tone
chilled even more. "At once!"
"I—But you can't! I mean—"
"You deny me the information? Am I to assume you lack the right to sit where you do? Inform your superior that I
wish to make an immediate appointment. Move, girl. Move!"
Twenty minutes later he was ushered into an office occupying the corner of the fifth floor. A woman rose as he
entered, coming forward to meet him, both hands extended. As their palms touched she said, "Earl Dumarest. You
have been on this world less than two hours and already I have one slightly hysterical girl on my hands. Are you really
a friend of the Director?"
A woman who knew so much would know more. "No."
"I am glad that you didn't lie. It would have been a stupid pretense. My name, incidentally is Hilda Benson. My
status, if you are interested, is comptroller of external outlets." She smiled, a dumpy, aging woman who radiated an
air of competence. "What made you so annoyed downstairs?"
"Stupidity."
"The girl's or the system's?"
"Perhaps both. She wanted documents—I have none. She demanded an authorization to use the documents I
didn't have. We were getting nowhere."
"So you did something about it. Please sit. Now, how can we help you?" She frowned as he told her. "You want to
find a world? A planet called Earth? And you come to us for that?"
"Where better?"
"An almanac, surely. One can be found in any library."
"Can you supply the information?"
"Of course. If a library has the information then so do we. An incredible amount of data is stacked in our
memory banks and that information naturally includes all known astronomical data, all navigational tables, the most
recent listing and—" She broke off, shaking her head. "Well, it's your money and if you want to waste it who am I to
object? Earth, you say?" A terminal stood to one side of the office and she crossed to it, her fingers dancing over the
keys. "This will only take a moment."
Dumarest leaned back in the chair, waiting. After a while he said, "Is something wrong?"
"No." She looked a little flustered. "It's just that we have to wait our turn. I'll ask again and demand priority."
"The response will be—planet unknown," said Dumarest. "Am I correct?"
"You are." She looked at him from her position by the terminal. "Which means that the world you mention does
not exist."
"Because your computer does not hold the information?" He shrugged. "Try again, madam. Ask under 'legends.'
Also under the name Terra.' And if you have anything on the Original People it might help."
"Is this a joke?"
"No." He met her eyes. "I came here for help not to make a fool of anyone. I understand that the computers on
Harald are the finest in the entire region. I take it they are cross-linked?" He paused, continuing at her nod, "All that
remains then is to select the finest service. I was given to understand that this was it. Maybe you're more interested in
fancy decoration and prestige-buildings than in actual service."
"You don't have to be insulting."
"I don't have to be anything!" Dumarest surged to his feet. "Certainly I don't have to beg for what I pay for or
plead for what you are in business to provide. Now hit those keys and let's find out just how damned good your
computers are."
For a long moment she stood, looking at him, her eyes searching his face and then, as if having arrived at a
decision, turned to the terminal and sent her blunt fingers over the keys.
He heard the hiss of her indrawn breath as she read the answer flashed on the screen.
"Well?"
"Legend," she said. "It's listed under legend. Earth is a mythical world—"
"Wrong!"
"—one equated with Eden, Avalon, Camelot, El Dorado, Jackpot, Bonanza and many others," she continued,
ignoring the interruption. "One of a group of tales possibly devised to entertain children or to point a moral. A fable,
a place devoid of hurt, pain or sorrow."
"Wrong again," he said, harshly. "Earth has all of those and more. Try again."
"Terra?"
"Another name for Earth." He waited as she operated the keyboard. "Well?"
"As you say, it is another name for Earth, but I've something from the Original People. You would, no doubt, like
to tell me what it is."
He smiled at the acidity of her tone; an expression without genuine humor, but one which helped. There was no
point in making her an enemy.
"The Original People are a cult which believe that all men sprang from a single world. I quote—" his voice
deepened, held something of the muted thunder of drums, "From terror they fled to find new places on which to
expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united." As she drew in her breath he said, "End
of quote. Good enough?"
"For me, yes. You know what you're talking about and I don't think you are joking. But you realize what you're
asking us to do?"
"To find the coordinates of Earth."
"To find a legend. A place which officially doesn't exist. Do you realize what that could mean? Endless checking
of cross-references, the hunting down of abstruse notations, the searching of ancient files. Elimination, selection,
winnowing, collating, substantiating—it could take years!" She saw his expression. "You disagree?"
"Not with what you say. Such a search would take a long time and there would be no certainty of success. But I
don't want you to do that. I merely want to hire the computer to run a comparison check on a stellar spectrogram I
have. How much would it cost?"
"We charge by the minute." He pursed his lips as she told him the price. "Are you still interested?"
"How long would it take?"
She said, precisely, "There are over a half billion stars registered in the memory banks. Some elimination is
possible, naturally, but even so it will take time. And first the input information must be prepared. You have the data?"
She took the strip of film he handed to her, a copy of the one he had found on Emijar and, holding it, said, "There
will be an initial fee of two hundred. This will cover breakdown and isolation of relevant identifying aspects. The
material will, naturally, be yours."
"Two hundred decis?"
"Mettres."
Ten times as much—no wonder they had graced the building with expensive carvings. Twice the cost of a Low
passage but worth it if he could gain the coordinates.
She said, as if reading his mind, "You realize this is only the initial payment. The fee for computer hire will be
extra."
A hundred a minute and he'd thought she'd meant decis.
Now he knew better. Harald, it seemed, was an expensive world in more ways than one.
"Have you any idea how long it could take?"
"The computer can check ten thousand bits every second. Assuming the entire half billion has to be checked it is
a matter of simple division. Ten thousand into five hundred million divided by sixty to obtain minutes, multiplied by a
hundred comes to—" she paused a moment, frowning, "Say about eighty-three thousand. The average should be half
of that, say forty-two thousand. Of course, we could hit the answer within the first second."
"And that would cost only a hundred?"
"No." Gently she shook her head. "For an investigation like this we should require a deposit of ten thousand
minimum. That, of course, will buy you a hundred minutes and you could be lucky."
"And if not?"
"Then we'd freeze the program until you had handed us more. It would be best to arrange for a complete run and
take a gamble. I could arrange it for forty-five thousand and you would be certain of a complete check. If we run over
the half-way mark, of course, we stand to lose."
"How?" He spoke before she could answer. "I know—the extra running time would be for free. Supposing I paid
just what would I get?"
"The answer if it is to be found. A complete check of all comparisons made in any case—information which
would be valuable in itself. For elimination purposes," she explained. "It is remotely possible that some other
computer has information on stars which we lack. The data we would give you could isolate those stars and possibly
supply the missing item." For a moment she was silent then, quietly said, "Well?"
If he'd had the money he would have told her to go ahead—what was money when compared to finding Earth?
But he didn't have it and nothing like it. The two hundred, yes, but what good would be the initial preparation data?
"Could I leave it for now?"
"Of course." She handed him back the strip of film. Reaching for it their fingers met and she froze at the contact,
sensing something of the disappointment which filled him. "Look," she said with sudden generosity. "There is nothing
I can do to help you. I work for the company and you must understand why. But there is a man, a hobbyist in a way,
and he might be able to do something. I'll give you his name and address." She scribbled on a pad. "Be gentle with
him, please. Once we were friends."
Once long ago perhaps, but now he had found another. One which came in convenient containers and held the
old, insidious charm. Dumarest stared at the man who opened the door and recognized the traces on face and
bearing. Smelt too the sickly odor of the habitual drunk.
"Armand Ramhed?"
"The same. And you?" Armand craned forward, blinking. Tall, his head came level with Dumarest's own but his
bulk was only half as much. His skin was creped, mottled, sagging in tiny pouches. His watery eyes were bagged and
his throat resembled the scrawny limb of a starved bird. "Who are you, sir?" He blinked again as Dumarest gave his
name and that of the woman who had sent him. Now he knew why she had asked him to be gentle.
"Hilda?" Armand smiled with genuine pleasure. "A wonderful woman, sir, and a true friend. Come in. Come in.
Anything I can do to help I will do. For her I can do no less."
Inside the house was surprisingly clean though thinly furnished. Some bottles stood against a wall, all empty.
Another stood on a table together with a glass. From the rear came the stench of fermenting fluids.
"You will drink with me?" Armand, without waiting for an answer, found a second glass. It was thick, smeared, the
edge chipped a little. "It is only home-brew but it has some merit. A good body and the flavor, though I say it myself,
is rewarding to those of discernment. A trifle young, of course, but there, we can't have everything can we? To your
very good health, sir."
Dumarest watched as he swallowed the contents of his glass then took a sip of his own. He was pleasantly
surprised. The wine, though a little rough, did hold the body Armand had claimed and the flavor, while strange, was
not repulsive. And it was strong.
"You like it?" Like a child the man was eager for praise but there was no need to lie.
"I've drunk worse on a score of worlds," said Dumarest. "And been on as many more where a bottle of this would
fetch a full mettre." Deliberately he emptied his glass.
"Some more?"
"Later." Dumarest produced the strip of film. "Hilda said that perhaps you could help me. If you can it will be
worth some money."
 "Is friendship to be bought?"
"No, but service is to be paid for." Dumarest explained the problem. "What can you do?"
"Perhaps nothing." Armand squinted at the film. "This needs to be magnified and projected—come into the other
room."
It was a crude laboratory, a mess of variegated equipment strewn over a table and the floor, wires running from
rough assemblies, hand-made mechanisms to all sides.
"Sit," ordered Armand. "Help yourself to drink if you want, but don't disturb me. This will take some time."
Time to sit and think and plant a little. Time to appreciate the irony of the situation and taste the bitter gall of
defeat. He had, Dumarest was certain, the long-sought key to the whereabouts of the world he had searched to find
for so long. Over the years he had gathered a handful of clues; a name, a sector, a mnemonic, some distances and
names of nearby stars and then, finally, the one sure means to identify the primary from all others. The spectrogram
he had found; the lost treasure of a forgotten cult.
It held the answer, he was sure of it. It would tell him what he wanted to know. Information which would yield the
essential coordinates and put an end to the bitter search. The answer at last—all he needed was the money to pay for
it.

Chapter Three
Armand Ramhed lived alone in a house which held little more than a bed, a table, a few chairs, some kitchen
equipment and the apparatus he had assembled in his study. Dumarest roved through it, checking the contents of the
cupboards and finding nothing but empty packets and scraps of moldering food. The air in the kitchen stank of the
fermenting liquid; a thick slime coated with a yellow crust ornamented with a shimmer of bursting bubbles. It
contained a mixture of fruits, vegetables, sugars and traces of acids, syrups and crushed roots. Garbage, Dumarest
guessed, collected from the market place, pounded, boiled, diluted, used as food by the yeasts which clouded it, their
waste the alcohol which had come to dominate Armand's life.
The man waved an irritable hand as Dumarest entered his study.
"Go away, Earl. Don't interrupt me. I haven't finished yet."
"It's late."
"Is it?" Armand lifted his head, blinking. The windows were shuttered, the only light that coming from the crude
apparatus over which he crouched. Colored beams streamed from it to paint his face with a rainbow. In the
illumination his thin features took on the grotesque appearance of a clown. "I hadn't noticed. How late is it?"
"It's dark. Are you hungry?" Dumarest had expected the shake of the head. Alcohol, especially when loaded with
organic particles, could feed as well as numb. "Well, I am. You've nothing to eat in the house. Where's the nearest
store?"
It lay down the road, a small automat which swallowed coins and disgorged pre-packed items. Dumarest returned
loaded with a package stuffed with basic commodities together with more perishable viands. An hour later he
dragged Armand from his study and sat him at the table.
"Earl, this is a waste. I'm not hungry. I'm—" The man broke off, sniffing. "Meat? Is that meat?"
It was steak, thick and rare, served with three kinds of vegetable, flavored and rich in spiced oils. As Armand
stared at it Dumarest said, shortly, "Eat."
"But—"
"Eat." He set an example, cutting, lifting slivers of meat to his mouth. "Take your time, chew it well, but eat."
The food had little obvious effect, it would take a month of such feeding to even begin to plump out the sunken
cheeks, but a trace of color graced the shallow flesh and the eyes held a sharper directness than before.
"That was good." Armand sighed as he wiped oil from his mouth. "You certainly know how to cook, Earl. But then
you would, wouldn't you?"
"Why?"
"A traveler has to be the master of many skills. To hunt, trap, butcher, cook—without that ability how to survive?
And to eat when food is available because there can never be any certainty of when the next meal will offer the
chance to eat again. You see? I know a little about such things."
"You've traveled?"
"A little when young. It is a disease of youth, is it not? The urge to be up and moving, to see new worlds, new
places. To find adventure and excitement and, perhaps, romance. Well, I found no treasure and no rich women
waiting to fall into my arms. I was offered no exotic employment and found no natural advantage. But some things I
did find."
 "Dirt," said Dumarest softly. "Discomfort. Pain and hunger. Cold indifference, men who cheated, women who lied.
Poverty and what it can bring."
"The need to be utterly selfish," whispered Armand. "To be greedy, to give nothing away which could be sold, to
concentrate every thought and action on the need to survive. And the loneliness. The loneliness."
"So you returned to Harald?"
"After a couple of years, yes. I'd made a friend, together we traveled Low, but when we landed he had died in
transit. It decided things for me. Some men are not made in an adventurer's mold. So I came back home and took up
a post with—well, never mind. And then—but that doesn't matter now either."
"Perhaps one thing does."
"Hilda?" Armand looked bleakly at his hands. "It's too late for that now. Once we could have made a life together
but I was weak while she was strong. Weak!" His fist slammed against the table. "The story of my life. Always I have
been weak. Earl!"
He needed his demon and it would do little harm on top of such richly oiled food. And his metabolism,
accustomed to alcohol, would be demanding it. Silently Dumarest handed the man a glass, watched as he plunged it
into the bubbling vat. A gulp and it was empty.
"How are you progressing?"
"On the spectrogram?" Armand helped himself to another drink. "Slowly. The work is engrossing and a puzzle of
interest but there are so many variables to take into account before it will be possible to present a final picture."
"Just what are you trying to do?"
"Nothing a computer couldn't do if correctly programmed. Basically, by a process of elimination, I'm saving you
money. You want to find a certain star, right? But stars are not all the same. There are blue-violets, red giants, white
dwarfs, variables, binaries, stars rich in radio waves, others verging on neutronic collapse."
"So?"
"I have determined that your spectrogram belongs to a G-type star, one of medium size, fairly stable, past the first
flush of its creation but far from age-collapse. This alone, as you can see, is a great saving. A hired computer can be
programmed to make comparisons only with stars of a similar type."
Dumarest said, grimly, "Did the woman lie to me? She said—"
"What, in her position, she had to say. The company does not exist to teach its customers how to save money. If
you asked for a complete comparison check then that is what you would have been given." Armand shrugged. "Come,
Earl, did you expect them to be charitable?"
On Harald nothing could be charitable. Dumarest said, "So you've isolated the spectral type. Good. What
remains? A simple check?"
"Not so simple." Armand sipped at his drink and shrugged at Dumarest's expression. "You think that all we need
to do is to expand the spectrum, isolate and determine the thickness and density of the Fraunhofer lines and then, as
soon as we have found a match, there is the answer. Is that so?"
"What else?"
"The red shift." Armand lifted his glass, saw Dumarest's eyes and hastily placed it down. "Stars are at varying
distances," he explained. "Any spectogram taken from one point will serve to identify all stars as seen from that point.
Good enough—but what happens if we take a spectrogram of the same star but from different distances? They would
have to be great, naturally, but only relatively so. And the direction too, that can have a bearing."
"The Doppler Effect," said Dumarest. "If the light comes from a source moving towards you it moved towards the
blue end of the spectrum. If from a source moving away then it shifts towards the red."
"Exactly, and so we get the name for the phenomena." Armand frowned, thoughtful. "But why call it that? Why
not the blue shift or the red-blue shift? You called it what—the Doppler Effect?"
"A name given to it by an old scientist I once knew. He learned it from an old book." Dumarest dismissed the
matter of terminology with an impatient gesture. "Never mind what we call it, what effect does it have as far as I'm
concerned?"
"It introduces a variable. If your spectrogram was taken from a point close to the primary it will be minutely
different from those taken at great distances and they, in turn, will differ from each other depending on which position
relative to the source they were taken. You see the difficulty?"
Find Earth and he would be able to identify Earth's sun—but his only interest in the primary was as a guide to the
planet itself. A vicious circle—or was it?
"No." Boldly Armand took another drink. "I mentioned it to illustrate the difficulties but the real answer lies in the
Fraunhofer lines. What I am doing is to isolate them, determine their position and density, correlate them with the
elements which gave them birth and so build up a pattern stripped of all unessentials. Once I have done that a
computer-comparison will be relatively cheap." He anticipated Dumarest's question. "At a rough guess I'd say in the
region of a fifth to a tenth. It would depend, of course, on the company."
"Of course," said Dumarest, and clamped his hand on the other's wrist as he again made to lift his glass. "You'd
better get back to work, yes?"
"And you?"
"I'm going to look around town."
The night had come with a thin scatter of rain and it puddled the streets, gleaming on the sidewalks, rising in
pluming fountains from beneath the wheels of passing traffic. It was close to midnight, the area around the house
dark with shuttered windows, sparse overhead lights throwing patches of brightness interspersed with pools of
shadow.
A quiet, safe place by the look of it, but if it were it would be the first Dumarest had seen. Already he knew that
the old vices ruled beneath the surface but here was not the place to look for what he wanted to find. Closer to the
field he found it.
"Mister!" The voice whispered from a shadowed doorway. "You lost?"
"No, just looking."
"For a little fun?" His clothing had told the woman he was a stranger. The tunic with its high collar and long
sleeves held tight at the wrists together with pants of matching gray plastic tucked into knee-high boots were the
mark of a traveler. Such a man could be lonely.
"I could help out, maybe." She stepped into the light, tilting her head so as to look into his face. Her body sagged
beneath the faded clothing she wore and her face was lost beneath a mask of paint. Only the eyes were alive, hard,
questing. "I've a place nearby. Music, wine, some food if you want. I'm a good cook."
"No thanks."
"Not hungry?" She wasn't talking about food. "I've a spice which will take care of that. Something to get you in
the mood and keep you in it for as long as you want. And I won't skin you, mister. We'll make a fair deal." Her eyes
searched his face. "No? Something else then?"
Dumarest handed her coins. "If I wanted to watch some fights where would I go?"
"Fights?" Her tone sharpened. "You mean with knives?"
"Yes."
"You fooled me, mister. You don't look like a degenerate. Is that the way you get your kicks? Watching kids slash
each other to ribbons? Betting, maybe? God, at times you men make me sick." Then, as he stood waiting, she added,
"Try Benny at the Novator. It's down the road to the right of the gate as you come out."
The place was as Dumarest expected and similar to others he had known. A room with girls serving drinks. Food
on a counter. Music from concealed speakers and the lights turned low so as to shield the faces of those who sat
huddled in cubicles. But the whole thing was a facade. Behind lay the ring, the tiered seats, the lights, the stench of
sweat and oil and blood.
The arena!
Always they were to be found, the places where men and women vented their primitive lust for blood, taking a
vicarious pleasure from another's victories, gloating at another's pain. An escape some called it, a release from
accumulated pressures. A few spoke of it as a therapy, a means to cool the aggressive instincts, to govern the beast
which lurked always beneath the skin. Others called it butchery.
To Benny it was a business.
"You're lucky," he said to Dumarest. "We've started but there are still a couple of seats going. The first tier—the
best."
And the highest priced, but Dumarest handed over the tariff without argument. To him, too, the arena was a
business and he had come, not to gloat, but to study.
"Kill!" screamed a woman as he took his seat. "Kill, the bastard! Kill!"
She was a middle-aged matron, normally poised, normally horrified at the prospect of violence, but now the
madness of the place had gripped her and she looked barely human.
As the others around her had changed, screaming for one man to kill another, to cut him open, to spill his blood,
to act the butcher for their entertainment.
Their favorite did his best to oblige.
He was a tall, thin man with a scarred face and a torso thick with scars. A dancer who stood poised on the balls
of his feet, always moving, never still, the ten-inch blade in his hand catching and reflecting the light in a constant
shimmer of splintered brightness. A swift, hard, dangerous man. One who had learned his trade the hard way and
bore the stigmata of previous failures in the cicatrices which patterned his body. A man who intended to earn his fee
and the bonus of coins which would shower from the crowd if he pleased them.
His opponent was younger, as fast but not as skilled, a novice and hopelessly out of his class, matched for use as
a victim more than anything else. Blood ran from a shallow gash on one shoulder, more from a minor cut on his left
forearm. A thrust, barely missed, had ripped the top of his shorts so that threads hung in a ragged bunch. Sweat made
them limp. Sweat ran over the face and body, oozing beneath the oil. Dumarest could smell his fear.
"Kill him!" screamed the woman at his side. "Kill!"
The tall fighter turned, smiling, lifting his knife in salute. A move which left him open; an apparent carelessness
which the younger man was quick to put to his advantage. He came in, knife gripped like a sword, the point slightly
raised, the edge turned inwards. So held the blade was ready to stab, to cut, to block, to turn and slash.
He almost made it—or so the tall man made it seem. As the attack developed he jumped back, appeared to
stumble, moved clumsily to one side as the keen steel whined through the air where he had stood. A slash delivered
too late and with too much effort. Unopposed the force put into it turned the younger man too far to his left. His
recovery was too slow and a yell rose from the crowd as a third wound marked his gleaming flesh. A long cut running
over the pectoral muscles of his chest.
A cut which had severed muscle, released blood, created pain.
The first of those which would leave him a maimed and crippled thing.
"Galbrio!" screamed the matron, "You did it! You did it!" Tearing a ring from her finger she threw it into the ring.
"My hero! My love!"
The offer was in her voice, her eyes. Should he care to take her, she was his for as long as the stimulated passion
which now controlled her should last. Then, after it had died, she would go home, satiated, a little disturbed, swearing,
perhaps, never to witness another fight, but the vow would be broken and the ritual again experienced.
Like an addictive drug the spectacle of blood and pain was hard to relinquish.
Dumarest rose as the shouting died. Dropping to the sunken level surrounding the ring he made his way to the
dressing rooms. There were small, cubicles holding the personal effects of those who fought, a few private chambers
for the prime contenders, an open area fitted with a bloodstained table on which the hurt were given crude first aid.
To one side rested the boxes for the dead.
Benny sat on the pile of coffins. He held a pomander in one hand and sniffed it as he looked at the screaming
wretch now on the table. As Dumarest touched his arm he turned with a cat-like swiftness.
"What—oh, it's you! What do you want?"
"A chance at Galbrio."
"You want to fight him?" Benny began to shake his head, halting the gesture as he ran his eyes over Dumarest's
face. "Hell, you made it. But why? The man's good. The best. He'd butcher you inside three minutes."
"Maybe."
"He would. I know him. Do you?"
His type only, but it was enough. Cold, ruthless, devoid of mercy, the way a good fighter should be. But he had a
streak of cruelty, a sadistic pleasure in inflicting pain. The young man had been maimed with savage deliberation.
The wounds had cut too deep and had been wrongly placed simply to please the crowd. There had been a spiteful
intent behind the act and, as Dumarest knew, the man's days were numbered.
"I'll make it simple," he said. "First blood or third; to the death or a timed end; a split purse or winner take all." He
let his voice falter a little. "I don't care. I just don't care."
"You in trouble?" Benny guessed the answer. "Need cash bad, uh? Is that why you come here?" He beamed at
Dumarest's silence. "I can fit you in but the purse will be small. Hell, what else do you expect? An unknown."
"Set a purse," said Dumarest. "Winner take all. And I'll back myself against Galbrio."
"Galbrio? Maybe he won't want to know."
But he did as Dumarest had known he would. An apparent novice willing to put himself at the mercy of his blade.
Another victim to throw to the crowd, more cash and jewelry thrown into the ring, an easy victory and a cheap
enhancing of his reputation. No man with his inclinations could miss the opportunity.
Only when they stripped did he sense that, perhaps, he had made a mistake.
"You've fought before," he said, looking at the thin lines of old scars on Dumarest's chest and forearms. "Often?"
"Only when I had to."
"To the death?"
"Only when I had to."
"Well, this isn't one of those times. Third blood and there's no need for either of us to get hurt. Keep the blade
light, just scratches, you understand, and we'll both have something to show for it. One fifth to the loser, right?"
A change but Dumarest wasn't deluded into thinking the man was genuine. He would kill or cripple so badly that
death would be a mercy. The talk was to gain an added advantage, to pander to his warped nature. He would gain
extra pleasure in the deception should it work.
"Knives!" An attendant came towards them, a pair of blades in his hands. Ten-inches of naked steel, hilts of heavy
brass, points like needles. But they were badly balanced, awkward to the hand.
"I'll use my own," said Dumarest.
"It's an inch shorter."
"So I'll give an advantage." He held out his hand towards Galbrio. "Let me see your knife."
"Why not?" The man handed it over. "Now let me check yours."
Both were looking for the same thing, the minute hole which would reveal a secret mechanism; a dart projector
which could spit a missile coated with a numbing poison or a gas projector which would spray a noxious vapor into
an opponent's eyes. Such devices gave one chance only but, correctly used, they would ensure victory.
Both knives were clean, and taking his, Dumarest led the way into the ring. A scatter of applause greeted him. It
rose to a thunder as Galbrio appeared, bowing, smirking at the crowd.
"Kill him, Galbrio!" yelled a man. "Kill him!"
The fighter answered with a smile.
Dumarest did not smile. He stood, waiting, poised in the little circle, knife in hand and every muscle tense.
Now, as always, he was conscious of the fact that this could be his last fight. That here, in this ring, he could end
both his search and his life.

Chapter Four
The announcements were brief; the sound of a bell and it began. Above the massed lights threw down a savage
brilliance, their heat bringing sweat to dew the skin, thinning the film of oil which most fighters used to numb the pain
of cuts and to prevent an opponent gaining a grip with his free hand. Beneath his naked feet Dumarest could feel the
rough surface of the taut plastic covering the platform. Around him he could sense the impact of watching eyes.
The air stank of blood-lust and the feral anticipation of pain.
Dumarest ignored it as he did the watching eyes. Here, in this little circular universe, only one thing was of
importance: the man who faced him and who intended to take his life—who would take it unless he was beaten first.
Dumarest thought of the young man he had seen carried from the ring after falling to Galbrio's blade. He had
been lying on the table, screaming, one eye gone, his left arm useless, intestines oozing from a slashed stomach, his
body traced with deep gashes showing the white points of severed tendons.
A moment, then even that memory was dissolved and all became concentrated in the man facing him, his eyes,
his feet and hands, the glimmer of his knife.
A glimmer which flashed into sparkles as he twisted the blade, using it as a mirror to send dazzling brilliance into
Dumarest's eyes.
An old trick and one he had expected but he backed a little, blinking, obviously thrown off balance. Galbrio
swallowed the bait and came in, dancing, crouched, his knife slashing to halt, to sweep back in a vicious reverse cut,
to lance upwards in a cutting stab towards the stomach.
A blow which would have slit the abdomen had it landed, spilling guts and blood in a mess of pipes and vital
fluids. One which, instead, clashed against Dumarest's protecting blade which then moved as he attacked in turn, the
edge dipping, biting, dragging free with a shower of carmine rain.
"He's hit!" The crowd yelled as Galbrio backed, scowling, the gaping ruby mouth on his left bicep dripping blood.
A blow which had almost reached the bone and could have been sent against the corded throat had Dumarest
wished. But it was not his intention to kill the man.
He moved as Galbrio turned, careful of the blood now dappling the floor, knowing that a careless step could turn
victory into defeat. Always, in any fight, there was the danger of the unknown. Blood, oil, grease, a trifling
misjudgment and balance could be lost and the fight with it.
Again the blades met, ringing, parting to meet again in a flurry of steel. A second wound joined the first, across
the torso this time, as deep as those Galbrio had given earlier. A third, and he backed, eyes wide, fear distorting his
scarred face.
"Fast," he said. "God, you're fast! I quit I don't stand a chance. Here."
He lifted his knife as if to throw it down, to send the point into the platform in the signal of surrender. A move
never completed for, as his arm moved downwards, it changed direction, developed power, sent the naked steel
spinning through the air towards Dumarest A gambler's trick, should it fail the man would be left unarmed and
defenseless, but at such close quarters, against a man who had lowered his guard, such a move would work more
often than not.
Dumarest moved, his own knife lifting, steel ringing as he slammed his own blade against the hurtling weapon. It
thrummed through the air and landed to quiver in the floor at Galbrio's feet.
 "Pick it up," said Dumarest.
"I've quit!"
"You've tried one trick too many. Pick it up or take what's coming with empty hands."
He wasn't making an empty threat and the man knew it. For a moment he stared into Dumarest's eyes then,
snarling, stooped, snatched free the knife and with the frenzied courage of a man who has nothing to lose, hurled
himself forward.
And died as Dumarest slammed his knife upwards into the heart.
In the dressing room Benny said, "Why? What made you do it?"
"Money."
"Just that?" He frowned, thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I can't understand fighters. Who knows what
goes on inside the head of a man who risks his life for a living? But I'll tell you this. You want money I'll arrange a
bout any time you choose. I've never seen anyone move so fast. Galbrio should have got you. It was a dirty trick and
he deserved all you gave him but he should have got you. So, friend, any time you want a bout let me know."
"I will."
"Just remember that. Anything I can do for you?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Just make sure I'm not followed."
He was three times richer than when he had entered the place, still not enough to pay what Hilda Benson had
asked but maybe enough to meet the new requirements as set by her friend. And, on this world as on any other, a
man with money was a target for trouble. Twice he halted, listening, moving on only when satisfied no one was
following. Three times he changed direction, doubling back on himself and ending, finally, far to one side of the field.
It was busy, a file of men working like ants as they unloaded a freighter, piling bales and crates on wheeled
trolleys which were dragged away. All looked alike, thin, stooped, gaunt, dressed in a collection of rags. It was close
to dawn and they shivered in the chill air despite the heat induced by their efforts. An overseer stood to one side,
checking something on a board.
"Right, Emmanuel. Take a score of workers and haul this stuff to warehouse eighteen. Andre, you take as many
and shift all the Qualan stock to warehouse nine. Don't forget to check at the gate."
"Right." Two men dressed in warm clothing stepped away, halting as the overseer called after them.
"You'd better hire a couple of guards each from the gate."
"What for?" Andre, short, stocky, spat his disgust. "I can handle these creeps."
"Sure you can, did I say different? Think of it as insurance. If one falls down and breaks his neck they can take
care of it. Right?"
"As you say, boss. Just as you say."
Dumarest watched as the little columns moved towards the gate. Cheap labor from the pool and regarded as little
better than dirt. To the guards they would be faceless creatures, to the overseers the same. They would live and die
and the only difference between one and another was how long they would take to finally give up.
It began to rain again as he moved around the field and a thin wind rose to drive the stinging drops into his eyes
as he reentered the town. The place seemed deserted, not even a guard to be seen, and he looked in vain for a cab.
The day broke as he reached the plaza and he halted at a small restaurant in a back street which, for some reason,
had opened early. The coffee was poor but hot and welcome and, from the conversation of others, he gathered that
the place was open early to serve the porters in the nearby market.
When he left the streets were coming to life—Harald was an early-rising world.
Armand Ramhed, it seemed, wasn't.
Dumarest paused in the tiny hall and closed the door behind him. The house was dark and held an eerie stillness.
There should have been sound of some kind, a snore, a movement, the echo of heavy breathing at least. Instead
there was nothing.
Cautiously he moved towards the kitchen, half-expecting to find Armand lying across the table, too drunk to
stand. The place was deserted. The rear rooms the same. Gently Dumarest pushed open the door of the study.
"Armand?" He stepped into the room when there was no answer. "Armand. Wake up, damn you. Wake up!"
He couldn't.
Armand Ramhed was dead.
He lay on the table at which he worked, his head on the scanner, fitful gleams of colored brilliance painting his
face as they had before. But now there was nothing of the clown about the thin temples and sunken cheeks. There
was only the pathetic shell of what had once been a man who had died while engrossed in his hobby. A good way to
go, perhaps, but Dumarest wished that he had waited. Or perhaps the man had finished what he'd set out to do?
Gently Dumarest lifted the frail shape and placed it in a chair. Switching on the main lights he looked around the
room. The table held a litter of papers, notes, figures, equations. Sheets held spectrographic schematics each traced
with a heavy pattern of lines. Thick tomes were opened at pages listing the Fraunhofer identity of spectral elements.
The scanner, obviously, held his strip of film.
Dumarest opened it and removed the spectrogram. Holding it he again examined the table. Armand had been
working until the last, he would have made notes or, at least, finalized some of his data. If he had, where would they
be?
Dumarest frowned, conscious that something was wrong. An item missing, one present which shouldn't be,
something set different to what he remembered. The glass? Had the glass rested on the wad of papers when he'd left?
Armand had waved farewell, too engrossed to turn, grunting as Dumarest had warned him he might be late. What
had he said?
Something about wine?
Memory stirred and came to life. Bring back some wine, Earl? Or had it been, Help yourself to wine? Wine? The
glass, perhaps?
Lifting it Dumarest sniffed. It was empty but he could smell the sickly residue clinging to the glass. It told him
nothing. But would Armand have been content with a single glass of wine?
In the kitchen Dumarest dropped to his knees and examined the floor, not even sure of what he was looking for
but, conscious only of a nagging unease. The instinct which warned his that something was wrong. He found it in the
vat of fermenting liquid.
The level, as he remembered, had been high. A fresh brew, Armand had told him, one which he'd hoped to
nurture but which he had been driven to use. Now the level was much lower than it had been. Two bottles at least
had been removed, perhaps three.
If Armand had drunk them he must have done it out here. The bottles were as he remembered, dusty, empty,
grimed. The man must have sat and dipped and drank and dipped again and drank until he had fallen into a stupor
where he sat.
And, drunk, how could he have returned to the study and sat and concentrated on his work?
He rested where Dumarest had placed him, his eyes open, glazed, his features waxen in the cold light. One hand
hung limply, the fingers touching the dusty floor, the other was clenched and pressed tightly against his side.
Dumarest eased open the fingers and stared at what lay in the palm. A button traced with a design in amber on black.
A stylized dragon, he thought, or some mathematical symbol used for ornamentation. Armand's button? The man's
clothes were thin and of poor quality, the buttons made of some plastic material, plain and functional. And none were
missing.
Reaching out Dumarest closed the staring eyes then froze, his hand touching the waxen cheeks, his eyes
narrowing as they spotted the trace of bruises, a thin smear of blood.
It rested beneath the lobe of the ear, a touch previously hidden by the kaleidoscope of color thrown by the
scanner. The light was white, now, a cold glare from the unshaded bulb and in it the smear showed plain. Turning the
head Dumarest lifted the ear and found the answer lying beneath.
A small wound, almost lost, sealed by the natural contraction of the skin and muscle behind the ear. One made
by something long and thin, a heavy bodkin or a knitting needle, either would have done. A pointed sliver of metal
which had been thrust into the softness behind the ear until the point had lacerated the brain. Death would have been
instantaneous.
As assassin's trick—the wound, self-sealing, prevented a tell-tale show of blood. At a casual glance the victim
would appear to be lost in thought and, had the eyes been closed, asleep. But why had they been left open? Why the
betraying smear?
Carelessness induced by haste. The work of an amateur. The eyes could have been overlooked, the smear left
when the killing instrument had been withdrawn.
Murder—but why?
What reason to kill an old man? His poverty was obvious and even if a thief had been at work there was no sign
of any search. Someone had gained admittance to the house, found Armand lying drunk, had killed him and carefully
placed him in his chair in the study. Obviously the drunken stupor had not been total. The bruises showed signs of a
struggle, the button proof that the assassin's intent had been recognized even if too late.
But, again, why?
Why kill a harmless old man?
Dumarest lifted a hand to his throat already feeling the weight of a collar. Instinct had saved him. Finding
Armand dead he should have called the guards. They would have held him for questioning, an examination would
show the manner of death, automatically he would have been suspect.
And, on Harald, once a man wore a collar there could be no escape.
Trapped, helpless to run, he would have no choice but to wait.
 Dumarest looked at the button in his hand. The symbol was meaningless but, to him, it bore a familiar stamp. Not
the design itself but the stealth and guile it represented. Amber on black but it might well have been a more familiar
design traced on scarlet. The seal of the Cyclan.
They must be very close.
Dumarest turned to the table, again searching, papers flying as he burrowed into the litter. If Armand had relaxed
enough to yield to the lure of wine then he must have finished his task. Somewhere, in the mess, must be the final
pattern of lines or a series of figures or a compacted code of some kind which other experts would recognize. He
froze as voices came from outside.
"A scream, officer, I swear it. I thought nothing of it at the time but it's been worrying me. The old man could
have had an accident. I tried the door but it's locked."
"And he had a visitor, you say?"
"Yes." The voice hesitated then, firmly, said, "A tough-looking character. From the field by the look of him. That's
what got me to worrying. If he thought the old man had money hidden away—well, I thought I'd report it."
The jaws of the trap snapping fast. Obviously there had been a watcher, the assassin himself, perhaps. When
Dumarest had shown no sign of calling the guards he had been forced to act.
Dumarest ran from the study into the bedroom. From a wardrobe he pulled cloaks, blankets, assorted clothing. All
were old, frayed, thin with age. They ripped easily between his hands.
As a pounding came from the front door he stooped, wrapped swathes of material around his boots, more around
his thighs, rough wadding which he held with knotted strands. A stained blouse over his tunic and a faded cloak over
that and he was done. The rest of the disguise must lie in his stance and movements.
The front door shook beneath the impact of a boot. The voice of the watcher rose above the hammering.
"I'd better go around the back, officer. If I see him I'll call out."
Another mistake, the man should have had others watching, but it was one to Dumarest's advantage. He reached
the back door, opened it, threw it wide then stepped back as footsteps pounded towards him. Outside the rain had
increased to a steady downpour, the air misted with flying droplets, the wind spattering a moist hail. The figure which
suddenly appeared was young, the hair roached and sparkling with wetness, the face smooth and innocent. He wore a
dull green jacket with a high, flared collar and ornamented lapels. The buttons were discs of ebon traced with an
amber design. One was missing, a loop of thread showing from where it had been torn.
A man dressed for a party who had been standing unprotected in the rain. A man who was not what he seemed.
His face changed as he saw the open door and he ran towards it, mouth opened to shout, a shout which died
unborn as Dumarest lunged towards him. They met in the portal, the assassin grabbing at something beneath his
jacket, Dumarest already in action. His right hand rose up and forward, the palm turned outwards, the fingers curved
backwards. The heel of his hand skidded up over the mouth striking the nostrils with the full force of his arm, back
and shoulder.
A blow which crushed cartilage, smashed delicate bone, drove the splinters upwards through the space between
the eyes, shards which thrust like daggers through the thin point of the skull and into the brain.
An old hat had been among Armand Ramhed's effects. Dumarest pulled it over his face as the assassin fell,
jumping over the body which had slumped in the doorway and walking without hesitation across the untidy garden.
An alley lay beyond a fence, deserted aside from a scavenger.
The man didn't bother to look up from the heap of garbage he was examining for items of worth. Ramhed had
been poor, the area reflected his poverty, it was enough for a man to take care of himself. And it was raining with a
wind which drove stinging droplets into the eyes.
Head down, shoulders stooped, trudging like a man on the edge of exhaustion, Dumarest headed into the city.

Chapter Five
As a boy Cyber Broge had been taught that to be impatient was to be unwise; a lesson emphasized with the
coldly efficient skill of the Cyclan long before he was permitted to wear the scarlet robe which now clothed his sparse
figure. The lesson, like all the others which had been taught, like all the things which had been done to make him
what he now was, had served its intent. But, even so, he wished that the work in which he was now involved could be
less than it was.
A wish which died as soon as it was formed; to long for the unattainable was an insult to intelligence and to chafe
against necessity a mental irritation.
"Cyber Broge?" The man before him was a merchant dealing in grain, furs, oils and rare perfumes. A native of
Harald and a wealthy representative of his class. He had paid for the interview and intended to make the most of it.
 "Well?"
"Should I concentrate on accumulating grain or would it be better to sell what I have and invest the money in
furs?" He fumbled with some papers, a little uneasy beneath the cyber's unwavering stare. "Or should I increase my
stock of perfumes?"
"They come from where?"
"Vandalia. Essences of emphrige, olten and plenia."
"The primary of Vandalia has shown increased turbulence of the photosphere and this will, inevitably, disturb the
normal tranquility of local space. There could be an emission of unusual radiation which could affect the plants
producing the oils you mention. The probability of that happening is seventy-three per cent."
"High?"
"As stated." The cyber's voice was an even modulation devoid of irritant factors. "The fashionable preference for
the wearing of furs will fade as a result of a singer now achieving fame who has stated her dislike of wearing the skins
of slaughtered beasts."
"Is that a fact?"
"It is a probability of ninety-two percent."
"High?"
"As stated."
"Almost a certainty?" The merchant hesitated, wanting to press then, remembering the fee he had paid, went
ahead. "It is certain the market for fashion-furs will fall?"
"Nothing is certain," said the cyber evenly. "My prediction is based on an assessment of known data and the
probability is as stated."
"Then you advise me to—"
"I do not advise." The tones remained as even as before but, even so the rebuke was plain. "I do not guide. As a
servant of the Cyclan I merely inform you of the logical development of events. What action you choose to take is up
to you." Reaching out a hand he touched a bell and, as an acolyte appeared, gestured towards the door.
The interview was over and another followed at once, this time a man who represented a consortium
manufacturing small electronic components who was eager to know market trends on the world which took their
exports. He was followed by a woman interested in discovering which of three suitors would be the best match for
her only daughter. Then two others also interested in business, a matron seeking investment advice, an old man
worried about his health.
He was followed by a politician.
Guy Herylin was smooth, shrewd, ambitious. An election was to be held in a northern sector and he wanted to
win it. He also wanted to know what path he should take to gain the greatest advantage. Money would help—but who
to bribe?
The cyber heard him out, his face expressionless, his mind working as he assessed the facts presented to him,
extrapolated from them, gauged the man and set him against what he knew of his opponents. They too were
ambitious but a little less ruthless. Pressure could be applied against them, their influence would wane, Herylin would
take over and, the higher he climbed, the more he would come to rely on the services of the Cyclan.
An old, old pattern and one which every cyber helped to weave. Men and women of influence, coming for help
and guidance, listening to the predictions and being subtly maneuvered by them. A blight discovered in a distant
region which would pass to the estates of a highly placed politician which would, in turn, present a financial disaster.
One which could be aggravated by a clever buying of stock in advance, of selling it high, of ruining an opponent by
an apparent use of coincidental good fortune.
A system which had proved its worth on a scatter of worlds throughout the galaxy. Planets which were ruled in
fact if not in name by the servants of the organization to which Broge belonged. Scarlet-robed cybers, always ready
to make their predictions, to take a handful of facts and from them to extrapolate the most logical sequence of
events. Almost, to those who used them, it seemed they could predict the future and actions, based on those
predictions, made them actualities.
Now, to Guy Herylin, he said, "The representative of your region has suffered from a heart condition within the
past two weeks. He is addicted to hunting and, if he should continue his sport the possibility is that he will suffer
another attack shortly after commencing the chase. Should that happen the prediction of you being elected to take
his place is eighty-four per cent." Pausing he added, "Assuming the attack is fatal, naturally."
"And if it isn't?"
"There are too many variables at this time for a firm prediction. He could linger for months and his party take
steps to lift another of their choosing to his place."
"So, at the present time, the key to my advancement lies in the possibility of my opponent having a second
attack? A fatal one?"
"Exactly."
"I see." Herylin rose from where he had been sitting. "You couldn't advise how such a thing could be
accomplished, I suppose?"
"We of the Cyclan do not advise. We—"
"Do not take sides." Herylin was curt in his interruption. "I know. You don't have to spell it out for me. You are
neutral observers and only give predictions of varying orders of probability. Well, thanks anyway."
He had been rude and would later have time to realize how foolish he had been. The services of the Cyclan were
not cheap and not to be had on demand. After he had managed to dispose of his opponent, Herylin would become a
tried and tested weapon to be used in the domination of his world.
The man would have no choice. Ringed as he would be by others as ambitious as himself Guy Herylin had to rely
on the predictions of a cyber. What course would this particular piece of legislation follow? What would be the
outcome of such and such introduction to the laws? How best to raise taxation? How else to discover weaknesses
and trends? To be apparently in advance of public opinion? To always seem to be leading while others followed,
always too late with too little?
Slowly he would be broken, slowly bent to the will of his masters as an animal to the desires of its owner. Then
he would learn that it did not pay to be rude to any cyber. That it could be fatal to defy the power of the Cyclan.
Broge felt the glow of mental satisfaction.
He was young, sent to this small and isolated world to help the Great Design, a cog yet to prove himself. But
already the work had begun and soon he could dispense with the minor irritations; the women who sought advice
despite his denial of giving it, those who had small problems of only personal importance, the interviews with those
who only wanted to gain wealth.
"Master!" The acolyte was standing before him. "The anteroom is empty. Only Captain Kregor waits."
The police chief of the city and the cyber could guess what his report would be. Again he felt the glow of mental
satisfaction and realized, even as he felt it, that he had lacked the right to earn it. Circumstances and the shrewd
predictions of others had brought it about. He merely happened to be at the right place at the right time, and yet,
small though his part had been, it set the seal on the work of others and would not be forgotten.
"Send him in."
Kregor had been kept waiting for an hour and was far from pleased. He strode towards the desk, a thick-set, burly
man with a shock of reddish hair and a face seamed and creased with weather and time. His uniform, the cyber
noted, was rumpled and his boots stained by water and dirt. True it had been raining again but was the man so
careless as to personal appearances?
In return the captain stared his dislike at the figure robed in scarlet.
Kregor didn't like the cyber. He didn't like any of the breed. Men should look like men, not gaunt, skeletal shapes
with faces like skulls, shaven, the eyes alone burning with life. A man should enjoy his food and wine and the
weaknesses of the flesh; those who could feel no pain or pleasure, who used food as fuel and could neither hate nor
fear were something other than human. Robots, living machines, creatures who had been operated on at puberty and
who could feel nothing but the pleasure of mental achievement.
Slaves to the organization the seal of which was emblazoned on the crest of the scarlet robe.
Cybers!
Yet he had no choice but to cooperate and, if he was wise, to be polite.
"Captain?" Broge was waiting. "You have something to report?"
"Yes."
"The man Dumarest is safe in custody?" The cyber rose, guessing the answer from the captain's expression. "He
isn't? What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Don't be too precise with me, Captain. Not if you value your rank and employment." The tones were as evenly
modulated as always but there was no mistaking the implication. Not a threat, the Cyclan never threatened, simply a
statement of the obvious. A prediction with an order of probability verging on certainty. "All that was needed was to
take the man into custody and hold him. Why was that not done?"
"No reason was given."
"The request, surely, was enough?"
"On any other world, perhaps." Kregor squared his shoulders; once he had killed a wild beast with his bare hands
while out hunting, why should he fear a machine clad in scarlet? "A general awareness was maintained as a matter of
courtesy and you were notified when he landed."
"And?"
 "Nothing. We knew of the man, he couldn't leave without our knowledge and, if he had tried to leave, he would
have been held. Again," he added, stiffly, "as a matter of courtesy."
A barrier and one which the cyber had expected. The influence of the Cyclan was small as yet on this world, yet
strong enough to ensure that Dumarest, once held, would be quietly handed over without fuss or trial. The agent he
had used should have seen to it that the man had been held. What had gone wrong?
He listened as the captain told him, his face remaining impassive, his thoughts a flickering, darting turmoil. The
agent had failed, that was obvious, and had died as a result of his inadequacy. But where was Dumarest now?
Kregor shrugged as he put the question. "I don't know as yet."
"But you've been looking? A murderer, surely, can't be allowed to escape."
"Did I say he was a murderer?"
"A man was dead, you say."
"True, but we lack proof that Dumarest intended to kill him. It could have been an accident. The man was armed
and may have threatened Dumarest who struck out in self-defense. It was a most unusual blow. It—"
"Take me to see him," ordered the cyber. "I want to see them both."
It was cold in the mortuary but Broge didn't feel the chill. He stood, impassively waiting, the cowl lifted to frame
his gaunt features as an attendant slid the long, narrow table from the wall. The agent was difficult to recognize with
his destroyed face.
"Bram Jolpen," said Kregor. "His father owns a mill to the south. Rich, spoiled, a bit of a playboy. He'd taken a
young girl home—or so he told an officer, when he heard a scream. It worried him—or so he claimed, and he went to
find someone to investigate."
"You seem doubtful that he was telling the truth."
"It seems odd. A young man in a poor area who stood in the rain for no apparent reason. We haven't been able to
find the girl. We can't find anyone who drove him to the spot. He was armed."
"So?"
"If armed then why wait to find an officer if he was so concerned? When he heard the scream he could have
gone to investigate. At least he could have banged on the door." Broge said, "But you are certain Dumarest killed
him."
"No." Kregor was emphatic. "I'm not certain at all. There were no witnesses and think of that blow! Well, look at
it. He could have aimed a punch at the jaw and Jolpen stepped back so that it caught his nose. An accident."
"Then why not stay?"
"He could have been afraid. Maybe he thought there were others after him like Jolpen. How do I know why he
ran?" Kregor scowled as he looked at the dead man. "An accident," he rumbled. "We'd never be able to convict on
evidence like that."
It had been no accident and the cyber knew it. The angle of the blow for one thing and the tremendous force with
which it had been delivered. If it came to it medical testimony could be called in to question the captain's assumption
of accident, but that shouldn't be necessary. "And the other man?"
"Armand Ramhed?" Kregor gestured at the attendant.
Jolpen had done his work too well.
Lying on the slab the old man looked at peace. They had folded his hands and combed his hair and he seemed
more asleep than dead.
"We found him sitting in a chair," explained Kregor. "My guess it that he had just felt tired, sat for a moment then
fell asleep. He just didn't wake up."
"The other man reported he heard a scream."
"So?"
"Dumarest was staying with the old man. He could have tortured him."
"Why? Money?" Kregor frowned and shook his head. "The man had nothing and any fool would have known it.
Why torture an old man for nothing?"
"Need a criminal have logical explanations for what he does?" The cyber glanced at the attendant. "What did the
autopsy show?"
Glancing at the captain the man said, "There hasn't been one."
"Don't you know how he died?"
"Natural causes, I guess." The man was defiant. "And he wasn't tortured—there isn't a mark on him."
"But the scream—"
"We have only Jolpen's word for that," said the captain. He sounded impatient. "There's no point in making work,
Cyber Broge. I've my men out looking for Dumarest and when we find him he will tell us what really happened."
"If you find him."
 "We will." The captain was brusk. "I've men at all points. He might even give himself up once he's had time to
think it over. Why not? An unlucky blow struck in fear—who could blame him?"
It was pointless to argue and could even be awkward. If he mentioned how the old man had been killed then
Kregor would be curious as to how he knew. Also once an association had been formed between his knowledge and
the assassin, details best left hidden might be exposed.
But Dumarest had to be found.
Broge stood thinking, assembling facts, assessing known data. A man on the run, a stranger in the city, where
would he go to hide?
He said, "Captain, was anything taken from the house?"
"Not as far as we know."
"Nothing disturbed?"
"Papers on the desk. And some clothing. It was scattered before a wardrobe; old stuff not worth a beggar's notice.
As I told you the old man was poor."
"But—"
"What now?" With an effort Kregor mastered his irritation. He was tired and cold and was more worried than he
cared to admit. The failure to find Dumarest was evidence of inefficiency, a fact the dead youth's father would make
the most of at the inquiry. Bram Jolpen had been a wastrel, but his family would be thirsting for revenge and would
be vicious if denied it. He must give them no grounds for complaint and it was no time to make powerful enemies. He
had gone too far and knew it. "My apologies, Cyber Broge, I did not mean to be discourteous. But I assure you that I
have done, and am doing, all I can to find the missing man. It is only a matter of time."
"What if he should manage to gain passage on a ship?"
"He can't. The field is secured. Only one vessel has left since the incident and that was two hours after the dead
were found. He couldn't have obtained passage on the Accaus. We'll get him, Cyber Broge. I promise you." He looked
at the old man lying on his slab. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Thank you, no, Captain. We both have other matters claiming our attention."
From the mortuary Broge returned directly to his quarters. A small room opened from his office, bleak,
containing little more than a narrow couch. A cyber needed little else. He wasted no energy carrying a load of
useless, waterlogged tissue and had no time for emotionally stimulating art work. Intellectually he could appreciate
the beauty of functional design but, that a thing served its purpose, was all that was required. A bed did not have to
be too wide, too soft, too ornate. That it provided support and the room in which it rested privacy, was all a cyber
could demand.
"Master!" His acolyte bowed as he was summoned. "Has the man been found?"
"No."
"Your orders?"
"Check with the men watching Hilda Benson. Have them search her home. It is barely possible she is aiding him."
"Dumarest? But, master, she informed us where he was to be found."
"Which means nothing. Women are difficult to predict with any high degree of accuracy. The death of her old
friend could have created a state of aberration."
"It will be done, master. And?"
"Total seal."
Broge touched the heavy band locked around his left wrist as, bowing, the acolyte left the small room and closed
the door. Protection enough against invasion, but the mechanism incorporated into the band gave more. A flood of
invisible energy streamed from it creating a field which provided a barrier against any prying electronic eye or ear.
Lying supine on the couch Broge closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatachazi formula The initial state
was difficult to achieve and he forced himself to relax, remembering his instructions, the guides he had been given
during early training. Later, he knew, the act would become second-nature and, always, it was a mistake to let
urgency intrude.
There was no need for haste… no need… no need…
Gradually he lost sensory perception; the senses of touch, of hearing, of smell, of taste. Had he opened his eyes
he would have been blind. Reality ceased to exist as the part of an external universe and his brain, locked within the
bony protection of his skull, ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. It turned in on itself, became a world of its
own, a new sphere of existence concerned only with reason and untrammeled intellect. A state of nirvana in which
nothing existed or could exist but the egotistical self. And then, like tiny fires burning on a nighted horizon, the
grafted Homochon elements became active.
Rapport was established.
Broge became something more than human.
 His brain expanded, his awareness swelling like a colossal balloon to encompass all of time and creation. Sheets
and planes of scintillant brilliance were all around and he could see them all in perfect, over-all vision. Each cyber, he
knew, had a different experience and none could reduce to words the ecstasy of the unfolding. For him it was as if he
moved bodiless through showers of broken rainbows; splinters of unsuspected color woven as if in a fantastic
tapestry of unimaginable complexity, a three-dimensional web of translucent hues, intangible yet each strand
containing a fragment of the space-time continuum in a series of ever-multiplying, ever-changing relationships.
An incredible maze of which he was an integral part, immersed in the radiance so that it became an extension of
his being and he became a manifestation of its complexity, the part merging with and transmuted into the whole.
Like a shimmer of brilliant rain, shards and sparkles of scintillant hue, curtains of gossamer laced and riven with
an infinity of strands the fabric of intermeshed rainbows turned and curved and led to a common center at the heart
of which lay the headquarters of the Cyclan.
It blazed with the cold, clear light of pure intelligence. The complex which dominated the entire organization,
correlating it, synchronizing effort, plotting the devious moves and counter moves strung over a multitude of worlds.
The Central Intelligence which, even as he grew aware of it, made contact: merging, touching, assimilating his
knowledge and making it its own. Mental communication of incredible swiftness.
"Dumarest on Harold?"
Affirmation.
"But not in your custody. Explain the failure."
Reasons.
"The use of an inefficient agent is a fault. You are to be blamed for that. The probability that Dumarest managed
to escape on the Accaus is low. The time element was against this. Another fault."
Protestation.
"Agreed. The distance could have been covered by an agile man in the time specified and a heavy bribe could
have gained both entrance to the field and a passage, yet the probability is a mere eight per cent. Even so steps will
be taken. Men will be waiting at the world of destination. Future intent?"
Explanation.
"Accepted. The probability of Dumarest still being within the city is high. He must be captured at all costs. All
precautions must be taken to ensure his protection. Under no circumstances must he be killed. Give this matter your
personal attention. Dumarest must be taken. Failure will not be tolerated."
Understanding.
"Find and capture Dumarest and immediate preference will be yours. Fail and you know the penalty. Do not fail!"
The rest was euphoria.
Always, after rapport, there was a period during which the grafted Homochon elements sank again into
quiescence and the physical machinery of the body began to realign itself with the dictates of the brain and, during
that time, the mind was assailed by a storm of ungoverned impressions.
Broge drifted in a sightless void, detached, a pure brain in an environment in which only the cold light of reason
could prevail. He experienced a host of exotic stimuli, memories of places he had never seen, knowledge he had not
gained, new situations alien to his frames of reference—all the over-spill from other minds, fragments, the discard of
a conglomerate of assembled intelligences. The waste, in a sense, of the tremendous cybernetic complex which was
the hidden power of the Cyclan.
One day he would become a part of it. His body would age and grow rebellious, senses would dull and reactions
slow but his mind would remain the keen instrument training and use had made it. Then he would be summoned,
taken on the final journey to a secret place where his brain would be removed from his skull, placed in a vat of
nutrients, connected in series to the other brains previously assembled. A countless host of intelligences which,
working in harmony, formed the Central Intelligence.
There he would remain for eternity, maintained, supported, working to the common end, the prime directive of
the Cyclan. All the problems of the universe to be solved, all Mankind to be united into an efficient whole, all waste
eliminated, harmony to be achieved beneath the dictates of the Cyclan. The Great Design of which he was a living
part.

Chapter Six
Dumarest woke feeling the touch of fingers, questing, probing like a predatory spider. He lay still, eyes slitted as
they peered into darkness. He could hear the soft breathing of someone close and then, as gentle as a landing
butterfly, the chill impact of something like ice at his throat.
 Not ice and not a butterfly but a jagged sliver of glass held by the man who searched him, resting, poised ready
to rip into his flesh, to slash the great arteries and release his life in a fountain of blood should he move.
Lowtown was not a gentle place.
He could smell the stench of it around him; the stink of unwashed flesh pressed too close, bodies huddled
together for the sake of warmth, vapors rising from damp clothing. The whole compounded with the odors of
sickness and running sores, of disease, of grime and rancid oil, of scraps of moldering food.
Of the poverty which ruled here in this place on this world.
The searching hand grew more bold, the fingers tugging at the fastening of the cloak, slipping inside to fumble at
the blouse, the wadded belt beneath. Dumarest felt the touch of breath on his cheek, air carrying a fetid odor which
caught at his nostrils. The sharp fragment resting on his throat lifted a little as the man, growing careless,
concentrated on the bulk his fingers had found.
A little more and it would be time to act yet to wait too long would be to betray too much. Dumarest gently drew
in his breath, tensed his muscles and, with a blur of movement, had rolled away from the threatening shard, had
turned, caught the searching hand, squeezing it as the man reared back like a startled beast.
"You—"
The glass had driven its point into the dirt. The glass shattered as Dumarest slammed the heel of his free hand
against it, lifting the fingers to snatch at the other wrist. Trapped, body arched back from the hands which held it fast,
the man glared his hate and fear.
"My hand; My wrist! Don't!"
"You were robbing me!"
"No! I—" The man swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing in his scrawny throat, his face pale in the dim light cast
by the external lights. "I thought you were a friend."
"Liar!" Dumarest closed his hands a little. "Thief !"
"No!" The man sweated with pain. "For God's sake, kill me if you want but don't break my bones!"
He was starving, desperate, driven to act the wolf. It would be charity to give him money for food to thrust into
his empty belly but to do that would be to commit suicide. Even if he didn't talk others would notice and, like vicious
wasps, they would be eager for their share of what was going. And the man himself would never be satisfied. It was
better policy to kill him—a thief had no right to expect mercy.
"Do it," said the man. He had the courage of a cornered rat. "If you're going to kill me make it fast and clean but,
before you strike ask yourself if you're in any position to judge. Haven't you ever turned thief when you had no other
choice?"
Thief and killer; money stolen from purses when he'd been a boy, other things when, older, he'd grown delirious
with hunger. Men killed for the sake of gain. Butchered in the arena for the enjoyment of a crowd. Had Galbrio
deserved to die? Had any of the others who had wagered themselves against his skill and lost?
And there had been others—the law of life was simple.
Survive!
Live no matter what the cost for, without life, there is nothing. Live!
Kill or be killed!
"Mister?"
"Go to hell!" Dumarest pushed the man away so that he fell to sprawl in the mud. "Come near me again and I'll
break your neck!"
"You were a fool," said the huddled shape at his side when he settled down again beneath the scrap of fabric
which formed the roof of a crude shelter. "You should have killed him. His boots would have been worth a bowl of
soup, his clothes another." The man began to cough, liquid gurglings rising from fluid-filled lungs. "The bastard! I've
no time for thieves."
"That makes two of us."
"Yet you let him go. That shows you're new here. Come in on the last ship?" He coughed again as Dumarest
grunted. "I've been here most of a year now. Arrived after traveling Low. I had money, enough for another passage
once I'd got my fat back, but they wouldn't let me leave the field. A High passage or nothing—you know the system.
Well, I wasn't all that worried, a few days and there'd be another ship, a month, say, and I'd get fit for the journey.
Then some bastard stole my money."
He fell silent, thinking, remembering the awful bleakness of the discovery. The regret at not having spent the cash
while he'd had the chance. Of buying himself some small luxuries, some decent clothes, enjoying the pleasures of a
woman, maybe.
"I never found who stole it," he continued after another fit of coughing. "But it was summer and the harvest was
due and workers were needed. Given time, I figured, I could build another stake. And the rest would do me good." His
laugh was ugly. "Rest! They worked the tail off me for little more than the price of a day's food. Out before dawn and
back after dark. We lived in tents way out past the city. There were overseers with whips and, if you slacked, they
docked your pay." He added, dully, "I guess you know the rest."
A familiar pattern. Cheap labor kept that way by the lack of choice. A strong man would last especially in
summer and autumn, then would come winter and the wastage of precious tissue, the sapping of strength, energy
lost merely to keep warm. By spring only the strongest would be able to work. The rest would lie, faces becoming
little more than eyes, bodies shrunken to less than the weight of a child. Disease would be kind then, robbing life with
merciful swiftness.
Rising, Dumarest stepped from the shelter and looked around. It was close to dawn, the sky beginning to pale, the
only light coming from the standards ringing the field and from where a fire threw a patch of warmth and brilliance to
one side. Around and above stretched a cage of thick wire mesh, a hemisphere pierced by a single opening which led
to the field. It was barred now but an hour after dawn the barrier would be opened and vendors coming from the city
would offer scraps of food to any who could pay.
Those who couldn't could only beg, thrusting fingers and hands through the mesh to those who came strolling
past during the afternoon and evening. Sightseers out to look at the animals. Those who brought food with them were
kind.
It wasn't their fault Lowtown existed. No one had forced these within the cage to come to their world. They had
no duty to support the uninvited guests. Why should they deny themselves so that others, who had done nothing to
earn the largess, should gain?
So let them work if they could or leave if they had the money or die if they couldn't.
No one in the whole wide galaxy had the right to charity. Only the strong deserved to survive.
A man sat at the edge of the fire playing a solitary game with a stained decks of cards. The warm glow shone on
a hard face set with cold, deep-set eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. The chin was cleft. The hands were broad, the
fingers spatulate, the nails blunt but neatly rounded.
He turned a card then looked up as Dumarest approached. "Sit," he invited. "Care for a game?"
"No."
"Anything you want." He turned a card and set it on another. "Starsmash, spectrum, high, low, man-in-between.
Poker, khano, hunt-the-lady. Name the game and it's yours. You gamble?"
Dumarest said, dryly, "At times."
"But not now. Well, it was worth trying." The man picked up the cards, shuffled them, began to set them out for a
game of solitaire. "Just arrived?"
"Yes."
"Then you must know the score. Sometimes it pays to string along. Sometimes it's suicide not to." He dropped the
knave of swords on the lady of diamonds. "It took me a while to learn. Here it's dog eat dog, but I guess you know
that. Have you money?"
Dumarest said, "The ten of swords on the knave of hearts."
"So you're cautious, that's good. And I'd guess you know how to take care of yourself. Here there are only two
kinds of people: sheep and wolves." He turned another card and set it into place. "I don't take you for a sheep."
"So?"
"There are ways to get along. Given time you'll find them and, if you were greedy, you'd want to take over. That
would be a mistake." A card dropped from his fingers. "A man can get away from here if he puts his mind to it. It
takes time but it can be done. I guess you know how."
A system as old as time. A strong and ruthless man taking over, arranging to hire out men and taking a cut from
employers to avoid trouble, taking another from those they permitted to work. Small sums but they would
accumulate. In time they would grow into the price of a passage—but Dumarest had no time.
He said, flatly, "I'm not ambitious."
"But you want to get away, right?" The man lifted his head, firelight gleaming from his eyes. In a shelter to one
side, a man cried out in his sleep, falling silent with a fretful muttering. "To do that you've got to get out on the field. I
can arrange it. Men will be wanted to load the ships. You'll have a chance to talk to the handlers and maybe pick up
something. You know how it is, a bale or crate can split open by accident and only a fool would waste an opportunity."
He riffled his cards. "I take a fifth of all you get."
Three ships waited on the field. 'The Ergun was carrying a cargo of grain to a mining world and the handler
smiled as Dumarest straightened after dumping the last sack into the hold.
"It wouldn't work," he said, quietly.
"What?"
"We fill the hold with prophane-X ten minutes after take-off. It's to kill any bugs but it'll take care of a man just as
well. I mention it in case you know of anyone hoping to stowaway. He could do it—hell, who can check every sack,
but he'd never make it alive."
"How about buying a passage?"
"Low?" The handler shook his head. "We've no caskets. It isn't worth keeping them on the run we do. Load up
here, go to Zwen, move on to Cresh then back to here. Short trips."
Dumarest was blunt. "How much to let me ride? I'll pay what I can now, and give you a note so as you can collect
from my earnings on Zwen. They take contract-workers, don't they? Well, it'll be just like money in the bank."
The handler thought about it, frowning. It was a mistake to trust the stranded, they would do anything, promise
anything to get away. But this one seemed different. If he had the money and would be willing to pledge himself it
was a good opportunity.
"I'll have to check."
"Must you?"
"The captain has to know." The handler was regretful. "With the hold sealed we ride close and there's no way to
keep you out of sight. But don't worry, I'll speak up for you." His thumb and forefinger made an unmistakable gesture.
"Just figure what it's worth and see me an hour after dark. You can bribe your way from the compound if you have
to."
"I'll be here," said Dumarest. "Do your best for me and you won't regret it."
At the Queen of Jaquline he was met with a scowl.
"Get the hell away from here!" The officer was red-faced, thick-set, impatient. "I've had enough of you thieving
swine! You whine your way aboard, beg for a cheap passage, promise the universe then rob the ship of all you can."
"I want—"
"You'll get a mouthful of broken teeth if you argue! Shen! Hammond! Come and take care of this stinking beggar!"
The third ship was the Sleethan, a trader loading crates. Dumarest helped to stack them in the hold and then,
when the overseer wasn't looking, slipped past him and into the vessel. The captain was of a type he'd met before.
"Passage?" Kell Erylin rubbed thoughtfully at his jaw. "You can pay?"
Dumarest showed the man some money. "Where are you bound?"
"Zakym." Erylin sucked at his teeth. "How come you helped to load?"
"I needed the exercise." Dumarest met the shrewd eyes. Like all traders the captain was more interested in
making a profit than worrying about codes of morality. "And I didn't want to advertise my leaving. Harald's an odd
world, Captain, as you know. I've a rooted objection to wearing a collar."
A hint which would explain his appearance, his need to escape. For Erylin it seemed to be enough.
"We leave after dark. Be here an hour before then and—"
"No." Dumarest jingled the coins. "I want to stay aboard, Captain. To settle in, you might say. I'm willing to pay
extra for the service."
Erylin held out his hand and frowned as he saw the amount.
"A third in advance," explained Dumarest. "The rest when we're in space. Don't worry, you'll get it."
"If I don't you'll breath vacuum." The captain's tone was as hard as his eyes. Jerking his head he added, "Take
cabin number three. Help yourself to food if you want it. Chagney's in the salon."
Chagney was the navigator. He sat sprawled in a chair, foot resting on the table, a cup of basic in his hand. He
watched as Dumarest helped himself from the spigot and sipped at the liquid. It was sickly with glucose, thick with
protein, flavored with citrus and laced with vitamins. A cup would provide a spaceman with energy for a day.
"Hungry?" The navigator tipped something from a bottle into his own cup. "Here, a little of this gives it more
body."
It was brandy and Dumarest tipped the bottle, taking far less than it seemed.
"So you're going to ride with us," said Chagney. "To Zakym. You know it?"
"No."
"A small world deep in the Rift. A crazy place or maybe it's the people who are crazy. We work the area; Zakym,
Ieldhara, Frogan, Angku—small profits and plenty of risk. You've ridden traders before?"
"A time or two, yes."
"Then you know how it is." Chagney helped himself to more brandy. Lifting the cup, he said, "A toast, friend. To
the afterlife!" His smile was bleak. "You don't think I should drink to the next world? Hell, why not? There's little
enough in this one."
And for him less than most. The man was dying, his body ravaged by an internal parasite picked up on some
distant world. Soon it would eat its way to his brain but, before that, if Erylin had any sense, the ship would have a
new navigator.
"If we can find one." The engineer was a squat man with the body of a toad and a sponge-like face meshed with a
tracery of broken veins. "Chagney knows his way around the Rift and we'll have a hard time replacing him. Who
wants to work on a trader?"
Usually the ruined, the desperate, those with skills but with reputations long-vanished and with nowhere else to
turn. Men willing to take risks with old equipment and worn engines. Scraping a living by sharing in the meager
profits. Some, Dumarest had known, were well run and well maintained. The Sleethan wasn't one of them.
It was under-crewed; the engineer filling in as handler. There was no steward. The corridor showed signs of dirt
and neglect. The decks were scuffed and the air held the sour taint of faulty-conditioners. The cabins matched the
rest.
Dumarest closed the door, threw the simple catch and stripped off the rags and tatters which covered his own
clothing. The bunk held a thin mattress, the cabinet was empty, the water from the faucet little more than a trickle
into the bowl. He let it run as he stripped then washed himself down, using a sheet from the bunk as both sponge and
towel. Dressed he opened the door and looked outside. The corridor was deserted. The cabins to either side were
empty but in the one beyond the nearest to the salon he found some clothes hanging in the cabinet. A steward's
uniform together with a medical kit containing some basic drugs and antibiotics. With it was a hypogun loaded with
quick-time.
Laziness would account for the clothing; the steward, dead or deserted, had left traces which had yet to be
disposed of. The kit was standard equipment as was the hypo-gun. Once on their journey it would be used, the drug
injected with a blast of air to slow the metabolism; the chemical magic of quick-time slowing the metabolism so that
a normal day would seem a matter of minutes only. A convenience to lessen the tedium of journeys.
Back in his cabin Dumarest settled down on the bunk to wait. He had done all he could. The false trail at the
Ergun would provide a distraction if one was needed. He wouldn't be missed from the compound. Within an hour
now, he would be away from Harald and safe into space.
He dozed a little, waking to the throb of the engines, the thin, high, wailing of the generator as it established the
Erhaft field which would send them across the void at a multiple of the speed of light. The wail was ragged, too loud,
the audible signal lasting too long before it lifted into the ultra-sonic to be heterodyned into harmlessness.
But the noise didn't matter. The ship was up and away and Dumarest felt himself relax. A moment only, then he
tensed as someone knocked on the door.
"Who?"
"Fatshan." The engineer cleared his throat. "Open up, man, it's time for quick-time."
Dumarest frowned, reaching for his knife as, with his other hand, he released the catch. The panel flew open and
the engineer cried out at the sight of naked steel.
"No! Don't! I couldn't help it! I—"
He broke off as a hand thrust him to one side. In the corridor now stood a tall figure wearing a hatefully familiar
robe.
As Dumarest lifted the naked blade Cyber Broge said, "Drop it! Drop it or I fire!"
The laser in his hand was small, a sleeve-gun, but just as deadly as any other weapon at this range. It could sear
and burn and slash like a red-hot blade. Dumarest knew that, if he moved, it would sever both his legs at the knees.

Chapter Seven
Khaya Taiyuah was a tall, lean man with a hooked nose and sunken eyes which, normally like turgid pools, now
blazed with the urgency of his errand.
"Lavinia, we have no choice. Unless Gydapen is stopped he will ruin us all. The Pact must not be broken. If it is
then what will become of life as we know it?" Somberly he answered his own question. "War, death, destruction, the
ruin of Zakym. The work of our ancestors wasted because of the greed of one man."
He was, she thought, exaggerating, but knew better than to voice the accusation. Taiyuah, like most of his type,
was subjected to sudden rages. An introvert, usually uninterested in anything which did not have a bearing on his
devotion to breeding a new strain of silk worm, he took little notice of the conduct of others. Now something, a
rumor perhaps, had sent him into a state bordering on panic.
Quietly she said, "Gydapen isn't insane, Khaya. He must know what he is doing. Are you sure you have all the
facts?"
"A messenger from Fhard Erason gave them to me. I sent him on to Howich Suchong and came here as soon as I
could. Lavinia, you have influence with the man. Stop him before it is too late."
She had, she thought, seen him perhaps a dozen times during the entire course of her life and most of those
occasions had been accidental meetings in town when they had both gone to collect delivered consignments. Only
twice had he been at a Council meeting. But he had attended the death-rites of her parents—she owed him for that.
"Lavinia—"
"We have time, Khaya. You need rest, food and some wine. A bath too, perhaps. It will relax you. Enjoy it while I
arrange matters with Roland."
"You will hurry?"
"I'll waste no time," she promised. "Now do as I say, old friend. And trust me."
Roland was on the upper battlements, standing on the platform, binoculars to his eyes as he swept the distant
hills. The magenta sun was high, the violet still barely risen, the air holding a welcome absence of tension. As always,
he sensed her presence and, lowering the binoculars, turned, smiling.
"Lavinia!" He sobered as she told him of the visitor and his fears. "And he wants you to do something about it?"
"Yes. Should I?"
"If the Pact is threatened you have no choice. I assume an extraordinary meeting of the Council will be called? If
Fhard Erason is sending out word then that will be inevitable. But why didn't he notify you directly?"
A point which hadn't escaped her attention. Slowly she said, "If Erason did send out word. Khaya is old and gets
easily confused. Delusia was strong last evening."
"And Khaya keeps much to himself." Roland looked toward the hills, his brows creased with thought. "I'll contact
Erason personally and circulate the others. It's possible that Khaya has misjudged the situation. He may not have
been meant to contact you. After all, as far as most are concerned, you and Gydapen are close. His interests could be
your own. In any case it could be feared that you might warn him or, at least, side with him. It would be a natural
assumption."
"But wrong!"
His pleasure was manifest. "It pleases me to hear you say it, my lady."
"I might have to marry the man," she said, ignoring the comment. "But I don't have to like him and I will never
side with him if he threatens the Pact." She glanced towards the hills. "What were you studying?"
"The herd we set to browse. Two stallions are vying for supremacy. Here." He handed her the glasses, "To the left
of the forked peak and just above the patch of grasses. They could still be there."
They were and she watched, entranced by their sheer, animal perfection as, snorting, they faced each other,
hooves pawing the stony dirt. They would turn and move and weave perhaps for days as their biological needs grew
and filled their universe. The urge to procreate would work its magic and each would fight to be the one to
impregnate the mares. One would have to yield, running before suffering too serious injuries, forced to wait and build
on what he had learned, to prove his mastery and so the right to implant his seed.
Once, perhaps, men had acted in a similar fashion, gathering females under their protection, filling them with new
life, multiplying their strength and cunning, their courage and ability to survive. Then only the strong had won the
right to continue their line—the weak had perished.
What had happened to ruin that elementary custom?
Where now were the men who, like those distant stallions, would fight to gain and hold what they desired?
"Lavinia?"
She lowered the binoculars, conscious that she had concentrated for too long, become too deeply engrossed with
mental imageries and was, perhaps, even now betraying her own, deep-rooted desires. The son of her body would be
a man, but where was the man to father him?
Roland? He looked at her now as a dog would look at its master. Gydapen? He owned strength of a kind and it
would serve if nothing else could be found. Erason? He was newly bereft of his wife and had sworn never to take
another. Suchong, Alcorus, Navolok—all were old with sons too young.
Again she looked through the binoculars towards the hills. The stallions were gone now, racing with the joy of life
down the further slopes, perhaps, or engaging in the initial combat maneuvers which would be a prelude to the real
battles to come. She wished she could see them. She wished she were a mare and could watch the savage masculinity
of those who fought to possess her. To have men fight and bleed and risk death itself for the sake of the prize she
offered.
"Lavinia!"
She lowered the binoculars and turned towards where Roland stood, aware of the urgency of how he had spoken
her name, the hunger in his tone. But he was looking towards the far end of the battlement, his head tilting as he
looked at the sky.
"We should be making arrangements," he said, mildly. "And the calls had best be made without delay."
She glanced at the suns; they were still far apart but would merge before the afternoon. A bad time for business.
And, if they were to reach town safely before night, it was best to waste no more time.
"See to it," she ordered, and handed him the binoculars. "I'll find out what I can from Khaya. As you say he might
have imagined the whole thing. If not we can use his raft to transport extra goods to the warehouse."
They left in an hour, both rafts loaded with bales containing ornamented leather articles, carved bone, beads of
lambent stones, wood whittled into engrossing shapes; the product of idle hours during winter and times of waiting,
the fruit of skilled but primitive artists and those who held a trace of genius.
The agent, a Hausi, kept his features impassive as he studied samples. They would find a market on worlds jaded
with machine-production, be used as tools of trade, give pleasure to tourists and children.
"Satisfied with the quality?" Lavinia was sharp, unfairly so. A Hausi did not lie and Jmombota had no need to
cheapen the goods. It was proof of her agitation that she had fired the question.
"My lady, I was looking for variety, not doubting the workmanship."
"They are as usual."
"And will find markets, but if I may be so bold to suggest that a wider range would be more viable—" He broke
off, spreading his hands. "The beads, for example, if cut instead of polished they would add to their charm. I could
obtain the necessary equipment should you be interested."
"Later." The man meant well—her gain was his greater profit, but she was not to be rushed and had no real
interest in the details of trade. The mounts bred by her Family for generations were her real interest. The goods now
piled on the floor of the warehouse were a by-product of culled beasts. "Has my consignment arrived yet?"
"No, my lady."
"When?" She anticipated his answer. "You can't be sure. Zakym is a small world and ships have to be sure of
making a profit before they call."
"That is so, my lady."
A fact she knew, had always known, and it was useless to rail against the system. It was only a matter of waiting
and, in the meantime, there were other things to worry about. Gydapen's apparent madness for one.
He sat in the Council chamber, sprawled in a seat carved of ancient woods and adorned with a motif of beasts
and reptiles. A man shorter than herself but with the shoulders of a bull and hands which held a crude beauty in their
raw, functional strength. He rose as he saw her, bowing, his eyes bold as he straightened.
"Lavinia Del Belamosk," he said, gravely. "The most lovely object to be found on this world. My lady, I salute
you."
"And I you, Gydapen Prabang. My lord, you have us concerned."
"Us?"
"Those of us who, with you, share the rule of this world. Taiyuah, Erason, Alcorus—" She broke off at his smile.
"I amuse you?"
"You enchant me, but what have we to do with that list of names?"
"They matter, my lord."
"You matter!" He was blunt. "For you, my dear, anything. For them—" he made a gesture as of flicking dust from
his sleeve. "But, as you can see, I observe the courtesies. I am here. You are here. The others?"
"Roland is below."
"The Lord Acrae." The corners of his mouth lifted in a quirk. "Of course. And the rest?" He didn't wait for an
answer. "You know, Lavinia, I was sitting here thinking of all those who had sat here before and the wise deliberations
they must have made and the decisions they arrived at to be handed down through the generations to bind those
which followed. Us, my dear. You and I. Are you not weary of the weight of those fetters forged so long ago?"
"Traditions and customs had their purpose. And the Pact—"
"Must not be broken." His interruption was the flash of a naked blade. "Of course. Always it comes to that. The
Pact!" His voice was a sneer and, in a moment, he had wiped away his previous gain in her estimation. Strength he
might have, but it was the brute strength of an unthinking beast. Against it she would set her own cunning. It,
together with the weapons of her sex, might yet prove to be the victor.
"A battle, my dear?" His voice was soft yet hiding venom and she realized that his eyes had been studying her,
reading her expression as they had already read the shape of her body beneath her gown. "The prospect excites
you?" He took a step towards her and she caught the odor of perfume. A strong, pungent sweetness which masked,
but could not wholly disguise another odor, the scent of masculinity which enveloped him like a cloud.
A stallion. A beast in rut.
And she was a mare!
"Lavinia!" Another step and he was close enough to touch her, the weight of his fingers oddly cool against her
shoulder. "Next to me you are the strongest person on this world. Think of what we could accomplish if we were
together. What couldn't we achieve? You know my feelings. If I were to suggest a union what would you say?"
"I would suggest you waited for the right time and place."
"Do you mock me!"
 She saw the sudden anger blaze in face and eyes, the snatched withdrawal of his hand, the backward step which
carried him beyond reach. Saw too the vulnerability he had betrayed and, seeing it, sensed her power and potential
victory.
"Gydapen you say that, next to you, I am the strongest person on this world. I disagree—you will permit me
that?"
Then, as he remained silent, she added, harshly, "Or do you want nothing more than a slave to kiss your boots at
your command? Is that what you look for in a wife?"
"A wife?" His eyes cleared. "I—no. No, of course not."
"Good." She glanced around the chamber, seeing the carved heads of long-dead Councilors who watched with
blind, indifferent eyes. The living, assembling, would be downstairs. Waiting for all to arrive, perhaps, or for more
devious reasons of their own. Well, let them wait. "My Lord Gydapen Prabang, I am hungry. Of your charity, may I be
fed?"
The old form of appeal amused him as she had intended it should. It also dissolved the last vestige of his rage
and gave him more assurance as to her feelings than he had reason to own.
"Feed you?" His laughter echoed from the beamed and vaulted roof. "My dear, I'll give you the best meal money
can buy."
"And the others?"
"To hell with them! They can wait!"
Wait as viands were carefully selected and prepared, cooked to stringent standards, dressed and blended with
expensive oils and spices, served with deference and with appropriate wines. A succession of dishes culled from a
score of worlds. Specialties costing more than an ordinary worker could accumulate in half a year of toil.
Lavinia speared a morsel and tasted sweetness, bit into crispness, swallowed a savory pulp tantalizing in varying
flavors. Another followed as different as the first, more, a host of morsels each blending with the other, triggering
barely remembered incidents of past happinesses.
Warmth, born in her stomach, spread to her thighs, her breasts, her loins.
Her glass was empty and a servant poured at her host's command. Vapors rose from the sparkling fluid, drifting
clouds of tantalizing sweetness which held something of the emerald fluid and hinted of mint and ice and chilled
lavender.
"To us, my dear." Gydapen lifted his own goblet. "To our future!"
"To joy," she responded with ambiguity. "To fulfillment."
They drank and, if he anticipated more than was meant by the words, that was his loss and her victory. With him
always it would be a battle. As they lowered their goblets the deep throb of the curfew gong sent little sympathetic
tintinnabulations from the engraved crystal.
"Night." Gydapen's tone was sour. "And now the Sungari come into their own."
"Night." She touched the rim of her goblet as, again, the gong throbbed its warning. "I must thank you, my lord,
for having fed me so well."
"Of my charity?"
"Of your charity." She smiled as if they shared a private joke. Then, growing serious, she said, "You know, the old
forms have meaning. The implicit courtesy, for example, and the reminder that to be polite, even to the deprived, is to
be civilized. I asked you to feed me and you did and for that I thanked you. We find it amusing, but what if I had been
starving? Had I demanded you would have refused and then, in order to survive, I would have tried to take by force
what you refused to give me. In which case I would have, most probably, died."
"Not you, Lavinia."
"Because you consider me to be attractive?"
"Because you are rare—a woman with intelligence and a man's ability to get your own way."
"And those things are rare?" She thought for a moment, "On Zakym, perhaps, but on other worlds? You have
traveled, Gydapen. So has Roland. He tells me that, on some worlds, women are equal in all respects to men. Have
you found it so?"
"It is against nature."
"It is?" She frowned, sensing more than an unthinking rebuttal and wondering why an otherwise intelligent man
should have affirmed such nonsense. Had he been hurt on his travels? Meeting a woman who had beaten him at his
own game? Who had mocked him and held him to scorn? If so she must be careful. Whatever Gydapen lacked it was
not physical strength. In an actual fight he could break her bones and, from what she remembered of the rage which
had distorted his face, he would, given cause. "Well, perhaps you are right. In any case what true woman would ever
want a man as weak as herself ?"
For answer he flicked the edge of his goblet with a nail and, as the thin, high chime began to fade, said, "I'll be
blunt, Lavinia. I want you. I think you know it."
"You want me," she said, dryly. "As what and for how long?"
"As wife."
"I would accept nothing less."
"I would offer nothing less." His eyes met her own, hard, direct. "I have no time for games. Unite with me and, in
time, our children could rule this world. Think about it."
She knew better than to jest. Returning his stare she said, with sincerity, "You have done me honor, my lord. For
this I thank you."
And, if no word of love had been spoken, what of that? Did animals prate of romance when locked in the
compulsion to procreate? Did babies need soft words and gentle hands in order to be conceived? She was a Lady of
Zakym, not a servant girl with a too-large imagination and a too-limited awareness of reality. Gydapen had offered
her power and prestige, security for her people and a father for her children. Could any man offer more?
Then why did she continue to hesitate? Why, when the aphrodisiacl qualities of the food and wine warmed her
loins, did she continue to remain aloof ?
Questions the carved figures on the stairs couldn't answer. Nor did the wooden heads in the Council chamber.
Even the living remained silent, the silence a mute reproach for having being kept waiting.
Gydapen broke it. Plumping into his seat he said, "Well, you asked me to come and I am here."
Erason held the chair. Coldly he said, "The formalities must be observed. First an apology for the willful insult to
the Council. Then—"
"To hell with that!" The slap of Gydapen's hand was a meaty thud rising from the table. "Get on with it or I leave."
Alcorus cleared his throat. Old, withered, he hated displays of violence. Hated, not feared, two dead men killed in
a formal duel proved that.
"I'll make this short Lord Prabang. I've heard that you intend to break the Pact. Is that true?"
"And if it is?"
"I ask for the last time." The dry tones held contempt. "Is it true?"
"No." Gydapen looked around as relief made an audible rustle as clothing shifted on relaxing bodies. "I have no
intention of actually breaking the Pact. But it can be altered. Adjustment can be made."
"You split hairs, my lord!"
"I'm giving you the truth, Alorcus." Gydapen returned the old man's glare. "There are valuable minerals on my
lands. I intend to obtain them. That is all."
"And what of the Pact?" Navolok leaned forward in his chair. "Do you intend to defy the Sungari?"
"I've explained that."
"No." Suchong made a curt gesture. "You have done nothing of the kind. You, like all of us, have certain
designated areas for mining. Now you say that you intend to extend your area of operations. This is a direct
contravention of the Pact."
"It has already been contravened."
"By whom? The Sungari? How? When?"
"You want proof ?"
"I demand it!" Alcorus returned to the attack. "It is essential. Without evidence I refused to accept your
testimony."
"You dare to call me a liar!"
"Do you take us for fools?" With an effort Alcorus restrained his anger. "Do you ask us to destroy our heritage on
your unsupported word? If the Pact has been broken then we must know how and where and in what manner.
Accidents have happened before but the Pact has been maintained. It will still be maintained with good intent on both
sides. But if you, or anyone, deliberately breaks if for reasons of selfish greed then the full weight of this Council will
be turned against him. I call for a vote!"
Dutifully Lavinia raised her hand and, with surprise, noted that Gydapen also voted in favor. A cynical gesture or
a genuine desire to keep the peace? A cunning move in order to gain time? It was possible and she wondered who
had first spread the rumor. Gydapen himself, perhaps, it would fit his nature. To cry wolf again and again so that when
he really did set to work who would believe it?
The Council dissolved in apparent concord, the members taking underground passages to their various places of
accommodation. Lavinia made certain that Gydapen should not claim her, an act made simple by his own apparent
lack of interest; another cunning move on his part, perhaps, or a demonstration of calculated patience. The average
woman would have been piqued by such an apparent affront and eager to prove the worth of her attraction.
Roland pursed his lips when, later in her room, she mentioned it.
"Gydapen is cunning, Lavinia. Never make the mistake of underestimating him."
 "I don't intend to."
"I watched him in the Council chamber. His rage—did you notice how artificial it was? And he seemed to want to
goad certain members. The vote, of course, was a farce."
"But, even so, what could he do against us?"
The room was small; one in a relatively inexpensive hotel, the paneling uncarved, the wooden floor graced only
with a thin rug. The window, now firmly shuttered, was of small panes of colored glass, reflections from the lamp
filling it with a jigsaw of multicolored hues which touched Roland's hair and sharpened his features.
Quietly he said, "The wrong question, my dear. You should ask, what can we do against him should he choose to
go his own way?"
"He wouldn't dare!"
"Why not?" He turned and now his face, sharper than before, held a sagging weariness. "Like me he's been to
other worlds. He knows how limited Zakym can be. With money the galaxy is waiting. Worlds without number, races,
civilizations, climates, how to even begin to tell of their variety? And he has no cause to love this planet. If it came to
it he would ruin it and leave, smiling, reveling in his revenge."
She said, with quick understanding, "Me?"
"You could be the last straw. He wants you. I do not say he loves you; personally I think the man incapable of
anything aside from self-love. You would be an acquisition. An excuse if you rejected him."
"No!" She refused to accept the burden. "No, Roland! You can't place the fate of this world on my shoulders! I
won't have it!"
He made no answer, just stood watching her, waiting as the moments dragged past and the obvious came to
stand before her and smile with its fleshless jaws.
What she wanted was no longer of importance—like it or not she had no choice.

Chapter Eight
No ship traversing space was ever truly silent, always, if it lived, there was sound. Small noises, vibrations carried
by the structure, the tap of a boot against metal, the muted sussuration of voices, the quiver of the generators and
the soft, near-inaudible drone of the Erhaft field itself. A drone which was more of a vibration than actual noise, a
thing which could be felt with the tips of sensitive fingers. On a good vessel with efficient padding such noises were
unobtrusive, a background murmur which provided comfort rather than distraction, a sense of life in a sterile void,
but the Sleethan was far from new and the sounds were loud. But not loud enough to drown the even modulation of
Cyber Broge.
"You displayed wisdom. You knew that I would not have hesitated to fire."
Dumarest said, dryly, "And broken your command not to risk my life?"
"I have skill in medical matters. The stumps would have been seared by the beam and blood-loss avoided. There
would have been relatively little shock. Tourniquets could have been applied and other precautions taken. You would
have been in no danger of losing your life."
"And yet you couldn't be certain of that?"
"Nothing can be absolutely guaranteed," admitted the cyber. "Always there is the possibility of the unknown
affecting any prediction. Yet, had you left me no choice, I would have taken the risk."
A fact Dumarest had known. He could have hurled the knife and, perhaps, taken the man's life, but he would have
fallen beneath the beam and, falling, died.
Also, somewhere, the man's acolyte would have been on watch.
Was still on watch.
Dumarest had seen him after he had dropped the knife and obeyed the cyber's orders. Deft hands had removed
his boots, his tunic, leaving him dressed only in his pants. His hands had been cuffed behind him and, once on the cot,
his ankles had been manacled to the structure of the bed. He could sit upright, turn from side to side, could even
throw himself awkwardly to the floor. But it was impossible to leave the bunk.
A prisoner, he could only wait.
Wait and watch and plan. To be ready at all times to take advantage of any opportunity which might come. To
mask the alertness by a seeming, numb acceptance of his fate. To use a man's weakness against himself.
Broge was young, inexperienced, sent to Harald because it was a world of relative unimportance and would serve
to train him in the extension of his instilled attributes. A man who, while not capable of true emotion, could enjoy the
pleasure of mental achievement. And he had succeeded in gaining the one man the Cyclan wanted most of all.
"You were clever," said Dumarest. "How did you know where I would be?"
 "The clues were obvious. The stolen clothing, rubbish, perhaps, but good enough to disguise your own garments.
The rain helped and you probably waited in the market until dark. Then where could you hide without question? The
prediction that you would choose Lowtown was high. You would be on the field, close to vessels, and you would have
money for passage should the opportunity present itself."
He knew everything. To walk into Lowtown had been simple, who would think a man would voluntarily want to
stay in such a stinking hell? Men were counted out but rarely counted in. To join a party in the gloom, to merge into
the shadows, to wait.
"How did you know where to look for me? Only the woman knew I was at the old man's."
And she would have told the cyber when he asked, of course, and his absence when her home was searched
would have confirmed the prediction as to where he would be found. It was impossible to blame her; on Harald a
good situation was something to be valued. The rest was elementary, the captain of the Sleethan, warned, would have
sent word.
"I must admit that I was puzzled by the ease of your capture," said Broge. "I was given to understand that you had
remarkable powers of eluding authority. It seems incredible that you remained at large for so long."
"Luck," said Dumarest. "I had a lot of luck."
Which had turned bad on Harald. An hour, maybe, would have done it. A day, certainly. If he could have gained a
passage before the cyber had been informed—but no ships had been at the field and, once in Lowtown, he could only
wait.
Even then, if Erylin had been honest—but to ask that of his kind was to ask too much. The captain, bribed, would
not have hesitated.
Dumarest said, "Listen, you don't need me. I'm willing to cooperate with you. I'll tell you the secret you're looking
for and, in return, you let me go. Just give me my boots."
"You have the secret hidden in your boots?"
"I—never mind that. You must know why the Cyclan want me. Well, you can take them what they want. I'll write
it down if—" Dumarest jerked at his manacled wrists. "What's the matter with you? Are all you people thieves?"
"You are the thief. You stole the secret from the Cyclan. We only want to recover what is rightfully ours."
An error, the secret had been stolen by Brasque and passed by him to Kalin who, in turn, had given it to
Dumarest. A correction he didn't make as, again, he tugged at his wrists. An act, there could be no escape from the
clamping metal, but a man who would waste effort on a useless pursuit would merit the scorn of the cyber and a man
held in scorn is generally underestimated.
A knock and, at the cyber's invitation, the door opened and Chagney stood just within the cabin. He looked
blankly at Dumarest and swayed a little, lifting a hand to support himself, the fingers thin, the knuckles swollen
against the jamb.
"The captain wants to know the new destination. You said—"
"You are bound at present for Zakym?"
"Yes. It's on the edge of the Rift. We've a cargo and can pick up stuff for delivery to Koyan."
"Alter course for Jalong. Full recompense will be made on arrival together with the promised bonus." Then, as the
navigator made no attempt to shift his position, the cyber added, "Well?"
"Jalong. You sure?"
"Yes."
"It's beyond the Rift. You know that?"
"I know it." Broge looked steadily at the navigator. "Are you ill?"
"He's drunk," said Dumarest. "He couldn't plot an unfamiliar course to save his life. Anyway, we'll never reach
Jalong in this wreck. The generators are shot to hell, can't you hear them? Try it and we'll all end up as dust in the
Rift."
"The probability of that is six point seven per cent," said Broge evenly. "Low as you will admit. Once on Jalong
you will be transshipped to a vessel which will take you to your final destination."
Final in more ways than one. Dumarest leaned back against the bulkhead as Broge rose and led Chagney back to
the control room. Alone his face lost its vacuous expression as he anticipated the future. It didn't take a cyber's skill to
predict just what would happen. First he'd be held in a security impossible to achieve on the Sleethan. There would
be guards and drugs and preliminary interrogations. Later would come electronic probes to quest his brain, pain to
stimulate his memory, tests to determine the truth, more to eliminate the possibility of error. Then, finally, when no
longer human, he would be disposed of as unwanted rubbish.
It would be done without hate and without mercy. The events of the past would have no meaning for those who
would have him in their charge. The Cyclan wasted no time on recriminations or revenge. He would be nothing more
to them than a receptacle holding the one thing they had determined to regain.
 The correct sequence of the fifteen biological molecular units forming the affinity twin.
An artificial symbiote developed by the Cyclan in a secret laboratory and stolen from them by the dedicated
genius of one man. Brasque was long dead now as was Kalin and he had destroyed the data before taking the secret
or had left false information behind. The details didn't matter, the fact that the affinity twin still existed did.
Injected into the bloodstream it nestled at the base of the cortex and became intermeshed with the entire
sensory and nervous systems. The brain hosting the submissive half of the organism would become a literal
extension of the dominant part. Each move, all sensation, all mobility would be instantaneously transmitted. In effect
it gave the host containing the dominant half a new body.
It offered a bribe impossible to resist.
An old man could become young again, enjoying to the full the senses of a virile, healthy body. A harridan could
see her beauty reflected in the eyes of her admirers. The hopelessly crippled and hideously diseased would be cured,
their minds released from the rotting prison of their flesh.
It would give the Cyclan the complete and utter domination of the galaxy.
The mind and intelligence of a cyber would reside in every ruler and person of influence and power. They would
become marionettes moving to the dictates of their masters. Slaves such as had never been seen before, mere
extensions of those who wore the scarlet robe.
They would rediscover the secret in time, but the possible combinations of the fifteen units ran into the millions
and, even if it were possible to test one combination every second, to check them all would take more than four
thousand years.
Dumarest could cut that time down to a matter of days.
The reason they hunted him from world to world. Had hunted him. Luck alone had saved him until now. Luck
and his own shrewdness, his instinctive awareness of danger. An awareness which had been blunted in his consuming
desire to discover the coordinates of Earth.
Again he tested the manacles around his wrists. They were locked tight but there was a little slack in the
connecting chain, enough to allow of a little free movement. He slid his hands far to one side, gripped his belt and
tugged. It moved a little, jammed, moved again as, sweating, he jiggled the strap. The buckle slid through a loop,
struck again, yielded only when his arms were burning with strain.
He froze as a gust of air touched his face. He saw nothing and the door had not apparently opened or closed, but
the impact of the minor breeze was real. A moment and the door opened and Chagney entered the cabin. He stood,
swaying, his eyes glazed, his breath a noisome foulness.
"No good." He muttered. "No good."
"What's wrong? The cyber?"
"The red swine. Said I didn't know my trade. I'd plotted the course and he found an error. So what's in a small
error? We can correct as we go, can't we?"
"Is he navigating?"
"No." Chagney swayed again and almost fell. "I'm doing that. I'm the navigator and it's my job. I insisted. The
captain's checking my figures, that's all."
And the cyber would check again. He didn't have to be a navigator, Erylin would take care of that, every captain
had schooling in the basics if nothing else. Chagney, as the man dimly realized, had been declared incompetent.
An ally, perhaps? Aggrieved he might be willing to help.
Dumarest said, "These manacles are tearing my arms off. Can you ease them a little?"
"No." The navigator shook his head. "No key," he explained. "The acolyte has that and he's riding Middle."
Space terminology for anyone traveling under normal time. For him the journey would be a grinding tedium but,
living at a normal rate while the others were slowed by quick-time, he would make a perfect guard. Even if Dumarest
managed to escape he would stand no chance. And he was being watched, the puff of air proved that; the acolyte had
looked into the cabin, seen all was well and had left again before Dumarest could react.
An invisible guardian added to the rest—the cyber was taking no chances.
Dumarest eased himself up in order to lean his back against the bulkhead. He winced, muttered, swore as he
moved again. Chagney watched with dull interest; unaware of the hidden fingers which tore at the buckle of the belt
now resting against Dumarest's kidneys.
"What they want you for? The Cyclan, I mean, you're valuable to them, right?"
The voice was still slurred but the eyes had lost some of their glaze. Somehow his pride had been stung or his
greed wakened and he was trying to learn what he could. A mistake on the cyber's part, another to add to the rest
and Dumarest's only chance. He took it, quickly, before the door could be sealed and he was isolated.
"I've got something they want," he said quickly. "The coordinates where it is buried. A smart man could make
himself a fortune, but I wasn't smart enough. Listen, you help me and I'll tell you where it is."
 He paused, waiting as moments dragged, fighting the tension which mounted within him. The seed had been
sown but it was slow to take root. The diseased brain could only ponder what had been said.
And, to say more at this time, would be a mistake.
Chagney sucked at his lips. '"What is it? This stuff you buried?"
"I didn't bury it. It's a ship which crashed on Heida. You know it? The hold was stuffed with equipment for the
mines but there was something else carried in the captain's cabin. A strongbox filled with gems. They were meant as
a bribe to the Magnate from the Cyclan. He didn't get them and they had to pay twice. Now they want the gems."
"And you know where they are?"
Dumarest said, "Help me ease these damned cuffs. They're tearing the skin."
"The gems—"
"To hell with the gems. Help ease these cuffs."
The navigator took one step forward then paused. He blinked and ran the tip of his tongue over cracked and
scaled lips. He said, slowly, "These gems—are you conning me?"
"How much is the cyber paying as recompense? How large a bonus are you getting? Sure, I'm conning you.
Forget it."
Dumarest turned, scowling, the nail of his thumb probing at metal. The buckle was in reverse, unseen, he could
only operate by touch and, for safety, the thing wasn't easy to open. It yielded as Chagney took another step towards
him.
"The gems? How much?"
"If you know Heida then you know the Magnate. He lives high. A man like that can't be bought cheap. There's
enough to keep the both of us in luxury for life." Dumarest hardened his voice. "The both of us, understand?"
"But—"
"I'll delay the Cyclan. You get there first and find the stuff. Hide it and wait. I'll join you as soon as I can. On—
where? Where shall we meet?" Dumarest didn't have to pretend urgency. Beneath his fingers the buckle had parted
and the small, metal tube it had contained now was in his hands. It contained two syringes one colored red, the other
green. They contained the affinity twin, the subjective with a reversed last component But how to tell which from
which?
"Koyan," said Chagney. "I like Koyan. I've got friends there. I'll wait for you on Koyan."
"Where? How will I locate you?"
"I'll be at the best hotel. Now how do I find the gems?"
If they existed he would take them all, but his greed had served its purpose. Now, quickly, before the chance was
lost. The only chance he would get. But which was the red syringe?
As he struggled to remember their original location in the tube, the shift of position of both buckle and container,
and which now occupied what position, Dumarest said, "We had a deal. Come closer. Ease these damned cuffs."
"The coordinates—"
"You want everyone to hear. Bend down your ear to my mouth. Hurry, damn you. Hurry!"
He caught the stench of foul breath in his nostrils as the navigator obeyed. Heard the rasp of air in wheezing
lungs and heard, too, the pad of feet down the corridor outside. The cyber returning?
A scaled cheek touched his own, an ear moving to halt opposite his mouth, haired, grimed with dirt and wax.
Dumarest muttered words, figures, giving an imagined position, instructions, lies. Holding the other's attention as he
strained against his bonds, fingers slimed with sweat, muscles burning as he fought to hold the syringe. Fingers
touched his arms, moved down to his wrists, hesitated.
"Lower," said Dumarest. "Lower, grab those manacles and pull. Move, damn you! Hurry!"
"Someone's coming."
Had arrived, the footsteps halting beyond the cabin opening, moving forward as, with a lunge, Dumarest reared,
stabbing upwards with the syringe, feeling the point strike against a bony wrist, slip, drive home as he reared again,
pain lancing from torn ligaments in back and shoulders.
"What the hell!" Chagney swore and tried to jerk free his arms. Dumarest threw back his weight, imprisoning
them between his shoulders and the bulkhead, releasing his grip on the syringe and turning the other so that the
needle rested against the artery on the inside of his wrist. A moment he paused—if he had guessed wrong this would
be the last action he would ever take and then, as Broge crossed the cabin towards the bunk, he drove the instrument
into his flesh.

Chapter Nine
 There was a blur, a timeless moment as if the very universe had stopped, then came light and sound and a voice.
"What are you doing here? My orders were plain. This man is to remain in isolation."
The cyber, his tones even, only the words holding an implicit threat. But the words were fuzzed, harmonics lost,
the drone of a robot rather than the trained modulation of his class.
"Did you hear me? Step back away from the prisoner. Leave this cabin and do not return. There will be penalties
if you do not obey."
Dumarest sucked in his breath and felt a liquid gurgling in his chest. Before him he could see the metal of the
cabin; the join where bulkhead met hull. Lower a shape sat slumped in the corner, arms behind the chest, chin
pressed against his own torso.
With a jerk he freed the wrists which were trapped between the figure and the metal. A spot of red caught his
eye, a small tube hanging from a needle buried in his wrist and he snatched it, pulling it free, coughing, lifting a hand
to his mouth and hiding the thing beneath his tongue.
One found and hidden but the other?
He heard the soggy rasp as of clothing; bare flesh sliding over the metal bulkhead as the figure on the bed
toppled to one side. He caught it, found the other syringe, coughed again and finally turned to face the cyber.
"I'll," he said. "I heard him cry out and looked inside and he was ill. I think he's fainted or something."
"Please leave immediately."
"I could help, maybe?"
"That will not be necessary." Broge's hand lifted towards his sleeve, the laser clipped to his wrist. "I shall not ask
you again."
The man should die, had to die, executed if for no other reason than that he had ordered the death of an old and
harmless man, but not yet. The acolyte had to be taken care of first and there were other things which needed to be
done.
How to use this new body for one.
Dumarest sagged as he stepped into the corridor, not acting, unable to master the reluctance of the flesh he now
wore. The wall was cool against his fevered skin and he leaned against it, feeling the painful pulsation of his lungs, the
liquid gurgling, the rasp of breath, the aches and torments, the agony of rotting tissue.
Chagney was dying.
That he had known, but had been unable to guess just how bad the man had been. The disease had progressed
too far, alcohol alone had helped to numb the pain and provide the energy for motivation. Bleakly Dumarest looked at
the lights, frowning as his eyes refused to focus. His hearing was impaired, his sight, in his mouth rested foulness, his
skin felt like abrasive paper and, like little pits of fire, various glands signaled breakdown and inner decay.
"Chagney!" A man came into sight following his voice. Fatshan, the engineer, a steaming cup of basic in one
hand, a bottle in the other. "Man, you look like hell! Here, get this down, you need it."
Dumarest reached for the bottle, missed, his hand closing on empty air. He tried again, more slowly this time,
shaken by his lack of coordination. As a cripple had to watch every step so he would have to watch every move.
"Thanks." The brandy stung the raw tissues of the lower region of his throat, pain which helped to wash away
other pain, the spirit lending him strength. In the pit of his stomach a small fire sprang into life, warming with its
comfort.
As again he gulped at the bottle Fatshan said, "Take it easy, man. You still have work to do."
"Like hell I have." Dumarest wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, saw the other's expression and realized
he had made a mistake. Chagney, diseased though he was could have retained some elements of a near-forgotten
culture. "I can't worry any more," he said. "Not about the ship, not about you, not anything. Erylin's got himself a new
navigator. Well, if that's the way he wants it—" Again he lifted the bottle to his mouth, keeping his lips closed and only
pretending to drink.
"You're a fool," said the engineer. "The Old Man still needs you. With your share of the profits you can get fixed
up. Regrafts, maybe, a spell in an amniotic tank, medical aid at least. Why throw it all away?" His voice dropped a
little. "Remember Eunice? She'll be waiting when we reach Koyan. Think of the pleasure she can give. Say, what did
happen the last time we were there? You know when she—"
Knowledge he didn't have. Dumarest snapped, "Shut up!"
"What?"
"Keep your stinking nose out of my business!"
The reaction was immediate. The engineer scowled, lifted clenched fists and came forward intent on punishment.
Dumarest tried to back, felt the slowness of his reflexes and realized that, in his present condition, he stood no
chance. He threw himself to one side, hands lifted, brandy spilling from the bottle to the deck.
"No! Don't hit me! I didn't mean anything! Please! It's my head! My head!"
 The engineer lowered his fists.
"What the hell's come over you? You might be weak but you always had guts. Now you don't seem to be the same
man. That thing hit your brain? Is that it?"
Dumarest sucked in his breath, teeth rattling on glass as he lifted the bottle. The man had touched on something
dangerous. Repeated and heard by the cyber it could be fatal.
"God, I feel queer. Things keep getting mixed up. I thought you were—well, never mind. That time on Koyan.
Eunice. She—"
"Forget it." The engineer waved a hand. He looked at the mess on the deck where he'd dropped the cup of basic
and shrugged. "More work."
"I'll take care of it."
"Let it lie. Who the hell cares? You'd better get some rest and get into condition. The Old Man's rusty when it
comes to navigation and that cyber's no good. Only his money." He chuckled. "That we can use."
For things best left to the imagination but Dumarest wasn't concerned. Checking the cabins he found one which
held some books, a scatter of clothing. The books were navigational tables, the clothing fitted the body he now wore.
Closing the door he examined it.
Thin, waste, the skin scaled and blotched, a cluster of sores, grime in the pores.
It needed a bath. It lacked any medication. It was an envelope which had seen too many vicissitudes. And in it,
somewhere, was housed the original life.
It was below the level of consciousness, a brain trapped in a small, enclosed world, the ego, the individual
negated into a formless, timeless region. Yet not all had been eradicated. Sitting, leaning back, relaxing the body while
he concentrated on the mind, Dumarest caught odd fragments of distorted memory, items of information he hadn't
previously known.
The art of navigation, he felt, was almost at his fingertips. Study it for a while and all would be clear. Jalong—how
best to reach Jalong? The Rift held dangers best avoided so head first toward Ystallephra and then alter course to—
yes. It was all so obvious.
As was the need for haste.
Dumarest rose and took several deep breaths. It was hard to remember that he wasn't really in this body but lying
slumped in apparent unconsciousness in the cyber's cabin. If that body was destroyed then he would die. If Chagney
should die then he would wake in his own form. What he now experienced was a total affinity but not a complete
transfer. The difference meant survival.
The passage was deserted as far as he could see. So was the salon. Visible evidence meant nothing, the acolyte
could be anywhere, but, living at the normal rate as he was, tiredness would be a problem. He would have to snatch
rest or use drugs and either would demand his attention at times.
The steward's cabin was as he remembered it, the clothing a mute testimony of the man who had once occupied
the space. The medical kit was untouched. The hypogun lay where the engineer had tossed it after injecting them all
with quick-time. All aside from the acolyte, of course, to forget that was to invite destruction.
Lifting the hypogun Dumarest checked it, aimed it at his throat and pulled the trigger.
The air-blast made a sharp hiss, the drug blasted into his bloodstream was unnoticeable but, as the sound of the
blast died, the neutralizer took effect.
The lights flickered a little. Sounds changed. Time altered as his metabolism speeded back to its normal rate.
Those still under the influence of quick-time became statues.
Broge was in his cabin, stooped over the limp figure on the bunk, a thin blade poised over a figure, blood on the
needle-point steel and blood like a ruby at the point where it had been thrust beneath a nail.
He didn't turn as Dumarest stepped forward. He stayed immobile as the stiletto-like blade was taken from his
hand. He did nothing as it thrust itself into the soft place behind an ear, sliding upwards into the brain, the wound
closing as it was withdrawn. Poetic justice, death neatly and swiftly delivered and a step taken towards safety.
Without moving Dumarest looked around. His knife, tunic and boots must be somewhere else, logically in the
cabin held by the acolyte. Which would place it toward the rear of the passage towards the engine room. As the cyber
fell with a soft thud to the floor he stepped from the cabin.
And almost died.
Luck saved him. Luck and the quick recognition of the situation, an ability unaffected by the diseased body. A
nicker of movement where no movement should be. A stir—and he froze as the acolyte stepped from a cabin and
came towards him.
He looked tired, body slumped with fatigue, shoulders rounded, head bent, feet dragging. For days now, normal
time, he had stayed awake. Drugs had given him a little respite and, perhaps, training had helped a little but no
creature, man or emotionless machine, using oxygen as a basic form of energy could deny nature to the extent of
rejecting sleep.
Yet, even so, he was aware and alert enough to be suspicious. Dumarest he would have recognized and taken
immediate action. The navigator was just a part of the ship. A man who, perhaps, had been summoned by his master
for consultation. And one obviously under the influence of quick-time.
It was far from easy. Dumarest stood, immobile, his eyes open, the balls stinging with the need of moisture. His
chest ached and his lungs craved air as he waited, not trusting his reflexes, knowing only that he was weak and ill and
must kill without mistake or hesitation.
Kill without mercy. Kill to be safe. Kill to survive.
The acolyte reached the cabin, frowned at the open door, halted as he glanced inside.
"Master!"
He spun as Dumarest moved, the action alone being enough to trigger his alarm. The thin sliver of steel aimed at
his throat slashed across the face instead, ripping a furrow from the ear and through an eye, blinding, sending blood to
pour over the cheek.
A wound which would have caused a normal youth to scream with pain, to back, to be thrown off-guard.
Dumarest grunted as he came in to the attack, one hand lifted, the other snatching at the weapon. The thin blade
was almost useless; without weight or balance, too fragile to stab it was good only to slash. Shallow wounds which
could hurt but not kill. And to a servant of the Cyclan pain was a stranger.
Dodging the blade he lifted his hand, the laser firing, chipped paint flaring on the cabin wall as, throwing himself
down, Dumarest avoided the beam. He rolled as the acolyte fired again, feeling the burn as it hit his left thigh, feeling
too the cloth of the scarlet robe spread over the dead body on the floor.
The cyber whom the acolyte didn't know was dead. His master whom he was sworn to protect with his life. To
fire again was to risk hitting the sprawled figure: It was, better to wait, to back a little, weapon ready in case of need
but aimed safely away.
"The knife," he said. "Drop it." Then, as Dumarest obeyed. "Now up on your feet. Up."
Dumarest fumbled, moved, hands gripping the cyber's dead arm, fingers questing for the laser beneath the wide
sleeve. He found it, found the trigger, turning the entire arm towards the acolyte in a grotesque gesture from the dead,
as too late, the youth recognized the truth.
He swayed a little, his remaining eye turning into a charred hole in the contours of his face, blood masking his
cheek, dripping, falling as he fell to coat the floor with a liquid crimson.
A pool of blood which grew as Dumarest's own wound pumped away his life.
He ripped away the material from the injured thigh, thrust a thumb above the wound where the great artery
pulsed and, with the remaining hand and his teeth, ripped a strip of fabric from the cyber's robe. Knotted, twisted into
place, it made a crude but efficient tourniquet. Rising, Dumarest staggered and almost fell.
It wasn't just the wound. The beam had missed the bone and he had stanched the blood, but too much had been
lost already and he was too weak. His heart pounded like a bursting engine and the lights appeared to dim as he
fought for air. The tips of his fingers felt cold and, he knew, death was close.
Too close and too soon. He fought it, gritting his teeth, concentrating on the single act of breathing and, slowly,
the immediate danger passed.
Only the impossible remained.
The dead had to be disposed of, the cabin cleaned and other matters taken care of. It would need strength and
time—but now, at least, he had won some time.
Time in which to clean himself and don fresh clothing. To force himself to drink three cups of basic. To search
the medical kit for appropriate drugs.
Fatshan looked up from his console as Dumarest entered the engine room. He scowled. "What do you want?"
"To apologize." Dumarest held out a bottle and a pair of glasses. "I was a fool and I'm making no excuses but, at
times, I don't know which way to turn. I'm dying and we both know it. I haven't a friend in the universe aside from
you. Let's drink to old times."
"You're crazy!"
"Yes. I'm not arguing. I deserve all you want to hand out. But, for now, let's drink to the past." Dumarest poured
neat brandy into the glasses. "To health and happiness. To the next world." A pause then, "To death and what comes
after."
"Cut it out!" Fatshan glared over the rim of his glass. "Your toasts give me the creeps at times. Death'll come
when it's ready, until then let's enjoy life."
"I'll drink to that!"
Dumarest lifted his glass, watched as the other swallowed the contents of his own at a gulp. Refilling the
container he handed it back, coughed, wiped his lips and sipped at his brandy.
 As it touched his lips the engineer sighed and collapsed, a victim of the drug Dumarest had given him. He would
sleep for a while, wake with a sense of well-being and, while he slept, the field was clear in which to work.
Dumarest fired a charge of neutralizer into his bloodstream and felt the surge and pulse of a disturbed
metabolism threaten his awareness. Too free a use of the drugs was dangerous but he had no choice. To risk the side
effects was a gamble he had to take.
Back in the cabin nothing had changed. He took the youth first, rolling the body on to a sheet, fastening it, rising
to grip the corners and drag it down the passage into the engine room and through into the hold. A port took it,
rotating so as to hurl it into the void. The cyber followed, his extra weight robbing Dumarest of strength so that he
leaned against a crate, sweat dripping to stain the wood.
Cleaning the cabin came next, swabs soaked in blood added to a pile and all thrown out to join the corpses.
The keys of the manacles had been on the acolyte. Dumarest used them to free his body. His knife, boots and
tunic were in the place he'd suspected and he dressed the limp figure. Again using the sheet he dragged it down to the
cargo hold.
A way to escape. To beat the Cyclan. The only way.
The lid of a crate lifted to reveal a mass of objects wrapped in plastic; stubby machine rifles thickly protected
with grease. Dumarest weighed one in his hand, replaced it and resealed the crate. Another, differently marked,
revealed bags containing seeds, tubers, fibrous masses, jelly-like pastes—all relatively light and bulky. Half of them
went through the port into the void.
Into the space they'd taken he heaved his limp and unconscious body.
The effort almost killed him so that, for a long time, he leaned against the crate, gasping, fighting for breath,
feeling as if his heart had burst and had drenched his guts with blood. Drugs helped, lessening the pain as he fired
them into his throat, more followed to give a brief span of false energy for which he would pay later.
But it was almost over.
He studied the crate when it was sealed. No trace could be seen of it ever having been opened. No one would
have reason to look.
No one—now that the cyber was dead.
And now, at last, he could rest. To go to his cabin, to lie on the bunk, to watch as the ceiling dimmed and to drift
into an endless sea of confused memories all shattered as Fatshan came bursting into the cabin.
He had a cup of basic in his hand, the thick liquid laced with brandy and, as Dumarest sipped, he talked.
"The craziest thing. Gone—the lot of them. Not a trace. Not even of the acolyte. The Old Man and me went
Middle and searched the ship all over. Nothing."
Dumarest said, "Slow down. What are you talking about?" He frowned as the engineer explained. "Vanished? You
mean they've all vanished?"
"Yes."
"But how? An emergency sac?"
"None are missing and, anyway, who in their right mind would bale out unless they had to?" Fatshan rubbed at his
scalp. "I've been in space over thirty years and I've never bumped into anything like this. I can't see how it could have
happened. I just can't."
"But it did?"
"It did." The engineer shook his head. "I'm not joking, but it's crazy."
"A fight," said Dumarest. "The prisoner, Dumarest, could have broken free somehow and killed the cyber. He
could have been dragging him to the port when the acolyte found him. They had a fight and, somehow, all went
through the port."
"You believe that?"
"Maybe the acolyte killed Dumarest and was evicted as a punishment. Then the cyber, unable to admit failure,
followed." Then, as the engineer dubiously shook his head, he snapped, "How the hell do I know what happened? I'm
guessing, I'll admit it, but do you have a better explanation?"
"No," admitted Fatshan. "And neither does the captain."
He was in the salon, pacing the floor, frowning, kicking at the table as he passed. His frown deepened as he saw
Dumarest enter with the engineer. Deliberately he sniffed at the air.
"Brandy. I've told you before about drinking on duty."
"I didn't think I was on duty," said Dumarest. "The cyber had taken over. You and he didn't need me—or so I
understood. Anyway, what's the harm in a drink?"
"He needs it, Captain." The engineer coughed. "His trouble, you know. It's been bad lately."
Erylin grunted. He was more honest than the engineer. A navigator was of use only while he could navigate.
"You know what's happened?" He grunted again as Dumarest nodded. "You saw nothing? No, I thought not. They
must have switched to Middle. I've checked the medical kit and drugs are missing."
"I know." Dumarest met the captain's glare. "I took them."
"All of them?"
"Some pain killers. Something to help me get to sleep."
"And I was in the control room. Which leaves you, Fatshan."
"I saw nothing," said the engineer. "Nothing at all."
"Which means they must have left the ship from an upper port. Well, to hell with it. They're gone. The thing now
is what are we going to do about it?" Erylin looked at them, waiting. "Well?"
"A cyber and his acolyte," said Fatshan slowly. "The Cyclan won't like it."
"That helps a lot," sneered the captain. "Chagney?"
"If we report it they'll hold us for questioning. They'll take the ship apart and us with it. They'll never believe we
had nothing to do with those men vanishing. I can't believe it myself."
"So?"
Dumarest shrugged. "You're the boss, Captain. But if it was me I'd just keep quiet about it."
"Say nothing?" Fatshan scrubbed at his scalp. "Can we get away with it?"
"We don't know what happened so there's nothing we can tell anyone. We could even be blamed. We certainly
aren't going to get paid. A long, wasted journey with nothing but trouble at the end of it. What trader in his right mind
wants that?" Dumarest glanced from one to the other knowing he had won. But the decision had to be the captain's.
He added, "I'm only making a suggestion, but there's something else to think of. We're carrying cargo. If we hope to
stay in business we'd better deliver it. Later, if you want, we can report what's happened."
"The cargo!" Erylin snapped his fingers, relieved at having found the excuse he needed. "That's right. We have a
duty to the shippers. We can't be blamed for fulfilling our contract but we'll be taken for pirates if we don't. We'll have
to alter course back to Zakym."
And a load would be waiting for transport to another world and from there another and then still more. He would
never report the disappearances and neither would the engineer. Even if questioned they could only say that three
men had vanished into space and it was doubtful if they would ever be found.
Dumarest felt his knees sag and he stumbled and almost fell against the table. His wound had begun to burn and
throb, a wound he would have to disguise until the end. But, to do it, he needed help. Erylin frowned as, straightening,
he made his way to the store and drew out a bottle.
"Keep a clear head," he snapped. "I want you to plot the course-correction."
The computer would help and the change must be simple. The captain could handle it and Dumarest knew
enough about the workings of ships to make a good pretense. Drink and pain, drugs and the ravages of disease would
account for the errors he would make.
Now he had something to celebrate.
Lifting the bottle he jerked free the cork and filled his mouth with brandy. He felt the burn of neat spirit against
his mouth, the fire which spread down his throat to catch at his lungs and, within seconds, doubled in a paroxysm
which tore at his lungs.
"You're mad," said Erylin coldly when Dumarest finally straightened from the bout of coughing. "You can't take
that kind of punishment."
"I need it."
"The brandy? You fool! It will kill you!"
"I know." Dumarest looked at the ravaged face reflected in the curved glass. "I know."

Chapter Ten
The wind that morning was from the north, a strong, refreshing breeze which caught at the mane of her hair and
lifted it, sending it streaming like an ebon flag barred with silver. A proud sight, thought Roland as he watched her
ride from the courtyard. Proud and stubborn and more than a little willful. Any other would long ago have made her
choice, uniting the Family with another, extending the joint holdings and content to do little else but breed children.
Perhaps, if she had been less unusual, he would have been a happier man.
Beyond the gate the road ran straight and clear, a line which ran towards the town to the south and Ellman's Rest
to the north. She headed into the wind, reveling in the blast of it against her face, the tug of it at her hair. The day had
broken well but the suns were merging in the sky and, when she came in sight of the mound of shattered stone
surmounted by the gnarled and twisted tree, she was not surprised to see a figure standing at its foot, another
swinging from the topmost branches.
 He had died when she'd been a child and had seen him on a morning ride. Her nurse had hurried her away and,
later, she had listened to the gossip and learned the story. A herdsman, obviously insane, had taken his life with the
aid of a belt looped around his throat. A thwarted lover, so the gossips whispered, who had stolen so as to buy what
was denied. Caught, he had escaped before due punishment could be administered and, trapped by approaching
darkness, had ended his existence.
It could have been the truth—now she could find out.
Agius Keturlan smiled at her as she dismounted. His face was as wrinkled as ever, as sere as it had been when he
had died, but his eyes twinkled as they had done when he had carried her whooping on his shoulders.
"Lavinia, my dear. You are looking well."
"And you, Agius." Her eyes lifted to the swinging shape. "Better than he does."
"An unfortunate."
"A coward."
Gently he shook his head. "Don't be too harsh, my dear. Not all of us can be as strong as you are. How can we tell
what torments assailed him? Have you never yearned for love?"
Her blush was answer enough and she turned to adjust her saddle, unwilling to betray more. When she turned
again the dangling figure was gone, only the sough of wind stirring the branches.
Only Keturlan remained and she wondered why Charles had not appeared. Why, when she needed him, he
remained absent.
The old man said, abruptly, "You are worried, Lavinia. Don't trouble to deny it. It is in your face, the way you
stand, the way you walk. Are things not going well?" He grew solemn as she told him of her fears. "Gydapen is a good
man in many respects. You could do worse."
"But to be forced?"
"Can any of us be truly free?" His hand lifted before she could answer, a finger pointing towards the swaying
branches. "Was that poor fool free? Did he have a choice? Or was he nothing more than the victim of circumstance?
We shall never know. But some things we have learned and among them is the realization that not always can we
dictate the path we must follow. Can your mount decide? Does it tug, at times, at the rein? Is it a coward because it
obeys?"
"Then you advise me to marry Gydapen?" He smiled and made no answer and, irritated, she looked away
towards the loom of the Iron Mountains. Charles would have given her an answer. He would have laughed and joked
and made light of the whole thing and she would have been eased and free of the necessity of making a choice.
Was that why he hadn't come?
The animal snorted and pawed the dirt and, after she had soothed it, the old man had gone.
Glancing at the sky she decided against continuing the ride. The day was against it, better to stay at home and
settle outstanding details or, better still, to go into town. There could be fresh news of the ship if nothing else. It was
overdue—surely now it must arrive soon?
Roland came towards her as she dismounted. His face was anxious.
"Lavinia! Is anything wrong?"
"No. I decided against riding."
"I'm glad." His relief was obvious. "You ride too much alone."
"There is nothing to fear."
"Perhaps." He knew better than to remind her of past escapes. "But the day is against it."
As it was against everything. Shadowy figures stood in secluded corners, vanishing as if made of smoke when
approached; old retainers of little interest to any other than their kindred. The place was full of them, men and
women who had worked and served and died and were now nothing but vague memories.
Irritably Lavinia shook her head. A hot bath would help and it would follow her usual custom to wash away the
grime of riding, but now it was a duty and not a pleasure. But, as she dried herself, welcome news came. "The ship?
At last?"
"It landed a short while ago, my lady." The maid was pleased to deliver the information. "The agent reported your
cargo among its load." Her reserve broke a little, familiarity verging on contempt for ancient traditions. "Will there be
new gowns? New gems? French perfumes? My lady, if—"
"Enough!"
"My lady!" The girl's eyes lowered in respect, but she could not be blamed. New garments meant the old ones
discarded and, for her, a chance to wear expensive finery. "My lady?"
It would be cruel to keep her in suspense. "I didn't order new gowns," said Lavinia mildly. "Instead there will be a
variety of fabrics together with a host of patterns. We shall make our own gowns in the future, and in time, develop
our own fashions."
 A new industry, perhaps, and certainly a new interest, but if she had expected the girl to display pleasure at the
news she was disappointed. Later Roland explained why.
"She hoped for gifts and you offered her work instead. Why should she be pleased?"
"Why not? I'm giving her the opportunity to create."
"To work," he insisted. "That is the way she regards it. She has no interest in sewing endless stitches or sealing
endless seams. It may be a creative enterprise to you but to her, and those who will have to produce the finished
product, it is work. You disappointed her. She wanted the result without the effort."
"Laziness!"
"No, Lavinia, a natural desire to obtain the greatest reward for the smallest effort. Some call it the basis of all
invention."
"Perhaps." The subject was of no importance and less interest. "When did you think to collect our delivery?"
"Tomorrow." He glanced at the sky. "We could make it before dark but then would have to stay the night. Or we
could visit Khaya Taiyuah and move on at dawn." He smiled at the quick, negative jerk of her head. "No?"
"I've no desire to be bored to death. Either Khaya talks about worms or he doesn't talk at all."
"He could have news."
"Of Gydapen? I doubt it. Suspicions, yes, but we have gone into that. The Council made its position clear."
And, at the same time, had shown her her own. A night she remembered as she did the helpless feeling of
frustrated rage during which she had bitten her pillow until her teeth had ripped the fabric to shreds.
But Gydapen had since been strangely quiet. He hadn't called as she'd expected and as a persistent suitor would
have done. There had been little news as to his activities. For a while she and the other members of the Council had
remained tense and poised as if to ward off an expected blow. None had come and the tension had eased a little.
Alcorus, she knew, thought they had called Gydapen's bluff. Navolok that they had met and defeated his
challenge. But neither could really conceive of the Pact ever being broken.
And, she thought, neither really could she.
It had been a fact too long. An integral part of the way of life on Zakym. As concrete as the twin suns which hung
in the sky. As real as her flesh and blood and bone. They too were a part of this world.
Yet, they too could be broken.
As she, too, could die.
As that man she had seen swinging in the tree at Ellman's Rest. As Charles had died and Keturlan and so many
others she had known. All passing on to wait on the far side of the barrier. To return during the periods of delusia. To
talk. To warn. To advise.
But, in the end, it was the living who had to make the decisions.
"Tomorrow," she said. "We'll pick up the delivery tomorrow."
But Howich Suchong arrived as they were about to leave with news of odd rumors coming from Gydapen's
estate.
Like Taiyuah he was old, like him suspicious, but he had no all-consuming interest in the breeding of new strains
cultivating, instead, a wide circle of friendly informants.
"It's odd," he said when, seated in a cool chamber, wine and small cakes set before him, he finally mentioned
what had worried him. "You know Gydapen's lands? The arid region to the west?"
"Scrub and sand and little else. Some beasts graze there and there are predators."
Suchong nodded, "But no villages, no arable land, no real reason why a hundred men should have been set to
work building hutments."
"No," admitted Roland. "Hutments, you say?"
"Yes."
"A work camp, perhaps?" Lavinia glanced from one to the other. "Something to do with his proposed mining
operations?"
"That is what worried me." Suchong took a cake, ate it, wiped crumbs from his lips and delicately sipped at his
wine. "The area is beyond that granted by the Sungari. I'd hoped that Gydapen had thought better of his madness but
the facts seem to be against it."
"Facts?" She shook her head. "What facts, Howich? Some men building a few shelters—what of it? They could be
preparing for a hunt or for herdsmen to take up residence to guard the beasts. I think you worry too much."
"Perhaps." He sipped again at his wine. "But what of the other men who drill at the edge of the desert? And what
of the cargo the ship brought here consigned to him?"
"I too have a delivery of goods."
"Most of us had something," he admitted. "But what use could Gydapen have for so much? Large crates and
heavy—I saw them when I collected my goods yesterday."
 Roland said, "Mining machinery?"
"It could be."
"But you have no proof," said Lavinia. "Only suspicions."
"That is so." Suchong set down his goblet. "But it occurred to me that Gydapen might have said something to you.
Confided in you, perhaps?"
"And if he had?"
Suchong sat, his face impassive, an idol carved from weathered stone.
"He has said nothing." Her voice rose a little as he made no comment. "I haven't seen him since the meeting."
He didn't believe her, she knew it, and the knowledge warmed the anger she already felt at his assumption that
she would act the spy.
As the silence dragged Roland said, "If Gydapen has been busy as you claim, Howich, he would have had little
time for social graces. And he was never a regular visitor here as you know."
"But things have changed since the meeting, surely?"
It was her turn to gain a victory. "Have they, Howich Suchong? Courtesies were exchanged, that is true, and a
meal shared—small evidence on which to build vast assumptions. I think that, perhaps, you concern yourself too
deeply in the affairs of others."
"Should I sit and ignore my neighbor when his house burns?" His smile was enigmatic. "But, as you have no great
loyalty towards Gydapen, you can hardly object to doing a curious old man a favor." His hand fluttered towards his
breast. "I have a burning desire for information—an affliction which troubles me at times. But how can I ease it? I
have no reason to visit Gydapen but he would not think it strange if you were to call. A long flight to examine your
holdings. Some time spent with Taiyuah and then a leisurely journey over the barren lands and the desert to the west.
An invitation extended for him to call, perhaps, who could refuse such a charming suppliant?"
"You ask too much, I think!"
"To save the Pact I would demand more!"
Anger flared between them like a sudden fire; his born of determination, hers of the reluctance to play a part and
to act the harlot. Then, like a fire which burns too quickly, it died from lack of fuel.
Roland cooled the ashes.
"We will do it," he said. "Lavinia, you can't refuse. Howich, you are not to make a habit of this. But, as you say, the
Pact must not be broken."
"The cargo?" It was her last defense, one shattered as he shrugged.
"It can wait."
Wait as they wasted time in tedious conversation and suffered a strained politeness from Khaya Taiyuah. Wait as
they moved on, searching, examining, to be met by Gydapen himself when they reached his castle, to be entertained
after his fashion. It was more than a week before they returned and she could attend to the cargo the ship had
brought.
To open the crates and to find in one of them the limp, apparently dead body of a man.

Chapter Eleven
Chagney had taken too long to die. Sitting in a sheltered corner on a high, battlemented promenade, Dumarest
recalled how the body, though wasted with disease, had continued stubbornly to function. His own, innate
determination to survive had worked against his own interest, adding strength, the power of will. And it had not only
been his own.
Warmed by the suns he stared bleakly at a lichened wall remembering how, with the Sleethan on its way scant
hours after landing on Zakym, he had made an end.
Drugs and alcohol were taking too long and, should it be examined, the wound on his thigh could arouse
question. Space was big and empty and clean. A port, cycled, would hurl his body into the void leaving another
mystery to add to the rest. Another strange disappearance.
But it had not been easy to do and, as he'd reached for the final lever, there had been a crying deep within his
brain.
A crying.
Dumarest felt the constriction of his stomach as he thought about it. It had been real, an intelligence fighting for
life, somehow knowing and therefore, somehow aware. Chagney, trapped, helpless, his body usurped, crying at the
approach of death.
It had come with air gusting from ruptured lungs, eyes freezing into gelid liquids, the blood fuming,in the veins at
the sudden release of pressure. For a long, aching moment he had hung naked in the void, shrinking at the vast
immensity of the universe, overwhelmed by its tremendous majesty and then had come dissolution.
"Earl!" Lavinia came towards him, striding with a mobile grace along the promenade. She was smiling and the
delicate contours of her face held a glowing radiance. "You are awake. Good. I thought you might be asleep."
"I've slept enough."
"Good." She sat beside him and he caught the scent of her perfume. "How do you feel?" She laughed before he
could answer. "A stupid question. Why do we ask such things? You almost died—how else would you feel but weak
and ill?"
"Grateful."
"For life?"
"For that and for the good luck which gave it to me." Dumarest rose and stretched then took his place again on
the bench. "And I am not ill."
"But a little weak?" Concern darkened her eyes. "Too weak to talk?"
"No."
"I am not distressing you?"
"No."
"I am glad of that. Roland thought you would die. I thought you had died. You were so still, so chill, you didn't
even seem to be breathing. I couldn't even feel a pulse when you were taken from the crate."
"I was under quick-time," said Dumarest.
"Yes, so Roland explained. He knows about these things. He has traveled while I have not. Yet, even when he'd
injected the neutralizer, you still didn't recover. You seemed to be in a coma. It lasted for—well, a long time. And then,
when you finally woke, you called my name. At least I thought you did. But it wasn't mine, was it? How could it have
been?"
A face which swam from shadows to form shape and substance before his newly opened eyes. One set against a
background which accentuated the ebon sheen of the hair, the hauntingly familiar contours of the face. One he had
last seen lying in the empty stillness of death.
Lallia!
Long gone now, long dead, as so many other were dead. Ghosts which came to him at times in dreams. Loves
which had promised so much.
"Earl!" He felt the touch of her hand against his own, the warm comfort of her fingers. Her eyes met his own,
deep, wide with concern. "Is something wrong. Your face—"
"It's nothing."
"So hard," she whispered. "So hurt. So dreadfully bleak."
A face the like of which she had never seen before; one belonging to a man from whom the softness had been
burned by the fires of necessity. A man who walked alone. One who knew, as she had never known, the ache of loss,
the pain of loneliness.
One who was searching—for what?
"Earth?" she frowned as he answered the question. "An odd name for a world. I've never heard of it. But if you
left it surely you can find it again?"
"It was a long time ago," he explained. "I was a boy, ignorant, desperate to escape. I stowed away on a ship. The
captain was kind; instead of evicting me as was his right he allowed me to work my passage. I stayed with him until
he died."
Moving, always moving towards the center of the galaxy where worlds were close and ships plentiful. Into
regions where the very name of Earth was nothing but legend.
"But the coordinates? If you had them a ship could take you back."
"If I had them," he admitted. "But the planet isn't listed in any almanac. No captain admits to ever having heard
of the place." He sat, thinking of the long, tiresome search, the determination to discover what he knew must exist.
"But I'll find it."
"You seem confident."
"I am." He told her why then ended, dryly, "All I need now is money."
A lot of money. A fortune, but that could come later. For now it was enough to sit and feel the warmth of the
sunlight, to breath the gentle air and to feel the pulse and surge of life in blood and body. A rustling came from above
and a raft glided from the east to hover before settling down into the courtyard.
Idly Dumarest watched it, recognizing the man behind the driver. Lord Roland Acrae who, within minutes, came
hurrying along the promenade.
"Lavinia! I must talk with you. Suchong has fresh news and Alcorus—your pardon, Earl. You must excuse me. Are
you well?"
An empty question from most; from him a genuine expression of concern.
"Thank you, my lord, yes."
He waved aside the formality.
"That is well. Now, if you will excuse us? Thank you. Lavinia, this cannot wait. Navolok must be consulted at
once and we should think seriously…"
His voice faded as he guided the woman along the promenade. To Dumarest she was of normal height, the top of
her head coming level with his eyes, but she was at least half a head taller than her companion. Like all the other
people of Zakym Dumarest had seen Roland was small, finely built, with a delicate bone structure and a gentle face.
The result of centuries of inbreeding, perhaps, or some mutation becoming a dominant genetic trait. Among the
scattered worlds of the galaxy such things were common; odd developments produced by the floods of wild
radiation which bathed vast areas of space.
In which case Lavinia was an atavar, a throwback to the time when those who had settled this world were taller
than now with a more aggressive disposition. That too, he had noticed; a gentleness of behavior which was unusual.
Here, on Zakym, it was as if gentle children had come to play, building themselves castles and houses, dividing lands
and forming themselves into protective groups, content to let life slip quietly past as they dreamed of endless
delights.
A wrong picture, of course, he had seen too little of the place to form a true judgment, but he doubted if it would
be too far from fact. A backward world with little commerce and so few contacts with other, more aggressive cultures.
A society founded on farms and animals and a little mining. One producing selectively bred beasts and herbs, plants
and insects. There would be few gems and little precious metal. There would be hardly any industry.
A near-static world on which it would be hard for a traveler to gather a stake. Harder still for a stranger to gain a
fortune.
Well, that worry would have to wait. He was alive and that was enough.
Dumarest leaned back, feeling the warmth of the lichened stone against his shoulders. The suns were sinking,
their orbs close and he closed his eyes against their glare. From the courtyard came little, muted sounds and even the
calls of one to another seemed to come from a vast distance or be muffled by layers of cloth.
Odd how the air seemed so enervating.
Odd how he had woken to imagine Lallia facing him, stooping a little forward, the mane of her hair a shimmering
waterfall over rounded shoulders.
A woman.
The womb of creation.
The natural opposite to the harsh reality of death.
Against the closed lids of his eyes Dumarest saw again the distant burn of scattered stars, the sheets and curtains
of luminescence, the somber patches of darkness, the fuzz of remote nebulae—and felt, too, the aching emptiness of
the space into which he had flung himself.
To drift in the embracing shimmer of the Erhaft field, to break from it, to hang utterly alone. To die.
To hear the thin, so thin, crying. The crying… the crying…
"No!" He jerked awake with a gasp, aware that he had dozed, feeling the wetness of sweat on his face, the tremble
of his hands. He had killed before and had seen men die and had heard them plead before they died but never had it
been like this.
The crying. The thin, plaintive, hopeless crying.
"It doesn't matter, Earl." The voice was a familiar wheeze. "It doesn't matter at all."
Chagney!
He stood with his back against the stone wall of the battlement, dressed as Dumarest had remembered, his face
the same, the eyes clear, the mouth free of the frill of blood which it must have worn at the last. Now, standing, he
smiled and extended a hand.
"We all have to go, Earl. Sooner or later it comes to us all. And what did I lose? A few days? A week? Zakym
would have been my last planetfall."
A dead man standing, talking, smiling, his eyes clear—but how?
"Does it matter?" Thin shoulders lifted in a shrug as Chagney turned to look over the crenelated wall. "You have
died, Earl. You know more than most. You died—and I died with you!"
"Chagney!" Dumarest stepped forward, reaching, feeling stone. He leaned against it for a moment, feeling tension
at the base of his skull. The dominant half of the affinity twin had nestled there—could it still, in some incredible
manner, be connected with the part Chagney had carried?
Would death never end?
 Dumarest drew in his breath and straightened. The promenade was empty, the navigator had vanished, but some
of the tension remained. Theoretically the affinity twin should dissolve when the bond was broken, the basic
elements being absorbed into the metabolism, but what if theory was wrong?
"Earl!" Kalin smiled, her hair a rippling flame. "Think of it as a transceiver. You are never really in the host-body at
all. It is just that all sensory data is transmitted and received on the ultimate level of efficiency. The rest is illusion."
Kalin? Here?
She vanished as he took a step towards her and he stumbled and fell to a knee, hands outstretched, feeling the
rasp of stone on his palms, a growing madness.
The promenade, once empty, was now thronged with figures. Men, women, some strange, others vaguely familiar,
a few seeming to gain solidity as he watched. The man he had fought on Harald, falling with blood on his lips, eyes
glazed in hatred as he died. The gentle face of Armand Ramhed, the ruined one of his assassin, the sly eyes of an old
woman from… from… and then, shockingly, he was looking at himself.
A man lying pale and limp and apparently dead. A man who dissolved and rose and stood tall and menacing in a
scarlet robe.
Cyber Broge, his face like a skull, bone which smiled.
"There's no escape, Dumarest. We are too powerful. You can never hope to elude us for long. We shall find you
and, when we do, you will pay." The even tones echoed as if rolling down a corridor. "Pay… pay… pay…"
His arm lifted and Dumarest sprang to one side, hand dropping to his boot, the hilt of the knife carried there,
rising with it gleaming naked in his hand, lunging forward to send the steel whining through the air in a vicious cut
which drew sparks from stone, ripped at fabric—and sent Roland Acrae falling back with a rip on the sleeve of his
blouse.
"Earl! No!" Lavinia came running towards him as again the blade rose. It halted in its driving lunge to fall inches
from the ruined blouse, light turning the steel into a purple shimmer, luminescent blurs riding the honed edge and
point.
"A mistake." Dumarest lowered the knife. "I thought—it was a mistake. I apologize, my lord."
"So fast." Roland lifted fingers to the ripped sleeve. "You moved like the wind."
"A mistake."
"The mistake was mine." Incredibly he was calm. "I should have known, have warned you, at least. Look at the
suns."
They were very close, edges almost touching, flares of magenta and violet filling the air with a purple haze.
"I could have killed you," said Dumarest. And would have done if something, instinct perhaps, had not stayed his
hand. Lavinia added to the strangeness of the moment with her smile.
"You could have done, I suppose, and if you had I would have regretted it. But it would not have been the tragedy
you seem to think."
"My lady?"
"He would have moved on but he wouldn't have wholly gone. At times of delusia he would have returned. We
could have spoken to him and he to us."
"Delusia?" Dumarest looked again at the suns beginning to understand. "Is that when the dead come back to life?"
"We can see them and talk to them and they to us. Is that what disturbed you? The presence of an old enemy
who threatened you? One who wanted to hurt?"
"One who wanted to kill."
"And so you tried to kill him." Slowly she nodded, her eyes wide, the lift of her breasts prominent beneath her
gown as she drew in her breath. "Do you find it easy to kill, Earl?"
He thought of Chagney. "No."
"But, if you are threatened, you will?"
"It is the way of life." Dumarest looked at the knife and thrust it back into his boot. "You breed animals and must
know that. The strongest are those who perpetuate their line. To do that they will fight and win. They have to win."
"Animals are not men."
"Perhaps not, my lady, but the same rule applies. A man is nothing if he is not alive—dead he can only feed the
ground."
"On Zakym men do not truly die," said Lavinia swiftly. "No human dies. They are changed. Delusia is proof of
that."
"Proof ?"
"You have seen it, Earl. You know."
He said, dryly, "You believe the dead return to confer with you. That, at certain times, you break some barrier or
that some barrier is broken. But always those you see are those you remember. Always, am I right?"
 "Yes, but—what has that to do with it? They are real. They talk and smile and listen. You have seen them for
yourself. That man you tried to kill—proof, Earl! Proof !"
He heard the conviction in her voice, saw it in her eyes, the stance of her body. To argue against faith was to try
and blow out a sun. The evidence was there, to her beyond question, a comfort she could not reject.
"Earl?"
"My lady, I am a stranger to this world, alive only because of your hospitality. Who am I to question your ways?"
"But—"
"Lavinia!" Roland rested his hand on her arm. "You upset yourself without cause. Not all worlds know what we
know. Delusia is unique to Zakym. It takes time to understand."
The man had traveled and would know more than he said. Dumarest glanced at the sky, at the twin suns with
their tremendous energy-potential, solar furnaces blasting radiation into space. A flood which was subtly altered
when the suns merged to become a pattern of forces which distorted the micro-currents of the brain and so create
hallucinations. Fragments of memory, revived, projected, given attributes which existed only in the minds of the
beholder.
Delusions which would form the basis of a religion, a faith, a way of life.
"Earl?" Lavinia took a step towards him, her eyes searching his face. "You understand?"
A person who communed with the dead. A tall and lovely woman whose hair glowed with the lambent sheen of
purple light from the setting suns. One who flushed a little as she felt her body respond to his masculinity.
Roland, watching, said abruptly, "It's getting late. We had best go below."

Chapter Twelve
The room was similar to others he had known; the walls of stone softened with hanging fabrics, the floor of
polished wood, the bed soft and the covers delicately embroidered with a variety of hues and patterns. Dumarest
lifted one and let it run through his fingers. It held an engaging primitiveness and, on more sophisticated worlds,
would have commanded a high price.
Letting it fall Dumarest crossed to the window. It was small, fitted with hexagonal panes, looking on to a shaft
faced with white stone. Reflected light from one side and above revealed another chamber, more lay to the sides and
lower down. No window faced another. The panes, locked in their frame, were impossible to open.
A knock, and a servant entered bearing a lighted lamp. Setting it on a small table the girl curtsied.
"My lord, your bath is ready and soon it will be curfew."
"Thank you." Dumarest had heard the throb of the gong before. "Does it always sound at night?"
"At dark, yes, my lord. The castle is sealed then."
"Totally?" He smiled at her blank expression. "If I wanted to go out could I?"
"Out, my lord?" the concept was beyond her comprehension. "Go out? But why?"
"To take a walk, maybe. Could I? Is there a gate?"
"No." She shuddered a little. "Not open, my lord. But it would be madness to go out after dark. Madness!"
"Why?"
"The—my lord, you must excuse me. I have duties to attend to. Things to be done before curfew."
He gestured dismissal and returned to the window. Leaning against the panes he stared up at the sky. Only a little
was visible, a deep indigo in which shone fitful gleams, the patch edged with a rim of stone. As he watched shapes
appeared; men who lifted something to let it fall and block the opening. A seal of some kind which shut out the world
beyond.
The throb of the gong came as he entered the bath. It thrummed through the building, creating tintinnabulations
on all sides so that the very air quivered to the solemn beat.
Dumarest ducked his head, felt the vibration through the water and rose to see Roland standing beside the tub.
He handed Dumarest a towel, watched with envious eyes as he dried himself, the fabric rasping over the firm muscles
of shoulders and back, the lean lines of hips and waist.
Without preamble he said, "On the promenade, when you tried to kill me, what did you see?"
"An enemy."
"And you struck out like that? Without thought or hesitation?"
"Should I have waited for him to kill me first?"
"Perhaps not." Roland found a chair and sat, thoughtful. "As you may have noticed, Earl, we are a peaceful race.
The thought of violence is strange to us. We live now as we have lived for centuries—in common harmony. There are
minor frictions, of course, we are individuals and that is inevitable, but the turning to violence which is so common
on other worlds is not in our nature. You—" He broke off, looking at his hands. "You are a stranger among us—do you
understand what I am trying to say?"
"Tell me."
"Lavinia is a very beautiful woman as you must have noticed. She is, however, on the edge of marrying one of
our number."
"You?"
"The Lord Gydapen Prabang. He has a great influence and the marriage must take place if certain unpleasant
effects are to be avoided. You are an intelligent man, Earl. You must have noticed how attracted Lavinia is to you. I
can understand that. Against the rest of us you are—unusual. But you have no roots here, no responsibilities. Perhaps
you consider you are in debt towards us?"
Dumarest nodded, saying nothing.
"It is something I regret having to mention but I am left with little choice. You could, if you wished, cause great
damage. Lavinia—"
"Is a woman old enough to make up her own mind."
"True, but, against your experience, she is little more than a child. I saw your expression when on the promenade.
You said nothing but I knew what you were thinking. Lavinia believes in delusia, you do not. Think of the gap which
that alone forms between you. And there are others."
As he paused Dumarest said, knowing the answer, "What do you want me to do?"
"Be cold. Turn her away from you. Save her marriage and, at the same time, save this world."
"Is the marriage as important as that?"
"Yes." Roland shook his head as he saw Dumarest's incredulity. "You cannot understand, but take my word for it,
please. If you accept that you are in debt then settle it this way. Do as I ask."
And if he refused? On other worlds the answer would have been direct; a stab in the back, an assassin hired,
poison slipped into food or wine. Death or maiming delivered with merciless precision. Great Families knew how to
take care of their own.
But here?
The fact that Roland was pleading was answer enough. Proof of his fear and proof of more than he realized.
Dumarest said, evenly, "I am a traveler. If I had money enough I would take passage on the first ship to leave."
"That can be arranged!" The man's relief was obvious. "Money can be found!"
"Then we are agreed?"
"Yes, Earl, we are agreed." Roland stepped towards the door. "Dinner will be in thirty minutes. A servant will
guide you when you are ready."
It was a long and leisurely affair; dishes rich in protein served in a variety of ways; little morsels of meat wrapped
in leaves, fruits, dusted with crushed nuts, dipped in astringent sauces, charred in flame, steeped in compotes of a
dozen kinds. Salvers held items of pastry, blends of creams and pastes, miniature figures of succulent crispness,
oozing semi-liquid delights. There were wines; some tart and refreshing which cleansed the palate, others warm and
tantalizing, chilled and spiced, tasting of fruit and bitter roots. One holding within its purple depths the taste of
effulgent bubbles.
"We make it only once each year," Lavinia explained. "From pods delivered to us in exchange for various other
items. It is brewed in ancient caskets to an old recipe and sealed in bottles of black glass. A little lifts the spirit but
more will open doors and give you glimpses of the unknown which you may regret. It is wise to be moderate."
"In all things." Dumarest had barely touched the variety of dishes, eating only from those selected by Roland. The
man could be genuine—but to take precautions would do no harm.
"Yes, Earl, in all things." Lavinia clapped her hands. "In love, in life and in entertainment."
Music rose from a shadowed alcove where a small group sat with their instruments. The throb of drums merged
with the thin, high wailing of pipes, the steady thrumming of plucked strings. It softened into a steady beat as an old
man stepped forward to chant an involved saga dealing with an incredible journey through tremendous perils with
final success. He bowed as coins showered at his feet to be followed by a troupe of young girls who danced with agile
abandon.
Lavinia watched them, glancing at Dumarest, noting his attention. Beneath her fingers a morsel of bread
crumbled to an untidy litter of crumbs.
"You like them, Earl?"
"They seem accomplished."
"You would like one? The one with the big mouth, for example? Or the one with the blonde hair?"
"Are they yours to give, my lady?"
"I—"
 "Are they slaves?"
"There are no slaves on Zakym." Roland leaned forward, quick to soothe, aware of tension. "Lavinia was joking,
Earl. She is a little jealous, I think."
"Of the dancers?" Dumarest was deliberately obtuse. "They are very skilled and it no doubt takes years of
training to achieve such perfection, but, even so, I think you could hold your own with them, my lady."
"It is gracious of you to say so." Her tone was chill. "I, the Mistress of the Family, a common dancer. Well, I
suppose there are worse fates. But assuming they were slaves and you desired one and I gave her to you, what then?"
"I would set her free."
"As a reward for pleasing you?"
Dumarest said, flatly, "Have you ever been a slave, my lady? Have you ever felt the weight of the collar of
servitude? To know that disobedience means torment and could mean your life? No. Of course you haven't. If you
had you would never talk so lightly of slaves. They are people, not things. Men and women with feelings, not items to
be bought and used and sold."
"Earl. Lavinia was joking."
Dumarest looked at the hand Roland had rested on his arm. A small hand, the fingers thin, delicate, like the limbs
of a spider—no, like the helpless appendages of a child. But a gesture from them could rob him of freedom. He was
alone in a sealed castle, one against the servants and retainers, trapped in a place from which there could be no
escape.
It was a time to be cautious.
"You spoke with feeling, Earl." Lavinia lifted a hand to the column of her throat as if feeling for the metal caress
of a collar. "You have a hatred of those who would make slaves of others."
"Yes, my lady."
"Because you have worn the collar yourself, perhaps?" She gave him no time to answer. "No matter. If you have it
is no doubt an experience you never wish to repeat. So many experiences, Earl. You must tell me more about them
later."
"As you wish, my lady." Dumarest felt the impact of Roland's eyes. "But would it be wise?"
"What do you mean?"
"I understood that you were betrothed. Wouldn't your future husband object?"
"Gydapen? The Lord of Prabang?" Her laugh was brittle. "Who cares about him?"
"I do, my lady. He could be jealous and none could blame him for that. He has influence on this world and I have
none. It would be best for me to take a room in a hotel in town. Then when a ship arrives, I can arrange passage."
"No!" Her rejection was too sharp and she realized it, making an effort to control her tone before she spoke again.
"That is unnecessary, Earl. You are a welcome guest. Tell him so, Roland. Tell him he is welcome. What must I do in
order to persuade him to stay?"
"Lavinia, Earl is being wise."
"No!"
"It is best that he should go. Here there could be danger and we must not expose him to unnecessary risks. He—"
"Roland, you talk like a fool!" She was impatient, taking his words at their face value, not realizing their true
intent. Gentle at heart she would never force another to remain at risk. "What danger could threaten Earl? Who would
dare to challenge him? He is no stranger to violence but here we are a peaceful people. We—"
"Peaceful?" Dumarest was curt in his interruption. The thing had been decided—it was time to end the useless
argument. "I think you are mistaken, my lady. If they are so peaceful then why are they importing guns?"
"Guns?" Roland was incredulous. "Earl, are you sure?"
"How can he be sure?" Lavinia was equally as disbelieving. "How?"
"I've seen them." Dumarest looked from one to the other, remembering the story he had told to account for his
being in the crate. "I was stranded on Harald as I've told you. I broke into a warehouse intending to hide in some
cargo and so gain passage to another world. To become a stowaway. I had to be careful, the penalty if discovered is
eviction."
"And?"
"I checked the crates. One of them was filled with guns. I resealed the crate and opened another—and the rest
you know."
"Were the crates bound for Zakym?" Roland pressed the point. "Were they?"
"Yes."
"Was it marked in any way? The crate holding the guns, I mean?"
"A symbol," said Dumarest, slowly. "The sign of an axe crossed with a scythe."
"The whole enclosed in a circle?" Roland glanced at the woman as Dumarest nodded. "Gydapen's mark."
 "Gydapen." Her finger traced a random pattern in the litter of crumbs. "But what use would he have for guns?
Mining machinery, yes, that would be expected, but guns? Why guns?"
"They are usually needed in order to fight a war," said Dumarest, dryly. "But wouldn't you know about his
intentions? As his proposed wife wouldn't he have confided in you?"
"They all ask that," she snapped. "The answer is no. The marriage, if ever it takes place, will be a political one. I
know nothing about his guns, his sheds, his men out marching. Nothing about his ambitions. Only his threats."
"Sheds?" Dumarest glanced at Roland, listened as he explained. The journey over the wastelands, what had been
spotted from the raft. "Long sheds like extended huts?"
"Yes."
"And were the men marching in line or column? Did they act oddly at times—all moving in unison for example?
Were others standing to one side?"
Roland nodded and said, "You suspect something, Earl. What?"
"In my experience guns and sheds and marching men usually add up to one thing. Someone is training a group of
men to follow orders. The sheds are to house them and the guns are to arm them when they are ready to fight."
"To fight?" Lavinia looked from one to the other. "To kill, you mean? No! It's unthinkable. You must have made a
mistake. Not even Gydapen could get his men to kill others."
"You would be surprised at what men can be persuaded to do," said Dumarest, dryly. "And it takes little to point a
weapon and pull the trigger. To many it isn't killing at all. It is just a sport and their victims moving targets. After the
first time it comes easy. The more so if a bonus is paid to every good shot."
"It's disgusting!"
"Yes, but it happens."
Roland said, "I was talking to the agent. Gydapen had a score of crates delivered. If they all contained guns he
would have enough to arm every man on his estates. But why?" He found an answer as he voiced the question. "To
stop us preventing his mining operation. He's determined to break the Pact no matter what the Council may decide.
The others must be warned—but how to stop him? What to do?"
"You have guns," said Dumarest. "Enforce your will."
"Demand that he obeys?" Roland shook his head. "Our arms are limited. We have a few lasers, some hunting rifles
and little else. We depend on moral persuasion. Against Gydapen it will not be enough."
"Then steal his weapons. A night attack would catch him by surprise. The guns are still probably in their crates.
They could be found, used if necessary. Darkness would cover the operation."
"No, Earl. Not at night. That would be impossible."
"But it would give you the best chance." Dumarest glanced at the woman and saw her determined expression.
"No?"
"No, Earl. As Roland says it is impossible."
"But why? If—" Dumarest broke off and shrugged. "Well, it's none of my concern. Tomorrow I leave for the
town."
"Earl!"
"He intends to leave," said Roland. "We had come to an understanding. I would like to cancel it, Earl, if I may.
Instead I would like to offer another. Help us and I guarantee you the price of a dozen High passages. More if
possible."
Money to buy passage, to pay for computer time, cash to open the door to the whereabouts of Earth. And to earn
it?
"We need peace," said Roland. "We need to borrow your strength. Gydapen must be stopped. Unless he is—" his
voice broke, recovered with an effort. "Those guns—the Pact—who can help us if you will not?"

Chapter Thirteen
A spider had cast its web in one corner of the room, that or some ancient tremor had cracked the plaster into the
resemblance of lace and, lying on the soft comfort of the wide bed, Dumarest studied it through half-closed eyes. In
the flicker of lamplight it took on new and more fantastic configurations; the shape of an engine, a face, a pair of
intermeshed hands. The blur of a spectrogram, the straggle of a dead man's hair, the pattern of a retina.
A mystic symbol seen by chance and which could hold all the secrets of time.
As the castle held mystery.
It was sealed tight, no means of egress left unbarred, the upper stairs blocked as was the shaft beyond the
window. Life, on Zakym, ceased at sunset or, rather, grew introverted with each making his own entertainment, small
groups congregating, guests caught by the approach of darkness willingly found accommodation as if the night held
dreadful peril.
Another delusion as was the belief in the dead rising to live again?
If it was a delusion.
How could he ever be sure?
Yet there could be no denying Roland's panic at the mention of the guns or of the woman's fear of what they
could portend. A fear which added her voice to the man's as, together, they had pleaded for him to stay. To help. To
die, perhaps, in their cause.
Suddenly impatient, Dumarest rolled from the bed and rose to his feet. He had lain down fully dressed and now
stepped quietly towards the door. Outside the passage was silent in the dull glow of shaded lamps. One end led to a
stair which, as he knew, was barred. The other met a descending way. As he reached it, Lavinia appeared from her
room.
"Earl? Is that you?"
"It is, my lady."
"This formality!" She made an impatient gesture. "It stifles me. I thought we had settled that. Why are you here?
Can't you sleep?"
"No."
"Why not?" Her slippers rustled as she stepped closer towards him. She wore a robe of diaphanous material
belted at the waist and her hair, like a gleaming waterfall striped with silver, rippled over the smooth rotundity of her
shoulders. The hand she rested on his arm was a sculptor's delight. "Earl?"
"I need to plan but there is too much I don't know. The lie of the land, distances, numbers—have you maps of the
area?"
They were in a room redolent of dust and mildew. Thin sheets crackled as they were unrolled, marked with
carefully drawn lines, various areas marked in differing colors, small pennants set above miniature castles.
"Here!" The tip of a finger marked a point. "This is where we are. Over here lies the domain of Khaya Taiyuah.
This is the estate of Fhard Erason. Here—"
"Gydapen's lands?"
"Suchong's. This is Gydapen's and here are the wastes where the hutments are to be found."
Dumarest studied them. "Water? Is there a stream close to hand?"
"No."
"A well, then? An artesian boring?" He pursed his lips as she shook her head. Men training beneath hot suns
needed plenty of water. If it had to be carried then the local air would be busy.
"Did you see the smoke of fires? No. A line of men waiting to be served?"
"How would I know, Earl?"
"If you saw them you would know." He studied the old map again. "This is all high ground, right?"
He frowned as she nodded, tracing the shading, spotting the general lay of the area. It had been chosen with care.
From various points lookouts could spot any approach and fast movement towards the place on foot would be
difficult.
"When you examined the area did you notice anything different about any of the huts? No? Then have you seen
or heard of a stranger being maintained by Gydapen either in his castle or in town?"
"A stranger? No, Earl. How would he have arrived without us knowing?"
"How did I arrive?" Dumarest shrugged at her expression. "I may be wrong but I'd gamble there is someone. A
man trained in the art of fighting. A mercenary perhaps—you said that your people had a reluctance to fight?"
"That is so."
"Then a teacher would have had to be found. Those who handled the shipping of the guns could have provided
him and others might follow."
"An army?"
"Men trained and willing to kill. Men used to the art of war. On some worlds they come cheap. Well, perhaps we
can delay them. Tomorrow I'll pick some men. A night attack and—"
"No. We can't attack at night. The Pact forbids it."
"The Pact?"
"The Sungari. Earl, why do you think we are so afraid of what Gydapen may do? If he breaks the Pact it will affect
us all. At all costs he must be stopped from doing that. Our very lives depend on it!"
And his own too, presumably, a fallacy in her reasoning but Dumarest didn't mention it. Instead he said, "The
Sungari? Just what and who are they?"
She told him over wine, filling goblets with her own hands, handing him one and sitting to crouch at his feet,
lamplight streaming over her shoulders, reflected with a nacreous glow from the half-revealed mounds of her breasts,
the curves of her thighs.
"When the first settlers came to Zakym they found the world already occupied by a different form of life. One
which was not native to the place and which was willing to share. At first there was trouble but sense prevailed and
the Pact was formed."
She paused to sip wine and Dumarest leaned back, filling in gaps, building a whole from the story which she told.
A time of attrition, of fear and battle, of terror even, from the things which happened at night. Then the
agreement. Men were to have the surface of the world and the Sungari the depths. Men were to rule by day and the
Sungari by night. Certain areas of surface and depths were given for the sole use of the other. Herds and crops were
to be left untouched. Native game was common to both. The night mist which came to wreath the ground belonged
to the Sungari.
Death came to any human foolish enough to be out at night.
Dumarest said, dryly, "How long has it been since such a thing happened?"
"A long time ago, Earl." She turned her head to look up at him, the long line of her throat framed by the mantle of
her hair. "But it happened."
"And has anyone ever seen a Sungari?"
"They exist, Earl!"
"Has anyone ever seen them?"
"How could they when they only come out at night?"
"And everyone is snug indoors by then?" Dumarest nodded, wondering why the story had been
started. An easy way to impose authority? The warped design of a twisted mind? All to be safe indoors at night with
whispered horrors as a spur to obey. A deliberate conditioning engineered by someone with a terror of the dark?
It was possible. In the universe all things were possible.
Many strange cultures had risen from seeds planted by the founders of small colonies governed by freakish
convictions. Holphera where men walked backwards for fear of meeting death. Andhara where no woman looked
directly at the face of her child but always used a mirror. Inthelle where the old were given all they could desire for a
month and then killed and ceremoniously eaten. Chage where each birth had to be accompanied by a death. Xanthis
where women ruled and men groveled at their feet.
"Earl?" Lavinia looked up with luminous eyes. "You are so quiet. Don't you believe me?"
To argue with her was useless. She, all of Zakym, believed in the living presence of the dead—against such
conviction what chance had logic?
"Earl?"
"I was thinking." His hand fell to touch the silken strands of her hair. "Unless you are willing to attack at night
there is only one other thing to do. Gydapen cannot be a fool. He will have anticipated the possibility of the Council
moving against him and will have taken elementary precautions. If we assemble a large force it will be spotted.
Therefore we must go in with the minimum number."
"How many?"
"Two." He heard the sharp intake of her breath. "Just you and I in the largest raft you have. We'll pay a visit to the
barren wastes."
"And?"
"That depends on what we find." Some wine remained in the goblet and Dumarest drank it before rising to his
feet. "You had better get some rest now. Tomorrow you need to look your best."
They left at dawn, rising high and heading towards the west before swinging in a wide circle which would bring
them back over Gydapen's land. The raft was a plain, commercial affair, devoid of any decoration aside from a blazon
on the prow. The body was open, edged with a solid rail, the controls shielded by a curved, transparent canopy. The
engine which fed power to the anti-grav units was too small for the bulk of the vehicle and progress was slow.
From where she sat at his side, Lavinia said, "Earl, you are a man of many surprises. Where did you learn to
handle a raft?"
"I forget."
"And to fight? Where did you learn that?"
On Earth as a boy, a time he would never forget. Life had been hard and devoid of comfort. There had been no
toys, no easy times, regular food or loving care. He had hunted vermin with a sling, gutting his prey with a jagged
stone, eating the meat raw because a fire would have betrayed his position to those who would have stolen his kill.
"Earl?"
With the insistence of a child she wanted an answer or, bored, merely wanted to talk.
"It doesn't matter."
 "It does to me." Her hand reached out to touch his arm and she wondered if he guessed how little she had slept.
"I'd like to know all about you. You are so strong, so self-sufficient. Don't you ever get tired of traveling? Have you
never been tempted to settle down?"
Too often, yet always something had happened to smash the dream and, always, the yearning was present to find
his home.
"At times, yes."
"But you never did? Of course not, it was a stupid question. If you had then you wouldn't be here now."
Her hand closed on his arm, the fingers digging into his flesh, then was snatched away as, abruptly, the raft tilted
and fell. An air pocket of lesser density, a momentary hazard quickly overcome and again the raft rose and leveled.
Below the terrain became a blur, the ground blotched with hills, rolling scrub, grassy plateaus, the silver thread of a
river.
"Taiyuah's boundary," she said. "And there is an emergency stop-over."
It was a low, black building fitted with a single door and holding, as Dumarest had learned, bottles of wine, food,
some medical supplies. A haven for those who should be lost or crash nearby.
"You have many of them?"
"Of course. We set them up for common use. People use them if they are caught by night."
"As protection against the Sungari?"
"Yes, Earl. As a defense."
A bolster to the illusion, he thought, as the building passed beneath them far below. Once create a situation and
props fell automatically into place. The curfew, tunnels connecting close-set buildings such as were to be found in the
town, and in the open ground places which could shut out the darkness.
The raft dropped again, rose, headed slowly on its way. The lift was strong as was to be expected in a transport
but that was all. Dumarest glanced at the sky judging the position of the suns. They had passed the zenith and were
edging towards the horizon. It had been a long, monotonous flight and the woman was hungry.
"Can we land and eat, Earl?"
"We haven't the time."
"But—"
"Eat as we go. You can handle a raft, of course? Good. We'll take turns at the controls. Keep us high. I want to
arrive with the suns behind us."
Two hours later the hutments came into sight.
Dumarest was at the controls and he veered the raft, watching, studying the terrain. The buildings were set in a
row, another cross ways at the rear, one, larger, placed well to one side. Before them the ground was level, set with
swollen bags set on tripods.
"They weren't here before, Earl." Lavinia looked up from her binoculars. "What are they?"
"Water containers. The hut crossways to the others is probably a latrine. The large one could house the man I
spoke of."
"The mercenary?"
"If there is one, yes. He'll be using it as living quarters and command office. The range?" Dumarest scanned the
terrain as he kept one hand on the controls. In the field of his binoculars the view skittered as the craft hit uneven air.
"Look for a firing range of some kind. A flat space ending in a mound. There could be targets."
A moment, then she said, "Nothing like that, Earl. Not that I can see. There are some cairns set well to one side. A
row of them."
"Any men?"
"A few. They are facing the cairns. They seem to be holding something."
"Guns." Dumarest lowered the binoculars. "Those heaps of stone are targets. Get ready now. We're going in."
It was madness, a display of naked audacity and yet, as Dumarest had pointed out, Gydapen had no reason to be
suspicious beyond the range of normal caution. The arrival of the guns, as far as he knew, was still a secret. Lavinia,
aware of his interest in her, intrigued as any woman would be in a similar situation, would naturally pay a visit. And,
as a member of the Council, she had every right to inspect the proposed mining installation.
Things he had painstakingly explained during the journey, impatient with her objections.
"A spy!" she'd blurted. "You want me to act the spy. Just like Taiyuah!"
"He was right."
"But—"
"If you know a better way let me hear it. No? Then do as I say."
And now they were slanting down in the glare of the suns to skim over the buildings and come to a landing close
beside the larger construction.
 The man who came to greet them was a worker from Gydapen's estate but one who had undergone a subtle
change. It was manifest in the way he stood, the tilt of his head, the something—a touch of arrogance?—in his eyes.
Yet his voice was gentle and his words polite.
"My lady! How may I serve you?"
"You know who I am?"
"Of course. You are the Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk. A member of the Council—"
"And a close friend of your master. Is he here?" Then, before the man could answer, she snapped, "Never mind. I
was to have been met. Well, perhaps he has been delayed. While I'm waiting you will show me around."
She carried herself well, speaking with a curt imperiousness, forcing the man's attention. For a moment he
hesitated, then bowed, extending a hand to help her descend from the raft. Dumarest watched as they headed
towards the open space then, dropping over the far side of the craft, walked without hesitation towards the nearest
hut.
As he'd suspected it was fitted as a dormitory, the floor of tamped dirt, the cots flimsy metal frames bearing thin
mattresses and a single cover. There were no windows. Each end was pierced by a door. Lamps stood with a clutter
of small items of a personal nature on narrow shelves. A table stood in the center of the floor ringed with benches. It
carried a heap of plates, a container of water and a dozen earthenware cups. The air held the unmistakable odor of
too many men living too close.
Nowhere could he see any sign of weapons.
The rear door opened on a narrow space faced with the hut set crosswise to the others. He had been wrong,
about its purpose. Half was a cooking area with fires burning beneath metal plates on which stood containers of stew.
The other half was locked. The latrine he found by its odor; poles set over a trench dusted with a chemical
compound, the whole shaded by a camouflaged curtain. It lay well to one side and, at a thought, Dumarest checked
the hut he had first entered. At the side of the rear door was a couple of lidded buckets—for use in case of need
during the night.
Two men looked at him as he left the hut and moved to the next. He met their eyes.
"You! Who is in charge of these huts?"
"Sir?" One of them blinked.
"Are you deaf ? Didn't you near me? Who is in charge of these huts? You?"
"No, sir." The man looked at his companion. "Jarl. I'm his helper."
"Helping him to do what—loaf ?" Dumarest made his tone acid. "The huts are a disgrace. Dirt everywhere. Cots
untidy. The tables unwiped—" He turned, scowling. "Let me see this one. Take the lead. Move!"
Shaken they obeyed. Dumarest examined the hut; finding it much like the other, his eyes counting beds as he
pretended to find patches of dirt, fluff, drifted sand where no sand should be. Again there was no sign of weapons.
Leaving the two men inside the hut Dumarest stepped outside towards the rear, signaled at a small group which
had just left the cookhouse, glared at them as they came to a halt.
"Slovenly. Haven't you been taught elementary drill? Well, haven't you?"
"Sir!" One of the men drew himself to attention.
"Good." Dumarest nodded at the man. "The rest of you fall out. Wait in that hut until I call for you. You—your
name? Hoji? Tell me, Hoji, where are the weapons kept?"
A gamble. If the man knew he might unthinkingly give the direction. If he didn't then the question could be
covered and no harm would be done.
"The weapons, sir?"
"The guns." Dumarest grunted as the man's eyes flickered to the rear of the cookhouse. "Not moved yet? Why
not? Well, never mind. Call those men and have them report to the weapons-store. Move!"
Time gained for him to move to the door and send his knife probing into the lock. It was heavy, but basically
simple. A click and it was open. As the men returned Dumarest threw wide the door.
Inside rested a heap of crates, some open. On the top of one rested a half-dozen guns together with boxes of
ammunition.
"Those!" Dumarest pointed at the crates. "Load them into the raft standing before the huts. Hurry!"
Men accustomed to obey rarely hesitated if orders were given in a tone of authority. A fact Dumarest knew and
had relied on. They didn't know who or what he was, but his voice held the snap of command and, to them, it was
unthinkable that he should order without having the right.
Dumarest stepped back as the first crate was shifted. A gun fell from the loose pile and he picked it up, looking at
the piece. It was cheap, crude, now cleaned of grease and fitted with a full magazine. He cocked it, watched the
cartridges spill from the ejector, removed the magazine and, after clearing the breech, pulled the trigger.
As the harsh click faded a voice said, "Well, friend, what do you think of it?"
 He was tall, slouched, his mouth scarred so that the upper lip was set in a permanent smile. He wore stained
clothing frayed at wrists and collar, the leather bearing shiny patches and marks where badges could have been. His
hair was dark, his eyes wells of coldness. In his right hand he held a compact laser.
It hung loose in his fingers, not aimed but the muzzle swinging casually in Dumarest's direction.
Dumarest shrugged. "It's cheap. It'll jam. It isn't accurate and it'll pull to the right. But it will do if nothing else is
around."
"Such as?"
"That laser you're carrying." Dumarest threw down the weapon he held. "Didn't the boss tell you we were
coming?"
"Should he have done?"
"Why ask me? I only work here." Dumarest stepped aside as the men returned for another load, a step which took
him closer to the mercenary. "How are things here? Good pay? Lots of fun?"
"Out here? You must be joking."
"Well, at least you can't spend anything. When did you land? Ship before last? The one before that?"
"When did you?" The man scowled as Dumarest gave no answer. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"
"Shifting the guns."
"Why? To where?"
Dumarest shrugged, deliberately casual. To browbeat the mercenary would be a mistake. To explain too fully
another.
"Don't ask me. I came here with his woman and she gave the orders. I guess she got them from him. Have you
ever seen her?"
"No."
"She's outside looking around. It might pay you to remember her. Look between the huts and you could spot her."
Dumarest took a step forward, hand lifting as he pointed, another and now he was close to the mercenary, the
weapon he held. "There she is! See!"
The jerk of his hand demanded attention. As the man lifted his head, eyes narrowing against the glare it turned,
the palm stiffening, slashing down like a blunted axe in a savage chop which would have snapped the wrist like a twig.
Instead, at the last moment, Dumarest altered the direction so it glanced over the fingers and sent the laser hurtling
to the ground.
"What the hell!" The mercenary swore, rubbing his fingers. "You damned near broke my hand!"
Dumarest said nothing, stepping forward to pick up the weapon, looking down the space between the huts at the
woman who strode towards him, the man at her side, the armed guards at his rear.
"Earl," said Lavinia steadily. "This is Lord Gydapen Prabang. Gydapen, meet Earl Dumarest."
She had the sense not to say more.

Chapter Fourteen
"Earl Dumarest." Gydapen lifted his goblet and tilted it so the wine it contained left a thin, ruby film coating the
engraved crystal. "I must congratulate you, my dear. A most unusual acquisition."
"He is hardly that, Gydapen."
"No?" The eyebrows lifted over the small, shrewd eyes. "Then what? Perhaps you will tell me, my friend."
"I merely escorted the lady, my lord," said Dumarest. "She needed someone to handle her raft. I understood the
matter was Council business."
"Of course. Council business. Naturally." Gydapen gestured and a servant handed Dumarest a goblet of wine.
Another and he departed leaving the three alone in the large hut. The interior was soft with delicate furnishings, rugs
covering the floor, lanterns of colored glass hanging from the roof. At night it would be a warm, snug, comfortable
place. One end would house the place where the mercenary slept. The other would contain stores, luxuries, wines
and dainties to soften the rigors of the desert. "Your health, Earl!"
"Your health, my lord!"
Ceremoniously they drank, neither doing more than wet his lips and, watching them, Lavinia thought of two
beasts of prey, circling, wary, neither willing to yield the advantage. Gydapen who owned land and commanded the
loyalty of retainers, who had the protection of a great Family, who held the destiny of Zakym in the palm of his hand.
And the other, alone, owning nothing, a traveler who searched for a dream.
But, watching them, she wondered why she had ever thought of Gydapen as a man worthy to sire her sons.
"The Council," he said again. "They think it right to send a woman without invitation, to land, to rob, to act the
thief and spy. A woman whom I hold in high regard. Tell me, Earl, what do you think of such a Council?"
"They do what they can, my lord."
"As do we all. And, while I think about it, you have something belonging to Gnais, I think. The laser you struck
from his hand. Thank you." He beamed as Dumarest dropped the weapon into his extended palm. "You made him
look foolish. He will not relish that."
Lavinia said, abruptly, "Gydapen, for God's sake let's put an end to this! What are you doing? The guns? The men
firing them at targets! Everything!"
"You saw?" Gydapen shrugged, his face expressionless, but his eyes moved to Dumarest. "Yet what did you see?
Men training to protect me in case of need. Your own actions show that I have reason for such protection. You land,
you order my own men to load your raft with goods which you know belong to me. Naked, outright theft. Are you
proud of what your friends on the Council have made you do, Lavinia? Is it pleasant to know yourself for what you
are?"
He was provoking her, hoping for an outburst of temper and the betrayal of secrets, but already she had said too
much and knew it.
Quietly she said, "If you owe loyalty to the Council you will abide by their decision. The Pact is not to be broken.
Must not be broken. Surely you can see that? What can you hope to gain by alienating the Sungari? Even if your mine
shows profit what good can it do you if they turn against us?"
"Good?" Gydapen smiled and shrugged and toyed with his wine. "You are young, my dear. Innocent in the ways
of commerce and men. But you are not drinking. Empty your goblet and permit me to refill it. You too, Earl. It is a
good vintage. The best of this decade."
"I would enjoy it more, my lord, if I knew your intentions towards us."
"The direct question." Gydapen set down his glass and smiled with apparent pleasure but his eyes, Dumarest
noticed, did not smile. "I admire you for putting it. You have strength and determination, qualities I can always use,
but enough of that. Let us concentrate on the question. The answer, I am pleased to say, is nothing."
"My lord?"
"He can do nothing," said Lavinia, harshly. "Not unless he wishes to turn every hand against him. Alcorus knows
we are here. Suchong, Erason, the others. I am on Council business. The guns were declared unlawful. You, Earl, did
only as I ordered. He—"
"Could punish you for being a thief !" Gydapen looked at the hand he had slammed against the table then smiled.
"What is the Council to me or to any Lord or Lady of Zakym? The guns are mine and will remain so. I do as I please
and none will stop me. If they try I shall know what to do."
"You would kill your own?"
"I will defend what is mine. What is mine, Lavinia, and could be ours. Yes, my dear, could still be ours." Rising he
extended his hands. "Let us forget this foolishness. You were curious, that I understand. Perhaps you are also
ambitious. If so you will understand me better when I tell you that I, also, am ambitious."
He was, she realized, utterly sincere. At that moment if nothing else he spoke the naked truth. Then again he was
smiling, leading them towards the door, opening it and ushering them towards the raft which rested, empty now,
before the hut.
As it rose she said, "Earl, what did you think of him?"
"He's dangerous."
"True, but honest in certain ways don't you think?"
Dumarest said, flatly, "No madman is ever honest other than to his own delusions. How did he catch you?"
"I was wandering around with that man who met us when Gydapen appeared. I think he must have been here all
the time."
A risk impossible to avoid. Had he been absent the guns would have been loaded and lifted away—now they had
betrayed their intention. Yet he had permitted them to depart. Why?
Lavinia shrugged when he asked. "You heard him, Earl. There was nothing else he could have done."
"No," he corrected. "I heard you telling him that."
"It's the same thing."
To her, perhaps, but Dumarest recognized the difference. He looked at the sky. The suns were lowering towards
the horizon, the discs merging, a haze softening the terrain below. The time of delusia when things were not exactly
as they seemed and mistakes could easily be made.
Lavinia was at the controls. She looked beyond him as Dumarest touched her shoulder, her eyes vacant, her lips
moving a little as if in silent conversation. Then, as he touched her again, she shuddered and leaned towards him.
"Charles! Charles, my dearest, why did—Earl!"
"What is the shortest way back to your castle?"
 "Southwest by west. The compass—"
"Over high ground?"
"Yes. The Iron Mountains run far back and there are some high peaks."
Together with crevasses and precipices and ledges which could crumble beneath the weight of a foot. Bad
country but, it being late, it was natural she would have taken the route.
"Earl!" She caught at his arm as he altered the direction the vehicle was taking. "We'll never get back in time!"
"Does it matter? What about the stopovers?"
"Yes." Her grip relaxed as she thought about it. "Yes, I suppose we could spend the night in one. But they aren't
plentiful in this region. We'll have to rise high so as to spot where to land."
Rise high, very high, so high that nothing would be left of them or the raft if they crashed.
"Drop!" he snapped. "Fast!"
"Earl! What—"
"Do it! Get to the ground! Move!"
The engine was housed in a humped compartment. As Lavinia tilted the raft to send it gliding downwards to the
misted terrain below Dumarest ripped at the casing, tearing away the thin metal with his knife, squinting as he peered
inside. A gray cylinder rested against the engine, a cylinder which shouldn't have been there. He probed at it, eased it
free and then, obeying the instinct which had saved him so often before, threw himself back and down.
The explosion was small, a dull report which caused the raft to judder and sent a puff of acrid yellow smoke from
the engine compartment. Opened, it had lessened the damage, but it was still enough.
Dumarest heard Lavinia scream as the raft tilted. He rolled across the floor, felt the rail press against his
shoulders and stabbed down with the knife, sending the blade slicing into the thin metal of the side. A hold to which
he clung as the raft tilted still further, throwing him so that his body hung in space, only his grip on the knife and on
the rail itself saving him from being hurled to the ground below.
"Level!" He yelled. "Level the raft!"
The woman, strapped into her seat, fought the controls, hair a tumbled mass over her face and eyes. The vehicle
spun, lifted, dropped to spin again as if it were a falling leaf caught by sportive winds. Without power, supported only
by the residual energy in the anti-grav units, the raft was little more than a mass of inert metal.
But still it had shape. A flat surface to act as a wing, permanent stabilizers fed from emergency sources, an
aerodynamic balance which, with skill, gave a modicum of control.
Dumarest felt the strain on his arms lessen, a sudden blow as the edge of the raft hit against his stomach, then he
was falling back into the body, sprawled, his knife ripped free and stabbed into the deck to provide another hold.
Painfully, every muscle tense, he crawled to where the woman sat at the controls.
"Earl!" Her voice was high, strained with fear. "I can't handle it! We're going to crash! To crash!"
His arms closed around her as he locked his thighs around the chair on which she sat. His hands knocked hers
aside as he took over control.
"Earl!"
"Crouch low. Bend your head into your lap. Rest your hands over the back of your neck. Turn into a ball if you
can."
He stared at the swing and turn of the ground below. At the last moment, if able, he would release her straps and
give her the best chance he could. Now, all he could do for the both of them, was to try and send the wrecked raft
towards a slope, to keep it level, to let it skid instead of slamming against the rock and soil.
"How close?" Her voice was muffled but she had recovered her composure. "Earl, how close?"
"Brace yourself."
He dropped one hand to the release and freed her of the restraints. A hill loomed before them and he rugged,
praying that the explosion hadn't totally destroyed the emergency units, that the hull would take the strain, that
something, anything, would give them that little extra to clear the summit.
A gust of wind saved them. A vagrant blast which caught the prow of the raft, lifted it the essential fraction,
letting it drop only after they had cleared the jagged peak. Below rolled a steep slope studded with massive boulders,
mounded with accumulated soil tufted by patches of vegetation. Like a stone thrown over water the raft bounced and
skidded, metal tearing with harsh raspings, fragments ripped free to litter the slope. A mount flung them into the air, a
dip lay beyond, a boulder which smashed like a hammer into the prow of the raft, to send them both hurtling forward,
to part, to land with a stunning impact, to roll and finally to come to rest.
Dumarest stirred, feeling the ache of strained muscles, a warm wetness on the side of his face. A questing hand
lowered stained with red, the blood welling from a gash in his scalp. With an effort he turned and sat upright, fighting
the nausea which gripped him and sent the terrain wheeling in sickening spirals.
When it had passed he looked around. Behind him rested stone, a rock against which he had been thrown, the
force of landing softened by the vegetation on which he lay. Sharp thorns and jagged stones had ripped the plastic of
his tunic exposing the glint of metal mesh buried within. A defense which had saved him from cruel lacerations but
had done nothing to save him from ugly bruises.
But he was alive, intact, dazed a little, suffering minor injuries but that was all. His luck had not deserted him.
And Lavinia's had not deserted her.
She lay in a shallow dell, a place thick with soft grasses, shrubs like springs which had taken her weight and eased
the final part of her landing. She was unconscious, a lump beneath the mane of her hair but, as Dumarest discovered
after examining her body, she was free of broken bones.
Rising he looked around. The suns were low, the air holding a peculiar hush as if strained with the energies of an
imminent storm. But there were no clouds and little wind.
Walking back to the ruin of the raft he found his knife, used it to slash a reedy plant and collected a handful of
pale sap which he used to bathe the woman's face.
"Earl?" Her eyelids fluttered. "Earl—what happened? Earl!"
"Steady!" His hand was firm on her shoulder.
"Sit up if you can." He waited as she obeyed, staring with eyes free of suffused blood. A good sign—the chances
were small she had a concussion. "Any internal pain? No? Good. Can you stand up and take a few steps?" He relaxed
as she did as asked. At least she was mobile and he was freed of the necessity of taking care of a maimed and
helpless person.
"Earl! Your face!"
"It's nothing." He collected more sap and washed the blood from his temple and cheek. The sap held a thin, sweet
flavor and he drank a little. "Is any of this vegetation good to eat?"
"It won't hurt you but it contains no nourishment."
As he had expected, but at least it would fill their bellies in case of need. Lavinia stared her horror as he
mentioned it.
"Earl, you can't be serious. We can't stay in the open. We have to find shelter before it's dark."
"Here?" He looked around, seeing nothing but the barren slope of the hill, the wreck of the raft.
"We must! Earl, we must!"
"Because of your bogey-men?"
"The Sungari! Earl, for God's sake believe me! If we are in the open at night we'll never see the dawn!"
Valid or not her terror was real. Dumarest looked at her, recognizing her near-panic, her incipient hysteria.
Quietly he said, "In that case we'll have to find somewhere to spend the night. Look around for a place while I go
back to the raft."
"Why, Earl? What good can it do? The thing is a wreck."
But one which held sharp scraps of metal, wire, fabric, ribs—all things which could spell survival in a wilderness.
Dumarest examined it. The floor had been of metal covered with a coarsely woven fabric held with strips. He
ripped them away, lifted the material and slashed it free with his knife. A coil of wire followed, some rods, a section of
foil which he rolled into an awkward bundle. By the time he had finished the suns were resting on the horizon and
Lavinia was desperate.
"I can't find a place, Earl. There aren't any caves. I don't even know in which direction the nearest stop-over is.
The Sungari—Earl!"
He dropped his burden and held her in his arms until the quivering had stopped and she was calm again.
"If we can't find a place to stay then we'll make one." He gestured at the things he had assembled. "Need it be
strong? Do the Sungari actually attack? Are they large or what?"
She didn't know as he had expected. Her fear was born of rumor and whispered convictions of a knowledge
based on a lack of evidence. But, unless he were to end with an insane woman on his hands, he had to pander to her
delusion.
As they worked she said, "Why couldn't we have used the wreck? Couldn't it have been easier?"
"No." Dumarest adjusted the fabric which he had stretched over the curved rods and lashed with wire. Rocks
surrounded the crude tent and now he covered it with a thin layer of sand. "It was too big," he explained. "Too heavy
to move and too awkward to seal. And I don't want to be there when they come looking for us."
"Looking?" Her eyes widened, filled with purple from the dying light. "Who? Gydapen?"
"A clever man." Dumarest dusted more sand over the shelter. "He knew you would be eager to get back home
and, if we'd crashed over the Iron Mountains, we'd have stood no chance. He even guessed that you might suspect
him and head for a stop-over but, as you said, you'd have to ride high to spot one. Either way he couldn't lose."
"The explosion," she said, dully. "He sabotaged the raft."
"Which is why he insisted that we take wine with him and kept us busy with his cat and mouse game. He needed
time to set the bomb and he wanted it to be late when we left." Dumarest looked at the woman. "He wanted to kill
you," he said, evenly. "And he will want to be certain you are dead."
Would already be dead if it hadn't been for him. Lavinia had a sickening vision of herself, broken, bloodied, the
prey for scavengers. It had been so close! If Dumarest hadn't suspected, hadn't acted when he had—and even then it
had been close.
She felt a momentary weakness and closed her eyes, thankful she wasn't alone, thankful too that it was Dumarest
with her and not Roland or Alcorus or even Charles when alive. Charles—how ignorant she had been! And Gydapen
—how stupid!
She heard the rasp and scrape of stone against steel and turned to see Dumarest squatting, knife in hand, sparks
flying from the blade. Some finely fretted material lay before him on a small heap of whittled twigs. A nest which
caught the sparks and held them as, gently, he blew them to flame.
A fire—but why?
Watching, she saw him feed the glow, building it to a blaze which he lifted with the aid of metal torn from the roll
of foil and carried to a place between rocks well to one side. More foil, the rest of the roll, made a humped shape
behind it.
"A decoy!" Finally she understood. "If anyone should come they will see it and think we are with it. But no one
will come at night, Earl."
"Can you be sure of that?"
"How could they spot the wreck?"
"There are ways." He added more fuel to the blaze. Smoke wreathed his face making it cruel in the crimson light.
"We found the bomb but a tracking device could have been fitted."
"They won't come at night," she insisted. "Not even Gydapen."
Perhaps not, but the man wasn't alone and mercenaries had few compunctions as to how they earned their pay.
Gnais would be free of the planetary phobia concerning the dark. Infra-red devices could be available to track down
the living if they had escaped death in the wreck. The fire would confuse such apparatus and mask their own body
heat.
Things he explained. Lavinia listened, nodding when he had finished.
"You're clever, Earl. Now, for God's sake, let us get out of the night!"

Chapter Fifteen
The shelter was small with barely enough room for them both. Without light, the walls pressing close, Dumarest
was reminded too strongly of a tomb. Carefully parting the opening of the flap he looked outside.
The suns had vanished, the sky now blazed with stars, the pale, ghostly luminescence painting the rocks, the
tufted vegetation with frosted silver. The glow of the fire was a dull reflection caught and dimmed by facing rocks. A
ruby nimbus of shifting light in which figures moved in an intricate saraband.
A man in armor, gilt and tinsel over red and green, a helmet framing a skull in the eyeholes of which worms
crawled and lifted heads which sighed with ancient yearnings. A fancy, gone even as seen, replaced by another which
spun like a pinwheel, semi-transparent, a cut-out which danced, a face filled with bulging eyes. Red stained the mouth
and ears, more the nose and cheeks. Tears of blood which dripped and left a trail in which paper-thin fingers dabbled
and rose to trace symbols on the air.
Chagney!
Wheeling on his eternal journey among the stars.
His eyes bulged at the sight of unimaginable glories. His blood was a benediction to all who had spilled their lives
in the void. His appearance was an accusation.
As was the woman with hair of flame.
Had he loved her, the real woman, or merely the shell she had worn?
Had she known and, knowing, taken a subtle revenge?
Kalin—had she lied?
Dumarest closed his eyes, shutting out the imaginary figures, feeling the tension at the base of his skull, the
inward pressure. Something… something… but it was so long ago and now was not the time to remember.
Now was the time of the Sungari.
"Earl!" Lavinia was beside him, pressing close, her breath warm against his cheek. "Close the opening—please!"
Had they never built strong rooms fitted with thick windows? Were they afraid of the madness such rooms would
bring?
 "Earl! Please!"
Dumarest drew in his breath, shuddering, conscious of the ache at the base of his skull, the pressure. The
hallucinations had been too real, too accusing. Fragments of the past, enhanced, given the acid sauce of hindsight,
the torment of what might have been. A blur of images of which only a few had been prominent but, behind those
few, ghostly yet horribly alive, had thronged others.
A man lived every second of every hour since the time of his birth and each of those seconds held all that had
happened to and around him.
A vastness of experience. An inexhaustible supply of terror and pain and hopeless yearning. An infinity of doubt
and indecision, of ignorance known and forceably accepted, of frustration and hate and cruelty and fear.
A morass in which glowed the fitful gleams of transient joy.
Each man, within his skull, carried a living hell.
Watching, Dumarest had seen it.
"Earl?" Lavinia touched his face and felt the sweat which wet her fingers. Felt too the little quivers which ran
through him so that he trembled like a beast which had been run too hard for too long. She pushed back his hair,
touching the gash on his scalp, the sting of the salt on her hand a pain which, meeting, diminished the rest. "For God's
sake! Earl!"
He was trapped, buried, stifling. Sand clogged his lungs and mountains weighed his limbs. He threshed, tore at
the opening, jerked it aside and lunged through to roll on the stony ground to rise, to stare wide-eyed at the stars.
Earth!
Which was the sun which warmed Earth?
"Come back, you fool!" Lavinia screamed from within the confines of the shelter. "Come back! The Sungari—
hurry!"
It was already too late.
Dumarest heard a thin, high pitched whine, the drone of something which passed, the lash of air against his face,
his eyes. It came again and he dropped, feeling a jerk at his hair, something which touched his scalp and burned like
fire.
Against the stars there was a shimmer, a blur. Night mist falling or something else?
Then again the whine, something which struck his shoulder, to rip the plastic and tear at the metal beneath. A
blow which bruised and hurt and shocked him from his daze. Alerted, his instinct to survive replaced conscious
thought.
He dropped, felt the whine of disturbed air slash through the spot where he'd been standing, rolled to see sand
and dirt plume inches from his face. The shelter was close and he dived towards it, seeing the opening part a little, the
pale glimmer of a face. It backed as he advanced, making room for him to pass through, legs kicking, his boot hitting
something and being hit in turn. Jerking up his knees he drove the edge of his hand against something which
shimmered, again at something else which droned.
"Earl!"
"Something to block the opening? Quickly!"
The fabric was too thin. He held it, smashing at it with his fist as it bulged, wedging the fabric handed to him
against it, lashing it with strands of wire. Above, on the roof of the shelter, something scrabbled, rasping, making
eerie chitterings.
"It's too thin," she whispered. "Too thin."
And he had been too confident of her mistaken fear of the dark. It had been no mistake. Thinking so had almost
cost him his life.
"They'll get us!" Her voice rose a little. "They'll break in."
"No." He reached out and found her. She was naked, the fabric she had passed to him the clothing she had ripped
from her body. "They won't break in," he soothed. "Not now we're out of sight."
Out of sight their scent masked, but that need have nothing to do with it. Sight alone would have been enough.
The fury of the attack had caused it to last after he had vanished from view. A delayed action which even now was
ending.
As he listened the scrabbling faded, the chittering died.
"Earl?"
"It's over. All we need do now is wait."
Wait as she moved against him, soft and warm and with a femininity which could not be denied. A burning,
demanding creature of passion who held him and touched him and sent her lips questing over his cheeks, his eyes,
lingering on his mouth until his arms closed around her. A cleansing, human thing who washed the fragments of
delusion from his mind and filled the tiny shelter with a heat which rose to engulf them both.
 Which ebbed to flood again at the approach of dawn.
Dumarest stirred, looking at the tumble of hair against his shoulder, the face it stranded, the eyes closed, the lips
swollen, the whole lax in satiation. The morning light was dim as it percolated through the fabric, brightening as he
cleared the opening, becoming a pale flood as he pushed aside the flaps.
Crawling outside he rose and stretched. His hands stung and he saw the knuckles scored with shallow wounds,
the fingers dark with blood. More dried blood matted his hair and traced a pattern on his face. His boots were torn,
the pants showed long gouges as if sharp knives had slashed at the material. On the sanded surface of the shelter the
grains were fanned into intricate designs.
The fire he had lit had died, a patch of ash marring the sand with grayish blackness. He gathered fuel and lit
another, feeding it gently, adding leaves and tufts of greenery so that a thin column of smoke rose into the air. A
column which thickened and turned an oily black as he fed slivers of plastic into the flames.
"Earl?" Lavinia had woke and dressed herself in the torn shred of her clothing, the gleam of nacreous flesh
showing through the rents as she crawled from the shelter and straightened. Her eyes, like her lips, were puffed a
little, soft with tender memory, the pleasure so recently enjoyed. "Why the fire? A signal?"
"If anyone is looking for us I don't want them to waste time." Dumarest looked at the sky, squinting, the dried
blood on his face giving him the appearance of a savage warrior.
"But last night you were worried about Gydapen finding us," she pointed out. "That's why you built the fire as a
decoy."
"That was last night."
"And now?"
"We're stranded in the wilderness. We need food and water and shelter against the night. We have no maps and
no compass. Can you guide us to safety? Get us to a stop-over before dark?" He shrugged as she made no answer. "If
all else fails we'll have to try, but I don't think it will be necessary. Gydapen will want to check that we are dead. The
fire will tell whoever's looking that we're not. He'll land. When he does we'll take his raft."
If anyone came. If he landed. If he could be overpowered—Dumarest made it sound so simple.
"We need water," she said. "Something to wash in. Your face and hands are covered in blood." As was her cheek,
her shoulders and back, the swell of her breasts. Blood from Dumarest's injured hands and face. "And I'm hungry."
"We've nothing to eat."
"Maybe I could find something. There could be berries and roots. I'll look around."
"You'll get back into the shelter and stay there," he said, flatly. "Sleep if you can but don't come out for any
reason. Movement is easily spotted from the air."
The tiny space was a mess, the sand torn with the fury of their passion, splotched with blood. To one side
something glinted as it rested against an edge of the shelter. Dumarest picked it up. It was a foot long, wings now
broken, scaled body now crushed to ooze a thin ichor. Six legs ended in vicious claws. Two huge eyes glowed like
flawed gems. Gaping mandibles were serrated like razor-edged saws. A streamlined creature, armed and armored,
which could fly and strike and be as effective as a missile.
"What is it?" Lavinia frowned as she studied it. "How did it get in here?"
He had carried it with him when he had dived into the shelter. He had crushed it, rolled on it, broken it with a
slash of his palm. Had the final attack been to recover it? If any others had died they were not to be seen.
"The Sungari?" Lavinia glanced at Dumarest. "Is that what it is?"
A part but never the whole. No Pact could be made with such a thing. It was an extension as a bee was to a hive.
A nocturnal flyer programmed to attack anything in the shape of a human. A collector of food which scoured the
terrain during the hours of darkness.
Somewhere, buried deep, must repose the intelligences which directed it. The true Sungari.
Throwing aside the creature Dumarest said, "Get into the shelter now and wait. And remember what I said—don't
leave it for any reason."
"And you, Earl?"
"I'll be close."
Meekly she obeyed, finding a pleasure in having decisions made for her, orders which she had to obey. The day
brightened and she heard small scuffling sounds followed by silence. Through the opening she could see the thick
column of smoke rising upwards. A shape rested beside it, manlike, still. Dumarest sleeping? Lying quietly as he
tended the fire?
Turning she looked upwards along the slope of the hill towards the wreck. The summit traced a sharp edge
across the sky, shadows like paint at the foot of rocks and tufted vegetation. The sky was clear, traced only with the
thin strands of high-flying mist which gleamed at times like silver lace.
Her thirst increased and hunger caused her stomach to ache. She moved, pressing herself against the sand,
forgetting physical misery in memory of the night. Never before had it been so wonderful. Never again would she
need to envy another woman her experience of love.
Restlessly she turned, conscious of the heat, the cramped confines of the shelter. Beside the fire the shape lay as
before, unmoving, a gleam coming from the ripped fabric. It vanished as she turned her head; a mirror now throwing
its reflected beam elsewhere. How could Dumarest remain so still?
Softly she called to him. "Earl. Earl, are you asleep?"
The words died in the silence and, suddenly, she was convinced that he was dead or gone and that she was alone.
"Earl!"
The fabric at the opening parted as she thrust herself forward. Twisting she looked up the slope of the hill and
saw the bulk of the wreck, the sharp line of the summit, the dark shape of the raft which hung above.
For a second she froze then jerked her head back into the shelter, praying that the lone occupant of the vehicle
hadn't seen her. It was the mercenary, Gnais, leaning forward as he sat at the controls, head moving from side to side
as he scanned the area.
The raft dropped lower, its shadow passing before her, the thin whine of the engine surprisingly loud as it hovered
close to the column of smoke.
"Hey, down there! Is anyone around?" His harsh voice grated through the air. "You by the fire—you hurt or
something?"
Watching she saw the figure twitch a little. An arm moved and, from where he leaned over the edge of the raft,
Gnais lifted his laser and fired.
Earl!
Lavinia tasted blood as her teeth dug into her lower lip. Her hands, clenched, drove nails into her palms and she
felt physically ill. Dumarest dead! Murdered! Slaughtered like a stricken beast!
Vomit rose in her throat as she crouched, trembling in the shelter. A helpless animal as she watched the raft swing
slowly over the area to finally come to rest a few yards from the wreck. The mercenary, casual, stepped from the
vehicle and walked towards the fire.
"One down," she heard him mutter. "But where's the other? The woman?"
He spun as she moved, the laser lifting, freezing in his hand as he saw her face framed in the opening. Smiling he
took a step towards her, another, a third.
"Come out, my dear, I won't hurt you. I saw the smoke and came to investigate. What happened? Were you
attacked? Are you hurt?" His arm gestured upwards towards his raft. "I've water and food if you need it. Come out
now, there's no need to be afraid."

***

A liar and she knew it. He would take her and use her and leave her body on the sand to be disposed of by
scavengers. She could read it in his eyes, in the moist anticipation of his mouth. A vileness who, armed, was confident
he could do as he liked without opposition. One who gestured with increasing impatience.
"Don't be foolish. Come out of there. I won't hurt you. Come on now." His voice thinned, became a snarl. "Move,
you bitch! Get into the open before I teach you a lesson. What'll it be? Some channels burned into your back? A
breast charred? Holes in your buttocks? Come out or I'll burn you!"
He meant it, wanted to do it, would probably take greater pleasure from the sadistic play than if she yielded
meekly to his desires.
Yet she couldn't move.
Couldn't!
"Your last chance," he snapped. "No? Well, you asked for it."
Deliberately he fired. One of the rods supporting the flimsy roof of the shelter fused and fell to one side, fabric
and sand falling to coat her body and soil her hair. Again the laser spat its beam and she screamed as fire touched her
thigh to sear her flesh.
"No! Don't! Please don't!"
Rising she saw his face, the eyes which widened to gloat over the rents in her clothing, the flesh beneath.
"A beauty! You'll give me pleasure before you die!"
He took a step towards her, another—then jerked as if hit in the back. His head reared back, face towards the sky,
lowering as, mouth open, he tried to scream. Blood came before the sound, a thick spout of crimson which frothed
like a fountain to splash on the sand, forming a pool into which he fell.
Numbly Lavinia looked at him, at the hilt of the knife which rose between his shoulders.
At the near-naked figure of Dumarest who stood behind a rock.
 "Earl! Earl, you—thank God you're alive!"
"Are you hurt?" He came forward to kick aside the fallen laser and stood watching her as she shook with reaction
and relief. "He fired at you. Are you hurt?"
"A small burn. It's nothing. But you—Earl, I saw him kill you."
"Not quite," he said dryly. "I set up a dummy. It's an old trick. I had a thread fastened to the arm. When it moved
he fired and thought as you did. He wouldn't have landed until he was certain there was no danger."
A trick—the whole thing had been planned, but why hadn't he told her? Lavinia swallowed, remembering how
she had felt, the terror, the sick, horrible fear.
"You should have told me."
"And you shouldn't have moved. I warned you to remain still. If you had he wouldn't have seen you." Dumarest
stooped and tugged out his knife, wiping the blade on the dead man's clothing. Rising he saw her face. "Are you all
right?"
"Yes." She sucked air into her lungs, remembering who she was, her position. The Lady of Belamosk should not
be a coward and yet she had known fear. A word, a hint even, and she would have been able to retain her composure.
Instead of which she had almost begged.
Begged!
"There's probably water in his raft," said Dumarest. "And maybe something for that burn. Wait here and I'll get it."
"There's no need." At least she could salvage something of her pride. And, woman-like, take a minor revenge.
Looking at the dead man she said, meaningfully, "The knife. You threw it. You stabbed him in the back."
"Of course," said Dumarest. "What else?"

Chapter Sixteen
Roland said, "I don't know how to thank you, Earl. There are no words. Lavinia—well, you understand."
More than he guessed, to Dumarest it was obvious the man was in love with the woman. An emotion he managed
to hide or she was too blind to see. It would not be the first time that close association masked the truth.
Leaning back he looked around the room into which he had been led. They had arrived late in the afternoon,
beating curfew by an hour, attendants ushering them to baths and food and rest. Now, toying with his wine, Dumarest
waited for the other to speak what was on his mind.
"Gydapen. Are you sure he tried to kill you?"
"Yes."
"But the mercenary—"
"Was a paid tool." Dumarest added, acidly, "You find it hard to believe that a noble of this world could descend to
murder?"
"On Zakyra it is unusual. A challenge, yes, followed by a duel if satisfaction cannot otherwise be obtained, but
murder—" He broke off, shaking his head, a man no longer certain of his world. And yet he had traveled and must
know that not all cultures followed the niceties of procedure as to the display of courage, the duelist's code—idiocies
for which Dumarest had no patience. "And there is no doubt as to his arming men?"
"Ask Lavinia."
"Ask her what?" She entered the room and came towards them, helping herself to wine, sipping before looking
from one to the other. Now, washed, her hair neatly dressed, her body clothes in fine material, she wore her
composure like a cloak. "Earl, I must apologize, I was rude."
He said nothing, waiting.
"I was angry and sneered at your having killed that man the way you did. You were right. He deserved no
warning, no chance to defend himself. He was filth!"
"He was dangerous," said Dumarest. "An armed man always is. And I was in no mood to play games." He looked
at Roland. "Are you?"
"Games? Me?"
"The Council if you prefer. Those whose job it is to keep the peace on this planet. Those who have the authority
and so should have the responsibility. Or have you no objection to war?"
"Earl!" Lavinia stared at him, her eyes wide. "What are you talking about? War? What war?" Then, thinking she
understood, she nodded. "Of course. Once he breaks the Pact the Sungari will attack."
"The Sungari don't enter into it," said Dumarest. "At least not as far as Gydapen is concerned. He has no intention
of breaking the Pact."
"But his new mine?"
 "What mine? Do you dig holes with guns?" He stared at them, baffled by their innocence, the cultural drag which
made it impossible for them to comprehend. "Don't you understand even yet what Gydapen intends? Lavinia, try!"
She stared at him. "Earl?"
"He told you. He admitted he was ambitious. He has traveled and knows what can be done by men of
determination and drive. He has men and guns and who is to stand against him? Conquest, woman! Gydapen intends
to become the sole ruler of this world!"
"No!" Roland shook his head. "He can't. The Council will never permit it."
"The Council will be dead."
"But he will be stopped—"
"By whom?"
"The Families. The retainers. We, that is, there must—" Roland broke off, helpless. "Lavinia?"
She said, "He wants me. If it will bring peace he can have me. I will make the surrender of the guns the price of
my agreement to wed."
Dumarest said, coldly, "He tried to kill you, have you forgotten? Are you a child to value your body so highly?
Marriage? He doesn't have to marry, he can take. As Gnais would have taken. Don't be a fool, woman, this isn't a
game. Gydapen is gambling for the ownership of a world. What is a woman against that?"
Nothing as she was willing to admit. A momentary fire, a passion, the easing of lust, the use of a toy—unless love
was present what use to talk of sacrifice?
"Earl, what can we do?"
"You have little choice. It's too late to send for arms and hire mercenaries to use them. Too late to train your
retainers. The Sungari, perhaps, but gaining their cooperation will take time and you have no time."
"So?"
Dumarest said, "Once, on a far world, I heard a story. It could be true. There was a man who sat at the head of a
great House. Those under him were ambitious and friends came to warn him of danger. He said nothing but stepped
into his garden. In it were flowers, some taller than others. Still remaining silent he slashed the head off the tallest
bloom with his cane. Those with him knew exactly what he meant and what to do."
"Kill," said Roland. "Gydapen?"
"Gydapen." Dumarest finished his wine. "Before he learns that we're still alive."
This time they approached from the south, riding low, skimming over the hills, hugging the valleys, invisible to
men and machines which searched the upper sky. Three rafts, each with a driver, hand-picked young men who could
shoot and were eager for adventure. More rode with them; five in Roland's vehicle, four with Lavinia, four with
Dumarest. Numbers only, shapes to be seen against the skyline, weight which would provide a distraction.
Only half of them were armed with weapons culled from the trophy room of the castle; rifles used for sport, not
war, crossbows which could fire a bolt as lethal as a bullet if aimed true, a clutter of knives and ornate spears.
Pathetic things to set against machine rifles, but those rifles could change hands.
And the plan was simple.
Roland to break shortly and gain height. To lift and ride high as he headed directly towards the camp. There he
would land and make a noise, demanding to see Gydapen, asking questions, worried about Lavinia and her continued
absence. The men with him, even though crudely armed, would be a problem and would need to be handled with
caution unless Gydapen was ready to make his move.
Lavinia would come in from the direction of the firing range, dropping as close to a small party of armed men as
she could, using her authority to demand a momentary obedience, a chance to overpower them, disarm them, to
move in with the captured weapons.
Dumarest would work alone.
He touched the driver on the shoulder as they neared a ridge. Beyond lay a slope, a stretch of rugged ground and
then the arid waste. To cross it on foot would take too long but the chances of the raft remaining unobserved were
small.
"Steady," he warned. "Don't veer. Just keep drifting lower as if you were riding a descending wind and were too
busy talking to notice it. You two get ready to jump with me."
They nodded, eyes anxious, fighting the temptation to look over the side.
Dumarest looked at the sky. The suns were close and edging closer. Soon now they would merge and delusia
begin. With luck those on watch would be talking to the departed. They would discount distant figures, could even
mistake the raft for a piece of the delusion. Small gains, but every one mattered as they couldn't attack at night.
And, this time, there would be no attempt to bluff.
"Ready!" Dumarest looked down, judging time and distance. Ahead and below ran a shallow crevice which
reached almost to the edge of the waste ground. Boulders strewed the ground between its end and the area of the
huts. "The crevice! Get into it!"
The driver was skilled. Expertly he dropped the raft until it moved slowly over the bottom of the crevice.
"Now!" Dumarest touched the others on their shoulders. "Drop!"
He was over the side before they had moved, not waiting to see if they would obey. He hit, rolling, coming to a
halt beside a stunted shrub. The others fell more heavily, one crying out at the snap of bone.
"My leg!"
It was a clean break and Dumarest bound it, setting the limb and using the haft of a spear as a splint. The raft had
gone, turning, rising, veering as it lifted to head well to one side. There it would drop again, to lift, to move on and
repeat the maneuver. Apparently sowing a line of men in an arc about the camp, finally to come to rest with those
remaining ready to do their share.
"Sir?" The injured man looked at Dumarest. "I'm sorry."
"You couldn't help it."
"My foot turned on a stone. I should have been more careful."
An obvious fact but one useless to emphasize. To the other Dumarest said, "Stay with him. Try and get up to the
edge of the crevice and, when you hear firing, begin to shoot. Aim high. I want noise not casualties but if anyone
attacks you then get them first."
"Yes, sir. I—"
The man broke off, his face turning blank. Then, as Dumarest watched, his lips began to move and he smiled and
nodded to empty air. Delusia. To him someone would be standing there, talking and smiling in turn.
Cradling his rifle Dumarest ran down the crevice. Before him a shrub blurred and became a tall, regal figure with
glinting, golden hair. It vanished as he shook his head, conscious of the dull ache at the base of his skull, the pressure.
It grew into a sudden burst of pain which sent him, sweating, to his knees and then, abruptly, was gone.
The wall of the crevice was loose, dirt and stone falling beneath hands and feet as he scrabbled his way up to the
edge. The area beyond was deserted, Roland's raft slanting in to land, the men aboard leaning over the rail, displaying
their weapons.
Dumarest began to run.
If the camp was properly guarded he would be seen and, if Gydapen had given the correct orders, met by a hail
of bullets. But as yet the retainers were strangers to war, unblooded and reluctant to kill. Gydapen himself lacked
experience and was, perhaps, over-confident. Gnais, the one man who would have known what to do, was dead.
Dumarest ran on.
The raft was low now and he could hear the thin sound of distant voices. The huts loomed ahead, the latrine
closer then the rest. He reached it as the cookhouse door began to swing wide, flinging himself down, rolling to hide
behind a loose hanging set to give protection against the wind.
He heard the sound of footsteps, the splash of running water, a grunt as someone set down the container he had
just emptied into the trench.
"A hell of a job," he muttered. "Feldaye, you're lucky to be out of it. I know you warned me but what could I do?
The Lord Gydapen Prabang ordered and what he wants he gets. You know that Martha got married to young Engep?
Well, you can argue about that when you see her."
The muttering faded, a man talking to another who existed only in his memory. Rising Dumarest edged forward
towards the cookhouse, threw the rifle on its roof and, taking a flying jump, followed it.
He landed like a cat, snatched up the weapon and moved down towards the end used as a storeroom. Lying flat
he looked over the ridge of the roof.
Roland was still arguing, his arms gesticulating, those with him scowling at the others standing around. Dumarest
looked at the sky, the suns were moving apart, the discs well separated and delusia, now already weak, would soon be
over.
He looked back at the gathering. Gydapen was nowhere to be seen.
From the crowd a man said, loudly, "She is not here. You must leave."
"Not without the Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk!"
"You will leave." The man lifted his machine rifle. Already he was aware of the power it gave, the obedience it
commanded. Soon it would come to dominate his life—if he lived that long.
Dumarest fired as the weapon leveled on Roland's slight figure.
He fired again as the man fell, finding another target, a third. The rifle he held was a sporting gun, well-balanced,
the magazine holding fifteen cartridges, the universal sight throwing a point of red against the impact-point of the
bullet.
Three down—why hadn't Roland seized their guns?
The raft lifted as machine rifle fire sent bullets to chew at the side and rear. Within the vehicle a man screamed,
rearing, blood jetting from torn arteries. For a moment he hung as if painted against the sky then, as the force of his
spring yielded to the pull of gravity, he toppled, to fall over the side, to land with a wet thud on the stony ground.
More guns blasted at the raft and a man hung over the rail, one hand dangling, the entire lower jaw shot away so
that he seemed to be lost in a ghastly paroxysm of laughter.
As the craft veered Dumarest adjusted his aim, fired, sent another bullet after the first, a stream which cut into the
pack, sought out those with guns poised ready to fire and sent them into a broken, bloody heap. A blast of fire
delivered with a cold precision in order to save the lives of those in the raft. One which drew attention to himself.
He heard shouts, the yell of orders and the pound of feet. The dormitory huts blocked his view, but he saw the
barrel of a gun, and slid back down the roof as the ridge disintegrated and wasp-like hummings cut the air.
"On the roof !" The yell was hoarse. "He's on the roof !"
"Get him!"
The man gaped as Dumarest dropped to land before him. Before he could move the butt of the rifle had slammed
against his jaw, the muzzle stabbing into the stomach of his companion, doubling the man before the stock cracked
his skull.
Dumarest turned, saw the glint of metal at the corner of the hut and threw himself down and aside as the gun
snarled and dirt plumed into little fountains. The rifle leveled, fired, sending chips flying from the edge of the building,
fired again, driving the bullet through two walls and into the brain of the man behind. Reaching him Dumarest
snatched up his gun.
The rifle was too long for easy maneuverability, too limited in fire-power. A precision instrument which had
served its purpose. Life now would depend on speed, the ability to send a stream of fire to force others to take cover,
the willingness to kill.
A man saw his face, recognized what it contained, and ran. Dumarest let him go. The door of a dormitory hut
slammed open beneath his boot and he lunged into the building, firing, fragments spouting from shattered lamps,
cups, the surface of the table. Water gushed from the smashed container—the only liquid spilled. The hut was
deserted.
"Roland!"
Dumarest shouted as he reached the other door. It gave a good view of the space before the huts, the large
building to one side. The raft was grounded before it, the sides perforated, the vehicle useless. Around it men lay in
the sprawled postures of death. Others crawled or, too badly hurt to move, cried out for water. Smoke hazed the air
but the firing had stopped.
"Roland!" Dumarest narrowed his eyes. The man could be dead or too badly hurt to answer. "Can you hear me?
Roland!"
He caught a glimpse of movement at a window of the large building and ducked as a gun snarled, feeling the bite
of splinters in his cheek, the brush of something which added another scar to his tunic. He fired in return, traversing
the gun, blasting the window with a hail of missiles, releasing the trigger at a shape, torn beyond recognition, spun
and slumped through the shattered opening.
"Roland!"
"Here, Earl." A hand lifted to signal. "That man in there had us pinned down. What's the position?"
A good question but Dumarest hesitated before answering.
The immediate danger was over, those who'd had guns were dead or hurt. Others had run and he guessed that if
the large building held more men they would not be eager to show themselves.
But there would be more men, more guns, and they no longer held the advantage of surprise.
The key was Gydapen. If they could find and kill him they would be safe.
Roland gasped as Dumarest dropped at his side. He was pale, his blouse stained, blood on his cheek, but the
stains were dirt and the blood not his own.
"Four dead," he reported. "Two in the first burst. The driver got it shortly after. The rest are too badly hurt to
move. I hope that Lavinia had better luck than we did."
Dumarest tilted his head. There should have been firing, the echo of shots both from the edge of camp and the
firing range. A few scattered reports came from where he had left the others but Lavinia's area remained silent.
"What now?" Roland licked his lips. "We're trapped, helpless should they decide to attack. They could crush us in
seconds. Earl—"
"We're armed," snapped Dumarest. "We can fight back. They aren't used to that. All they've done so far is to
shoot at targets. Firing at armed men is different. It takes getting used to. When I give the word we'll run to the large
building. Get inside as fast as you can—it would be best to dive through the window. I'll cover you then you cover me.
Don't bother to aim, just keep firing, while you do that they'll keep down. Ready? Go!"
The building was empty. Dumarest moved from room to room, kicking open the doors, returning to the chamber
in which Gydapen had given him wine. From where he stood by the window Roland said, bleakly, "We've failed. We
haven't killed Gydapen and we can't get away. It's only a matter of time before they get us."
Dumarest made no answer. He stared beyond the man at the space outside. At the raft which came drifting slowly
towards the building in which they stood. At Lavinia standing in it.
Gydapen was at her side.
He was smiling, seemingly very calm, very assured, but his eyes darted from side to side, touching the wreck, the
litter of dead, the shattered window.
Roland, careless, had shown himself.
"My Lord Acrae, this is a pleasure. Not one but two members of the Council coming to partake of my hospitality.
But how do you account for the violence of your arrival? To shoot and kill my retainers—such an act needs
explanation and redress. But perhaps you were unduly influenced by another? One who could be watching from
shadows?" His face lost the smile and became savage. "If you are here, Dumarest, show yourself ! If you care for the
woman come into sight with empty hands."
He stood beside Lavinia, very close, one hand weighed with a laser, the other hidden behind her back. The fingers
were locked in her hair and, suddenly, her faced jerked towards the sky.
"Dumarest!"
He moved to the window as Gydapen shouted and stood for a moment in full view then, throwing aside the gun,
stepped over the sill. Roland followed him, breathing quickly, afraid, wanting to run and hide but driven by his pride to
act the man.
Gydapen ignored him.
"You joined others and moved against me," he said to Dumarest. "Why? What harm have I done you?"
"You forget the raft, my lord."
"The work of Gnais. But I am being foolish—a mercenary needs no excuse to take sides. The pay is reason
enough. Gnais—" He shrugged. "A failure. Such a man is better dead. And you have done more for me than he had.
The attack could not have served me better. A prelude which has stiffened my men. Now they know a little of the
harsh reality of war."
"Against the Sungari?" Lavinia made no effort to mask her contempt. "Gydapen, you are a fool!"
"And you are stupid." He released her and watched as she stepped from him to halt at the side of the raft. "What
interest have I in the Sungari? They were an excuse, dust to throw in your eyes. As was my talk of marriage.
Marriage!"
He smiled with an ugly twist of the lips. "Once I own this world I will need a consort worthy of my position. Not
a child consumed by lust."
"A child?" Deliberately she inflated her chest, accentuating her unmistakable femininity. "Are you man enough
even for that?"
"Enough, you bitch!"
"Yes, enough!" Her anger matched his own. "You're mad, Gydapen. Mad!"
As were all who fell victim to insane ambition, but it was never wise to tell them so. Dumarest said, quickly, "My
lord, I admire your military skill. How did you capture the woman?"
"Luck," she said before he could answer. "He was inspecting his men and must have become suspicious. He
attacked before we could move. We had no chance. I alone was left alive."
"Luck?" Dumarest raised his eyebrows. "I think it was other than that. A warning, perhaps? An instinct? Even so
you are clever, my lord. It becomes obvious to me now that I have made a mistake. A wise man does not back the
losing side."
"Earl!"
Gydapen ignored the woman as did Dumarest. He had edged a little to one side and took another step as, in the
raft, Gydapen leaned forward. A small motion but one which increased the space between himself and Lavinia.
"You would be interested in fresh employment?"
"For a strong cause, my lord, yes."
"Mine is strong enough. I have men and arms and—" Gydapen broke off as if conscious he was saying too much.
For a long moment he remained silent then, with a shrug said, "Well, why not? A man must eat and you have proved
your worth. And what loyalty does a mercenary have other than to his own welfare. Yet I must have some proof that
you would be reliable."
Dumarest said, "You would have my word."
"Which, probably, has never been broken." Gydapen lifted one foot and rested it on the edge of the raft. On it he
rested the hand holding the laser. Around the vehicle, where they had dropped when it landed, his guards stood
armed and watchful. "Yet you will permit me a little doubt. A word, an oath, such things are fragile. Deeds are
something else." Then, without change of tone he said, "Kill Roland and the woman."
"My lord?"
"Kill them both and join my retinue."
Dumarest looked at the watching men. They were tense, unaware exactly of what was happening, but conscious
they were witnessing something strange. The one nearest to him had a face dewed with sweat, more sweat liquid on
the stock of the gun he held, muzzle high.
Gydapen said, sharply, "You hesitate?"
"A moment for thought, my lord. A man does not kill for nothing. My reward—"
"High rank in my army. High pay and what pleasures you choose to take." Gydapen lifted the laser, his knuckle
white on the trigger. "Now obey!"
"Without a gun?"
"You have a knife. Use it!"
Sunlight glinted from the blade as Dumarest lifted it from his boot. Deliberately he turned it, causing it to flash,
splinters of light which caught the eye and held the attention. Roland sucked in his breath as Dumarest moved
towards him.
"Earl! For God's sake! You can't!"
"Scream," said Dumarest, softly. "Scream, you fool, then fall and lie still!"
He moved in, the blade circling around the other's uplifted hand, making a mockery of the pathetic defense. His
arm straightened, slashed as the man shrieked, blood dulling the edge of the knife as he lifted it high.
On the sand Roland crouched, hands at his throat, falling to reveal the crimson gash. A shallow wound which had
barely cut the skin but one which bled, accentuating the damage, looking ghastly as the man fell to one side, to
twitch, to lay still.
"One down, my lord." Dumarest stepped towards the raft. "Now for the other. A pity to waste such beauty but
your orders must be obeyed."
"A dog eating the filth of its master," she sneered. "You disgust me. Gydapen, you have chosen well."
He turned, smiling, his hand with the laser swinging wide, then, too late, he realized the mistake he had made, the
danger he was in.
"No!"
His hand lifted as he yelled, finger closing as razor-edged steel hurtled through the air to hit, to bury itself in the
hollow of his throat, to send him toppling forward vomiting blood on the dirt.
As he fell Dumarest moved, snatching the gun from the man he had marked, blasting the air and ground with its
snarl and hail as he clamped his finger on the trigger. Smoke rose from the side of his head, the burning hair now
quenched by the blood which laved the area. The sear of the laser was an angry furrow of red and black high above
one ear. He looked a savage, blood-crazed avenger determined to kill.
The guards broke, throwing aside the weapons as they raced for the shelter of the huts.
"Earl!" He dropped the gun as Lavinia came running towards him from the raft. "You were wonderful! I guessed all
along what you intended but, Gydapen, the fool, didn't guess all you wanted was a chance to get your knife before he
could fire. Well, he's dead now and it's over."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "He's dead."
"And it's over," she repeated emphatically. "We'll have peace now."
A peace he could share.
It was in the promise of her eyes, her lips, the warmth of her body as she pressed herself close against him. A
gentle time with good living and soft luxuries. A time to rest and think and make leisurely plans. The days would
blend one into another and, at night, there would be the protection of strong buildings and the comfort of her love.
He could hide here, take what was offered, forget the search for Earth. Find refuge, even, from the Cyclan. A haven.
A haven of darkness. One free of the glittering torment of the stars.
"Earl?" Her lips were very close, very tempting. "You'll stay, Earl? For a while, at least, you'll stay?"
For a while—why not?
"Yes, Lavinia," he said. "I'll stay."

PRISON OF NIGHT
 Chapter One
Kars Gartok was the last to leave, lingering in his cabin until the others had gone, unwilling to engage in useless
conversation, to hear again the empty threats and bitter denunciations. Only when the ship was silent did he venture
forth to step through the open port and head down the ramp to the field below. It was late in the day, the sun low on
the horizon, the air misted with a damp fog which pearled the mesh of the perimeter fence and gave the tall figure
standing just beyond the gate a blurred, ethereal quality as if it were the figment of a dream.
But Brother Eldon was no ghost. He waited, dressed in a brown, homespun robe the cowl thrown back despite the
chill to reveal a face seamed and creased with age and privation. His feet were bare in open sandals and gnarled
hands gripped a bowl of cheap plastic chipped and scarred by usage and time. He lifted it as Gartok approached.
"Of your charity, brother."
Halting Gartok stared at the monk then said, dryly, "Charity? Aren't there fools enough on Hyard without you
wanting more?"
"Is to give an act of foolishness?"
"What else?"
"Some would call it an act of virtue, brother."
"To give without hope of reward is the act of a fool," said Gartok, curtly. "A lesson a man in my trade quickly
learns."
"As those did who left the ship before you?" Then, before Gartok could answer, the monk added, quietly, "It could
be that you have already had your reward. You seem uninjured and you are alive."
"Yes," said Gartok, heavily. "I'm alive."
He was a big man, wide of shoulder and thick of neck, dressed in dark leather trimmed with scarlet, polished
patches showing at shoulders and waist where body-armor had rested. His temples bore callouses from the weight of
a helmet and his eyes, deep-set and hooded, watched from beneath beetling brows. His hands were broad, the fingers
spatulate. The knuckles knobs of bone. His face matched the hands, broad, rough, ridged and seamed with scars. The
mouth was a trap, the chin a rock, the nose a predatory beak. He looked what he was—a professional dealer in death.
Watching him as he stood there, the mist dewing the stubble of his cropped head, the monk said, "What
happened, brother?"
"We lost."
"And?"
"What more needs to be said? We were out-gunned, out-manned, out-maneuvered. Eighty-three of a hundred
died on Craig. The details? What do they matter?"
"Even so, brother, I would like to know."
For a moment the mercenary hesitated then, shrugging, said, "It's the old story; two men snarling at each other
over a strip of land on a world not worth a woman's spit. Each turned to force and hired men. A minor war and
dangerous only to those involved. Or so it should have been but accidents happen. And the locals were stubborn and
refused to evacuate their villages."
And so they had died in blossoms of flame as shells had burst in crude houses and fragmentation bombs had torn
air and flesh with whining shards of metal. An old story and one common on Ilyard where men came to talk and rest
and seek employment. Common too on worlds cursed with ambitious rulers who thought of men as pawns to be
used in a complicated game.
"Craig," said the monk. "You said that was the name of the world?"
"Yes. One lying on the edge of the Rift. A bleak place of rock and water and cold. A world where the rich burn
turf to keep warm and the poor huddle together. But one the wealthier now for the bodies of good men fertilizing the
soil."
"But you are not one of them, brother," reminded the monk and lifted his empty bowl a little. "Those who give to
the poor often enjoy good fortune."
A direct appeal to the superstition inherent in all gamblers, and what was a mercenary but a man who gambled
with his life? Yet the monk felt no pride of achievement as Gartok plunged a hand into a pocket. Trained in the art of
psychology it was simple for him to manipulate the emotional triggers which all men carried and to which they could
not help but to respond. And the mercenary, like all his breed, must have inner weaknesses, hidden guilts, invisible
cracks in his external armor of competence.
As he threw coins into the bowl Gartok said, "It's all I can give, monk. If it isn't enough to buy a blessing at least
spare me your curse."
"I curse no one, brother."
"Then you are more saint than man. I curse people often. Captain Blasco who has a taste for killing. The fool who
hired us. The swine who—well, never mind. What is done is done and what point to dwell in the past? But you,
Brother, have you any news?" Then, as the monk made no reply, "I forgot, you do not trade in war. But at least tell me
this—have any persons of consequence and wealth arrived recently? High lords with ambition and money to hire
men?" His eyes narrowed as they searched the old face. Like the monk he had a knowledge of psychology but could
read nothing. Then a flicker of the eyes gave him a clue. "They have? You do not deny it? Good. Fortune could be
smiling on me at last Where are they staying?"
"You can find out where, brother," said the monk. "As you say, I do not trade in war."

***

He shivered a little as the mercenary strode away, the wind was increasing and its chill numbed skin and bone.
He could barely feel the bowl in his hands and his feet were like blocks of wood yet he welcomed the discomfort as a
reminder of times past when, as a young man newly taken into the Church, he had stood before gates like this
begging for alms.
An essential duty but one which he no longer had need to perform but old habits died hard and, always, it was
necessary to guard against the sin of pride.
And to beg was to be humble.
A gust of wind caught his robe and drove it hard against his body, the damp material emphasizing the chill of the
dying day. From the distance came the shouts of men and the monotonous pounding of feet. Raw recruits were at
drill; men engaged on a scatter of worlds and transported here to Ilyard where their contracts were sold at a profit.
Those who had already been bloodied, who had been flung into combat and who had managed to survive, fetched a
higher price than the rest. Others, like Kars Gartok, long freed of contractual restraint, sold their skills to any who
would be willing to pay. Their skill and loyalty for what it was worth, going out to fight, to kill, to bleed, to die if they
must to live if they could even at the cost of all they owned.
One day, thought the monk, he might be able to understand what drove men to act in such a manner, but for now
it was cold, the field was empty and work still waited to be done.
The shadows were lengthening as he reached the first of a litter of shacks and huts which sprawled away from
the town to the side of the field. Lowtowns were all the same no matter on which world they were found. The refuge
of the desperate, those stricken with illness, those cursed with poverty. The stench of it rose like a miasma from the
ramshackle dwellings; constructions of scrap and discarded plastic, of fabrics salvaged from the garbage of the more
fortunate, doing little but to keep out the rain and giving a scrap of privacy.
The church was little better, but from intent rather than need. A building of brick or stone with solid walls and
barred windows, of thick doors and heated air would have been an affront to those it had been designed to serve. As
a monk wearing silk and gems would have insulted the wretch to whom he preached the virtue of poverty. To gain
the confidence of those in need they had to be met at their own level.
Yet, even so, the church was bigger and better than others he had known. They had been the flimsy shacks of
portable churches: fabric and poles which could be carried on a back together with the benediction light which was
the heart of the structure. Yet tent or palace all were the same. All strove to teach the same message. To persuade all
who came to listen or who could be persuaded to pay attention to accept the Universal teaching of complete
Brotherhood. That no man was an island. That the pain of one was the pain of all. That all shared the burden of a
common heritage. That all belonged to the Corpus Humanite. That once each could look at the other and say, there,
but for the grace of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.
He would never see it. No monk now alive would ever see it. Men bred too fast and traveled too far for that. They
rested on too many worlds scattered throughout the galaxy and were subjected to too many strains. But, eventually, it
would come. It was an article of faith to believe that. The purpose of his being.
"Brother!" A man rose from where he'd been squatting in the dirt and mud at the side of the track. He was thin,
his face yellowed with jaundice, his teeth chattering with cold. He smelt of suppurating pus; the sickly sweet odor of
tissue-decay. The hand he extended was like a claw, thin, quivering. "Brother. For the love of God help me!"
"Ask, brother, and if it is possible it will be given."
"I'm ill. Rotten with sores and something else. Starving. I can't get work. And I—I've…"
"The church is waiting," said Brother Eldon quietly. "Enter it, kneel beneath the benediction light, confess and
receive forgiveness. Medicines are available and they will be given."
"Brother, will you speak for me to Major Khaftle? He—"
"One thing at a time, brother." Eldon was insistent. "First you must be given what help we have. After, well, we
shall see. Come now."
He took the quivering claw into his hand, feeling the febrile heat of the skin, recognizing the fever, the disease.
The man was dying and would die despite the antibiotics they could give. But he would not die alone and he would
die in peace. Brother Veac would see to that.
The young monk accepted his charge and glanced sharply at his superior. It was not his place to question or to
criticize, but he would not have been human had he not made a comment.
"It is late, brother, and cold."
"Yes."
"There is food and warmth within. You should rest now."
"And stop trying to act the young man, brother?" Eldon smiled as the other looked abashed. "Am I so old you
think I have forgotten to remember how I thought when young? Take care of our friend now. Is Brother Biul
available? Good." Then lowering his voice he whispered, "The infirmary, I think. There is room? Then see he has a
place. I fear that he will not be with us for long."
But first came the easing of his heart and soul. To kneel beneath the swirling bowl of colored light, to drift into a
hypnotic condition, to unburden himself, to suffer subjective penance and then to be given the bread of forgiveness.
And if most of those coming to the church did so for the sake of the wafer of concentrates then it was a fair
exchange. For each who knelt beneath the light was conditioned not to kill.
"Brother!" Biul looked up from where he sat busy with papers and rose as Eldon entered the office. "You must be
frozen! Why must you be so stubborn? You are too old to act this way."
Older than Veac the monk cared less for diplomacy and long friendship had given him a casual familiarity. Now
he bustled around, fetching a warm blanket, filling a bowl with soup, standing over Eldon while he ate. Only when the
bowl was empty did he permit the older man to speak.
"Biul, you have all the attributes of a bully," said Eldon mildly. "If I didn't know you meant well I might even be
annoyed."
"As I will be unless you take better care of yourself. We need you—and do I have to remind you that self-injury is
a sin?" Biul cleared away the bowl, rearranged the blanket then said, "Well?"
"Little. A few coins."
"And?"
"Bad news." Eldon felt his shoulders sag. "War on Craig. The first engagements are over but there will be others
that is certain. Help will be needed. Contact the seminary on Pace and have them notify those on Hope. A full
medical team if possible, as many monks as they can spare at least. And perhaps influence could be brought to bear
on those responsible to cease the hostilities."
It was possible, the Church had friends in high places, and it would be tried, but inevitably there would be delays
and in a war situation delay meant suffering, disease, degradation and death.
To alleviate a little of it was the most they could hope to do.
As Biul left Eldon sank back in his chair, conscious of the warmth of the blanket, the snug comfort of the room. It
was bleak enough, the walls ornamented with small mementos and a few paintings of worlds known when young, but
it held everything he had come to value since, when a youth, he had applied for acceptance into the church and had
commenced his training.
There was trust there, and faith, and the desire of one to help another. There was truth and tolerance and
compassion. There was an acknowledgment that life was more than could be seen on the surface and that, without
the belief in something greater than Man, then Man could not be greater than what he was.
A point on which he had argued when young and had still not understood what it really meant to be a monk.
Brother Hoji had stripped away his illusions.
He was old, stooped, withered, crippled, acid. He was in charge of indoctrination and had not been gentle.
Leaning back, half-asleep, Eldon could hear again the voice which had rasped like a file through the confines of the
room into which had been packed a score of youngsters like himself.
"Why did you apply to become monks? What motive drives you? That question must be answered before any
other. Look into the mirror of your soul and search for the truth. Is it in order to help your fellow man? Is it that and
nothing more? If not then you don't belong here. You are wasting my time and your own. Rise and leave and none
will think the worst of you. Be honest. Above all, be honest!"
Someone had coughed; strain triggering a near-hysterical giggle covered too late into the resemblance of a
normal expulsion of air.
"You!" The twisted fingers of. the old monk had been an accusing claw. "You laughed—why? Did you think I was a
fool? That I tended to exaggerate? That I distorted the truth? Don't bother to answer." Then, in a lower voice, he had
continued. "If you hope for personal reward or high office or the love and respect of those you are dedicated to serve,
then you do not belong here. If you yearn for power or pain the same applies. Pain you will get and discomfort and
suffering. You will know disappointment and see the work of years destroyed in a moment. You will be scorned and
held in contempt, robbed and beaten, used and ignored, hated and despised. Yet, if in the deepest recesses of your
heart, you long to be so treated, then you have no place here. Man is not born to suffer. There is no intrinsic virtue in
pain. Those who seek it are enemies of the Church. If any sit here I tell you now to go. Go!"
No one coughed when he paused, no one giggled, but still there remained a little doubt. It vanished as the old
monk stripped off his robe and displayed his naked body. His flesh—and the things which had been done to it.
"God!" whispered the man next to Eldon. "Dear God!"
"The reward of patience," said Hoji. "It happened on Flackalove. A small settlement that, I thought, had accepted
me. For three years I was with them and then came a drought. Plague followed and children died. They needed
someone to blame." Pausing he donned his robe then added, quietly, "God gave me the strength to live and to
continue helping my fellows. Now it is safe for a monk to stay on that world."
Eldon felt again the cold shiver which had touched him at the calm understatement. How the man must have
suffered! The injuries, even though now healed—he could not bear even now to think of them. Nor understand how
the man had found the courage to continue on the path he had chosen.
Half the class had left at the end of the first three months. Half the remainder at the end of the first year. By the
time the training period was over only two others had stayed together with himself. Three from twenty—a good
average.
And now it was pleasant to sit in the warm and drift into worlds of memory in which old friends came to greet
him and old places became new again: Even remembered pain became less demanding, became a part of the joy in
serving, of his dedication. And it had not always been pain, though rarely had there been comfort. And now, old, in
charge of this church, he could afford to relax a little. To let others share the burden. Others who…
After a while Brother Biul came in to re-wrap the blanket and to ease the old man's limbs so as to avoid the
danger of cramp. He looked, he thought, surprisingly young, the seamed and wrinkled face now plumped a little, the
lips curved as if, in his dreams, he smiled.
Then he saw the stillness of the throat, the flaccidity of the great arteries and knew the old man would never
smile again.

***

"Dead?" Kars Gartok frowned. "The old monk dead? But how? I was talking to him only hours ago."
"I know." The officer was polite. "That is why I am here. A routine matter, you understand. A formality. Did he say
anything? Complain of feeling unwell, perhaps?"
"No."
"He mentioned no one who had threatened him?"
"No."
"Your cooperation would be appreciated."
"You're getting it," snapped Gartok. He turned and strode across the room, faced the wall, turned and took three
steps back again. Like the hotel the chamber was not of the best, the furnishings worn, the carpet faded, the walls
stained. One pane of the window was cracked and the radiator which should have warmed the place was failing in its
duty. Even the light was dim. "He was at the gate, begging, you know how the monks operate. We talked for a while,
he was eager for news and I gave him what I had. Then I left. Is there suspicion of foul play?"
"No." The officer relaxed and tucked away his notebook. "As I said this is a routine matter. The Church has friends
on Ilyard and, well, you understand."
Friends of influence, who else could have given the monks permission to establish themselves here? No planet
dedicated to war would welcome those who preached the doctrine of peace. The officer was naturally being cautious.
Gartok said, "How did he die?"
"He was old. He should have known better than to stand in the cold. It could have been the final straw. Personally
I think that he'd just lived out his life." The officer glanced around the chamber. "No luck on your last engagement?"
"No."
"Too bad, but we can't all win." He spoke with the casual indifference of a man who couldn't care less. "Well,
thank you for your patience. If you're looking for work you could do worse than try the High Endeavor. It's on
Secunda Avenue close to Breine."
"I know where it is, but isn't Delthraph in business now?"
"He was shot in an argument last month. Creditors sold his business and the new owner isn't established yet. Try
the High Endeavor. It's your best choice."
Like the hotel the place was dingy, a little decayed, a building which had known better times. Luck could have
brought them. Money could buy paint and workers to refurbish the exterior. New furnishings would brighten up
inside. Rich employers would come to sound out what was offered and winners would make the place their
headquarters. Fame followed success and success bred riches. But that had yet to come.
Kars Gartok stepped from the street into the vestibule. A girl smiled at him and a man looked up from where he
sat behind a counter. A guard-receptionist, the hand he kept hidden would be holding a weapon. His eyes checked the
mercenary, noting the thin cloak, the hat with the feather, the pistol belted at his waist. All were of local manufacture
bought less than a couple of hours ago.
"Your first time here?"
Gartok nodded. "I've been away. Delthraph would have known me."
"He's dead."
"That's why I'm here. Upstairs?"
"The front room. You won't be alone. The girl will provide anything you want. Food? Wine?"
"Wine. A flagon."
He mounted the stairs as the girl bustled to fill the order. The room was easy to find and, as the man downstairs
had promised, he wouldn't be alone. A dozen men lounged in chairs around a table, light from the fire augmenting the
dim glow from lanterns and throwing a dancing ruby light over hard faces, glinting metal, belts, polished leather, the
winking gleam of gems.
Halting within the chamber Gartok introduced himself adding, "Have I fought with any here? Against them? No?"
"Once I think," said a man at the far end of the table. "Were you on Lisyen about five years ago? With Donlenck's
Destroyers?"
"And if I was?"
"I served with Voronech."
"And lost as I remember." Gartok looked at the man. "Any grudges?"
"Hell, no. I doubt if we ever even met. It was all long-range stuff, right?"
Gartok nodded and, as the girl arrived with his order, slammed the flagon on the table.
"Right. Now have a drink and fill me in on what's happening. Glasses, girl, and hurry!"
The flagon vanished, was replaced with another, more. Wine and conversation flowed and old battles were re-
fought and old engagements remembered. Here, in this room, paid enemies faced each other and future foes sat and
toasted each other in wine.
Gartok mentioned Craig.
"A bad world," said Chue Tung, his yellow skin gleaming like oiled leather in the dancing firelight. "Years ago now,
six, seven, eight, maybe?"
"Does it matter?" A man a little more drunk than the rest, snapped his impatience. "Get on with it, man."
"Please," said another, quickly. "Eight years, you think?"
"Eight." Chue Tung looked at the one who had interrupted. One day they would meet and then revenge would be
sweet. For now he would act the congenial spinner of reminiscences. "It was a small engagement, like yours, Kars, or
so it started out to be. A simple police-job. I landed with a couple of hundred men and within a month we had the
area pacified. All nice and neat—then the women took a hand. We lost fifteen men in three days and I'm not going to
tell you how they died. We had a pretty tough commander at the time, Elque Imballa, anyone know him?" Pausing he
looked at his listeners. "No? Well, he'd dead now but you could have served under worse. At least he took care of his
own. Fifteen men had died so he took thirty locals and shot them. After that he took steps to end the danger."
Gartok was interested. "How?"
"The women were the trouble—you know how soldiers are when there's no prospect of action. Looting, raping,
they do it all the time. There was nothing to loot so only one thing was left. Imballa had the entire area swept and all
females assembled. Then he got the armorers to make some special undergarments for them to wear. Pants of wire
mesh fitted with a friction bomb. They were safe until someone tried to jerk them off then—bang!" He made an
expressive gesture.
"And?"
"A couple of fools tried it and ended up as mincemeat. After they had been buried the others learned the lesson.
The women too. Try to get near them and they'd scream and go for your eyes. It wasn't much fun for anyone but it
solved the problem. In his own way Elque Imballa was a pretty shrewd man."
For a long moment there was silence then a man said, dryly, "I'm not calling you a liar, Chue, but if anyone else had
told me a story like that I'd be tempted to doubt his word."
"I'm glad that you're not calling me a liar, Amil," said Chue Tung softly. "I'd hate to kill you without getting paid
for it."
Gartok, recognizing the undercurrent of hostility, said, "Talking of paying who is due to order the next flagon of
wine?"
 The talk moved on, took direction, revealed why each was present. Work was scarce and expenses high. The
mines were waiting to swallow any who couldn't meet his debts. Times were hard for free-lance mercenaries.
"We need a good war," said one. "Something on a rich world with little fighting and guaranteed pay. That or a
takeover. A bloodless victory with a long-term contract."
"I almost had it." The man was small, thin, his face gaunt, his eyes darting like restless birds. "The best prospect a
man could ever hope to get. A friend passed me the word. He'd got a job training some retainers in the use of arms
and from what he told me it was gravy all the way. Not much in the way of pay but the opportunity was there and the
prospects were superb. I'd have been set for life."
"Talk," said a dour-faced man who sat in a corner. "We've heard it all before, Relldo."
"Maybe, but this time it's the truth. I told you the man was a friend. Well, to cut it short, I got to where he was
working and found I'd arrived too late. Gnais was dead and so was the man who'd employed him. He was Lord
Gydapen Prabang. His retainers were to start a war and conquer the entire damned planet. There would be no
opposition. We'd all get rich. Then something happened and he got himself killed."
"How?" Gartok helped himself to more wine. "Accident?"
"Idiocy." Relldo scowled at his wine. "There was trouble between Gydapen and a woman, the Lady Lavinia Del
Belamosk. She'd won the aide of a stranger—a man called Dumarest. He was a traveler, I think, a tall man who wore
gray and carried a knife in his boot. He could be dead now but I doubt it. His sort are hard to kill."
"And?"
"He became involved and took a hand. He hit Gydapen with the woman and a few others in an attempt to steal
the guns. At least I think that's the way it was. I wasn't there at the time, remember, but I learned what happened from
a retainer who saw it all. Anyway, Gydapen gained the upper hand and then threw away his advantage. That's why I
called him an idiot. He was tricked into allowing Dumarest to get a knife in his hands." Pausing Relldo added, slowly,
"Could you believe that one man could kill another with a thrown knife when the victim had a laser in his hand aimed
and ready to fire?"
"Is that what happened?"
"My informant saw it done."
"Fast," said Chue Tung before Gartok could comment. "A man who could do that would have to be fast."
"Damned fast," agreed Relldo. "And from what I was told Dumarest is all of that. When he moved it was like a
blur, a flash of steel, a thud and Gydapen was falling with a knife in his throat. The next thing bullets were flying and
that was the end of the war. My usual kind of luck—all of it bad. I was near stranded and had to travel Low."
He looked it; the loss of body-fat was a characteristic sign, tissue lost while he had lain doped, frozen and ninety
per cent dead in a casket designed for the transportation of animals. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake
of cheap travel.
Chue Tung said, thoughtfully, "Maybe you left too soon. Something could have been arranged, perhaps. Where is
this place?"
"A world on the edge of the Rift." Relldo scowled as he finished his wine. "But I would not have stayed even if
Gnais had been alive. Not for long, anyway. Not once I'd seen the planet."
"Why not?"
"Because when I kill a man I like to know that he's dead. On Zakym that doesn't happen. The damned place is
rotten with ghosts."

Chapter Two
The woman standing against the parapet couldn't be real for Dumarest had seen her lying dead on a world far
distant in time and space and yet, as he watched, she smiled at him and extended her hands and took a step closer
while the soft tones of her voice caressed his ears.
"Earl, it has been so long. Why must I continue to wait? We should be together always. Have you forgotten how
close we were? How much in love? I was your wife, my darling. Your wife!"
A ship-liaison, good only for as long as both wanted it, a common practice among free traders especially those
risking the dangers of clouded space. For such men pleasures were things to be taken and cherished and used while
the opportunity existed.
Yet it had been more than that. There had been love and care and a tender regard.
"Earl!" Lallia lifted her hands and stepped toward him. Against the sky her hair was a mass of shimmering ebon,
her skin smooth and firm over muscle and bone, her body a remembered delight. "Earl?"
And then she was gone and, again, he was alone.
 Leaning back in his chair Dumarest looked at the sky. The twin suns filled the heavens of Zakym with violet and
magenta, the light merged now, the orbs close and low in the azure bowl. Soon it would be night and darkness would
seal the land, but now the air held an oddly metallic taint and was still as though at the approach of a storm.
There would be no storm. There would be nothing but the darkness and another day would have passed as so
many had passed before it. And, in the meantime, the dead reigned.
Delusia—the time when the dead walked and talked and communed with the living.
A planetary insanity of which he was a part.
If it was an insanity.
It was hard now to be sure. At first the explanation had been so obvious; wild radiation from the twin suns,
merging as they closed, blasting space with energies which distorted the microcurrents of the brain and giving rise to
hallucinations. Figments of memory made apparently real, words spoken but heard only by the one concerned,
figures seen, advice taken, counsel asked. And yet he was a stranger, born and reared outside this culture and how
could he be certain that of them all he alone was right?
"Earl!" Another figure standing where the other had been but this time one with hair of a somber red. Kalin?
Always she seemed to be close but, as he rose he recognized the woman. Not Kalin but Dephine. Another who had
claimed to have loved him and had played him false. Helping him even while she worked to destroy him by
unconsciously leading him to the world on which he had found the spectrum of a forgotten sun. His sun. The one
which warmed Earth. His world which, at last, he was certain he could find given time and money. "Do you still hate
me, Earl?"
"Should I?"
"I intended to sell you to the Cyclan. You know that my words, my acts, all were to hold you and waste time."
"Yes."
"And still you do not hate?"
She blurred as he made no answer, dissolving to change into another figure, thin, tall, haggard, the eyes accusing,
the hands lifted as if to ward off a blow.
Chagney whom he had forced to breathe space.
"You killed me," he said. "You sent me into the void. I had done you no harm. Why did you kill me? Why didn't
you listen?"
To the sound of crying, thin, remote—unforgettable!
Dumarest turned and looked over the inner wall of the parapet into the courtyard below. Retainers stood in the
open space, some moving, talking as they walked, their faces animated as they watched and listen to people he could
not see. Others, equally engrossed, spoke to relations long dead or to lovers and friends, companions and, even the
children of their flesh who had succumbed.
Glancing at the sky he judged the position of the suns. This period of delusia had been strong but already the
orbs were moving apart and soon it would be over.
"Earl!" Another woman but this time real. The Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk, tall, her hair a rippling waterfall of
liquid midnight barred with silver, breasts prominent beneath the taut fabric of her blouse came toward him along the
promenade. "Darling, I was worried. You have been sitting up here for so long."
"I was thinking."
"Of Earth?" Her smile was that of a mother to a child. "Your world. The planet of legend. Yes, I know," she said
quickly as he frowned, "It is real. You are sure of that because you were born on it and all the rest of us have
forgotten where it is to be found. As you have forgotten."
"No," he said. "I didn't forget. I never knew."
"Of course—what could a runaway boy know of spacial coordinates. And for years now you've been trying to
find the way back. But, my darling, why should you bother now? You have me. You have what I own. And you have
land of your own."
"No."
"Yes," she insisted. "The Council voted it. You can't refuse."
Land which was almost worthless in the sense that it couldn't be sold. And it took time to breed animals for fur
and hides, to plant and harvest crops, to sift the upper layers for decorative stones and diluted minerals. The upper
surface—below that the Sungari ruled. As they ruled at night. Sharing the world with men who owned the surface and
the day.
Turning he again saw Dephine, tall, her eyes mocking, metallic glints reflected from the metal tipping her fingers.
The attribute of a harlot and yet she had been a member of a family cursed with pride. Perhaps he had offered her an
escape from the iron bonds of ancient tradition. Or it could have been simply that he had been prey for her predator-
like instinct.
 It didn't matter now. Dephine was dead. Only on Zakym did she return to haunt him with her enigmatic smile and
memories of what might have been. But the threat of the Cyclan remained. The reason why he had run from Harald.
The reason why he was here, in this castle, with this woman, on this peculiar world.
"Earl?" Lavinia was concerned. "Earl, are you well?"
He stared at her, wondering for a moment if she were real or merely another delusion. Wondering too why she
appeared to be unaffected by the delusia and why he seemed to be more susceptible of late. Was instinct urging him
to escape while he had the chance? Primitive caution overriding logical consideration and striving for attention by
this peculiar distortion of his senses?
"Earl?"
"It's nothing."
Stepping forward she lifted her hand and gently ran her fingers through his hair. Beneath their tips she could feel
the line of freshly healed tissue running over the scalp. Gydapen's last, wild shot had found a target, the beam of the
laser searing almost to the bone. Could such a wound have unexpected aftereffects?
Guessing her thoughts he said, impatiently, "I'm all right, Lavinia. There's nothing wrong with me."
Then why did he turn and thrash in his sleep? Even when lying in her arms she was conscious of his tension, his
inner turmoil. A product of the jungle, she thought, looking at him. Not the place of trees and underbrush, or the
hunted and hunters to be found in tropic places but the harsher, bleaker jungle to be found among the stars where it
was a matter of each man for himself and mercy was, like charity, a meaningless word.
How often had he killed? Did he now, at times of delusia, see again those faces he had known betraying the shock
of death finally realized. Did enemies come to taunt and foes to plead? In his lonely vigils on the promenade did he
talk again to those he had loved and who had loved him?
Only the dead returned at such times and it was foolish to be jealous of the dead but, at times, Lavinia wished she
could see them, talk with them, warn them to stay clear of her man.
As Charles stayed clear. As Bertram. As Hulong and others she had loved and who had known her body. Now, for
her, for always, there could be only one man in her life. One potential father of her children.
"Earl!"
He was looking over the parapet to where a dark fleck showed as a deeper mote against the sky. A raft which
came closer, taking shape and form, revealing the figures riding in the open body of the vehicle. They were too far to
distinguish but Lavinia had no doubt as to their identity.
"Our friends, Earl. Coming from town. I told you I had invited them to dinner."
They had left it late. As the raft came in to settle in the courtyard the sky was deepening to a rich purple, the
horizon barely tinged with the fading glow of sunset.
"We'd best go down, darling." Lavania slipped her hand through the curve of Dumarest's arm. "Soon it will be
curfew."

***

It sounded as he lay soaking in a bath of steaming water the deep, sonorous throbbing giving rise to sympathetic
tintinnabulations so that the vases with their contents of scented crystals, the carved ornaments of stone, the
suspended cascades of engraved glass all became chiming bells. Dumarest ducked, feeling water close his ears,
waiting until his chest ached with the need of air, rising to blow and to hear the final throb of curfew as it sent echoes
resonating from the walls, the very structure of the castle.
Already the building would have been sealed. Covers closed the air-shafts, the doors leading into the open were
locked and guarded, the courtyard would be deserted. Only within the building itself would there be signs of life and
all movement would be through connecting chambers or tunnels gouged from the upper regions of the soil. In town it
would be the same. In every building now in darkness the curfew would have sounded and the Pact obeyed.
From sunset to sunrise the Sungari ruled without question.
Water splashed as Dumarest rose from the bath, running in little rivulets over his shoulders, the hard planes of
torso and stomach, the columns of his thighs. The flesh of his upper body was traced with the thin lines of old scars;
wounds delivered with a naked blade which he had taken when young and when to fight in the ring was the only way
in which to earn a living. Standing, remembering, he heard again the roar of the watching crowd, the animal-like
baying as men and women leaned forward avid for the sight of blood and pain and wounds and death.
"Earl?"
He ignored the call, looking into a mirror, nostrils filled with the odor of perfumes. Now it was that of flowers and
rare spices, then it had been the raw taint of oil and sweat and fear, the sickly sweetness of blood, the stench of vomit
and excreta voided at the approach of death.
 Here, now, there was none of that. In this place was softness and comfort and servile retainers to do his bidding.
There was good food and wine and scented baths. There was a woman who loved him and a life which many would
envy. A good exchange, perhaps, for a life of endless movement. Of privation and danger and the constant threat of
conflict. Even the sacrifice of his search for Earth was a small price to pay for the comfort he now enjoyed. He had
found a refuge, a haven, and if it was one of darkness well, what of that? A man could learn to do without sight of the
stars. He could learn to live only for the day and to yield the night to another race.
"Earl!" Lavania called again, her voice impatient. "Hurry, darling. Our guests will be waiting."
"Let them wait."
"What?"
"Nothing."
To quarrel would be foolish and what reason did he have for irritation? The figures which had come to him on the
upper promenade, perhaps? The dead who had returned to smile and talk and to waken old memories. To rip the
protective scabs from old wounds. And Chagney—always there was Chagney and, always, there was the sound of the
thin, remote crying.
The crying.
The endless crying!
"Earl—"
He felt the touch on his shoulder and moved, springing to one side, one hand snatching up a tall, slender
container of astringent liquid, sending it to smash against the wall, the jagged remains lifting like a dagger as his free
hand swung like a blunted sword.
He saw the face before it landed, the eyes wide with shock, the parted lips, the dawn of terror and pulled back the
stiffened palm so that only the tips of the fingers caught the fabric of her robe. It ripped, ripped again as the jagged
glass, diverted, fretted the material from shoulder to waist.
"Earl! For God's sake!"
Lavinia recoiled, one hand rising to her mouth, the fingers trembling, betraying her fear. A foot, as bare as the
body which showed through the ruined garment, slipped on a wet patch and she staggered and almost fell. Would
have fallen had not Dumarest caught her arm.
"No! Don't! You—are you mad?"
Releasing her he watched as she stepped back against the wall. Fear had blanched her cheeks and robbed her
lungs of air so that now she gasped, the proud breasts rising, the mane of hair darker by contrast.
Then, as he made no move toward her, she said, "Why, Earl? Why?"
"You touched me. I was thinking and, well, you startled me."
"And for that you would have killed me?"
"No."
"Don't lie! I saw it in your face, your eyes. They belonged to an animal. You were a creature determined to kill."
"Not you, Lavinia."
"Who else was here?"
Memories, a reminder, a peril which always threatened. The robe she wore was the color of flame. He had caught
a glimpse of scarlet, a hint of motion, had felt the touch and had reacted without conscious thought. But how to
explain?
"You were wearing red," he said. "I'm sensitive to that color. It has certain unpleasant associations."
"I'll burn everything red I own!"
"No, the color suits you." He smiled and, reaching out, lifted a portion of the garment and let it slip through his
fingers. "I'm just trying to make you understand. I meant you no harm—surely you know that? It was just that I was
thinking and you touched me and old habits took over."
"Old?" Lavinia shook her head. "Not old, Earl. Time blunts the speed of reflexes and your's are the fastest I've
ever seen. You would have killed me if you hadn't recognized me in time. An ordinary man would have been unable
to stop. An assassin would be dead. How could anyone stand against you?" She looked down at her ruined garment
and then, with eyes still lowered, said, quietly, "Who did I remind you of, Earl?"
"No one." The truth—the enemy wore no particular face. "It was an accident, Lavinia. Let's forget it."
"Something is worrying you. I've felt it for some time now. But what, my darling? You are safe here. No enemy
can reach you. My retainers will protect you in case of need. Earl—trust me!"
She was a woman and her intuition was strong but to trust her was to put a knife in her hand to hold against his
throat.
He said, "Forget it, Lavinia. Please."
"But—"
 "Please!"
He closed the distance between them and took her in his arms, holding her close, feeling the warm softness of
her flesh against his own, the soft yielding of her breasts, the firm curves of hips and thighs. A good way to distract a
woman and she was a creature made for love.
"Earl!"
She stirred in his arms, straining, her perfume filling his nostrils with the scent of expensive distillations, the odor
mingling with her natural exudations; the subtle smells of her hair, the animal-scent of her femininity. Triggers which
stimulated his maleness and worked their ancient, biological magic.
"Darling!" His proximity, his need, fired her response. She threw back her head, face misted with passion, hands
rising to clasp his neck. The heat of her body matched the color of her robe. "Earl, my darling! My love! My love!"

***

Dinner was late that evening but, once started, progressed as usual when guests were present at Castle Belemosk.
A succession of dishes accompanied by appropriate wines together with compotes, nuts, fruits, sweetmeats, comfits
—items to titivate the palate and to stretch the occasion as did the entertainers. Dumarest crushed a nut between his
palms and watched as a trio of young girls danced with lithe grace, making up in natural beauty what they lacked in
trained skill. Before them an old man had chanted a saga, before him a juggler had kept glittering balls dancing
through the air. He had followed a harpist and the girls would be followed by a man skilled on a flute.
"Lavinia, my dear, always your hospitality is superb!" Fhard Erason, hard, blocky, a member of the Council of
Zakym, leaned back in his chair as a servant refilled his goblet. His face was flushed a little and his eyes held a glitter
but he was far from drunk. "At times I envy you and, always, I envy the man at your side."
A little more and there would have been grounds for a quarrel, for weapons at dawn and injury or death waiting
one or both. Crushing another nut Dumarest wondered if the baiting had been deliberate but the man had ended in
time and left the comment as a compliment. And yet, if he had added 'no matter who he might be' what then?
"A fine chef, skilled entertainers, a magnificent selection of wines—what more could any man want?" Alacorus,
gruffly polite yet a little clumsy in his choice of words. He, like Howich Suchong, like Navalok, like the Lord Roland
Acrae also belonged to the Council. An accident that so many should have gathered at this time?
A triple beat signaled the ending of the dancers' performance. It was followed by a scatter of applause and the
ringing jingle of thrown coins. Flushing the girls picked up their reward and ran with a flash of silken limbs from the
platform. The flutist, tall, thin, his hands like those of a woman, took his place, coughed, waited a moment then began
to play.
From his place at Lavinia's left hand Roland said, "Lavinia, my dear, you are looking positively radiant."
Her smile was enigmatic.
"You have blossomed since Dumarest came." The glass he held was of fragile glass fitted with a delicate stem. He
looked down at it, now snapped, a thin smear of blood on one finger. "I—. My apologies, Lavinia, how did that
happen?"
"An accident, as you say." Imperiously she gestured to a servant to provide a replacement. "Your hand?"
"It is nothing." He sucked at the minor wound, his eyes searching her face, the mane of her hair now held in a
silver mesh sparkling with gems. "Are you happy, my dear?"
"Roland—how can you doubt?" She turned to him, lips moistly parted, the gleam of white teeth showing between
the scarlet. "I never thought I would ever know such fulfillment. Earl is a man! With him at my side—"
"If he stays, my dear."
"If he stays," she admitted, and a shadow misted her eyes. It lasted a moment then was gone. "He will stay," she
said. "And together we shall rule. His lands and mine together." She saw his momentary frown. "Roland? Is something
wrong?"
"Later, my dear. It is nothing but—well, later. We have plenty of time."
The entire night if necessary—once trapped by the darkness none could leave. Until dawn each would do as he
wished to beguile the tedium. There would be talk, more wine, sweetmeats, mutual entertainments and, finally, sleep.
And, at dawn, freed of the prison of the night, life would begin again.
The flutist finished his piece, offered to play another, was refused and stalked from the hall. The table was
cleared, the servants making a final survey before they left to enjoy their own repast and, within minutes, Lavinia and
her guests were alone.
"A good meal." Navalok rose and stretched and took a few steps to where a fire glowed in a heap of embers on a
dulled platform of stone. He held his hands to it for a moment, enjoying the sight, the comfort of the flame, then
turned. "The dish of broiled meat dusted with nuts and spiced with that pungent sauce. The one adorned with the
head of a stallion in pastry."
"You want the recipe?" Lavinia smiled at his nod. "You shall have it if I have to torment the cook to obtain it. A
friend like yourself can be denied nothing."
An offer with qualifications unnecessary to stipulate as he knew. And yet, if he had been younger, perhaps…
As if reading his mind Roland said, quietly, "Think of your youth, Navalok. If you had been the consort of such a
woman would you have been gentle to those who hoped to gain what you held?"
"No."
"Then—"
"Spare me your warnings, Roland. I am not wholly a fool." Navalok glanced to where Dumarest stood beyond the
table. In the somber glow he looked ghost-like in the plainness of his clothing. A man who wore no gems and who
scorned the slightest decoration.
Was there a reason?
Navalok studied the clothing. The tunic was high around the throat, the sleeves long and snug at the wrists, the
hem falling to mid-thigh. Pants of the same material were thrust into knee-high boots and the hilt of a knife rose
above the right. A man who looked what he was, he decided. A traveler, a fighter, a man who walked alone.
"Gray," mused Navalok. "Why does he wear gray?"
"Camouflage, perhaps?" Roland ventured a guess. "Bright colors could offend as well as attract possibly
unwelcome attention. Habit? A cultural conditioning? There could be many explanations but I think the obvious is the
answer. We tend to forget that, for some, clothing is a matter of functional necessity and not of stylish fashion. For a
man on the move, needing to carry little, his garments must be both tough and efficient."
"But now that he is living here in the castle?" Navalok glanced to where Lavinia was deep in conversation with
Suchong. "Why now?"
"Habit."
"But surely, now he's with Lavinia—"
"Habit," said Roland again, quickly. The man was treading on dangerous ground. As a relative of the woman's he
would be forced to demand an apology if a slur was made and this was no time to create discord. "Let us join the
others," he suggested. "We don't want to appear indifferent."
Dumarest watched as they moved over the tessellated floor. Navalok was old, Roland younger but still far
Lavinia's senior. A curse with which he had to live as did all men born out of their time. From the first Dumarest had
recognized the affection the man held for the woman, the hopeless yearning which he had learned to master and
conceal. Yet there were times when he betrayed himself as when he had broken the glass.
A small thing, but had others noticed? And would it matter if they had?
Did anything really matter on this strange world where the dead walked when the suns were close and aliens
ruled the night?
Lavinia smiled as she came toward him, resting one hand lightly on his arm, the fingers closing with a trace of
possession.
"Earl, darling, you seem a little detached. Come and join the company. Alcorus has news."
He was talking about another member of the Council—gossip, not news, but on Zakym the two were often
confused.
"I tried to bring Khaya along but you know how he is. That's why we were late. We did out best but he simply
wasn't interested. Too busy with his worms, I imagine, and you know how much he hates to be disturbed."
"Worms!" Lavinia shook her head, laughing. "I've known Khaya Taiyuah all my life and still I don't understand
him. What pleasure can he possibly find in such an odd hobby?"
"It isn't exactly a hobby," protested Roland. "He's trying to breed a new strain of silkworm. It could have wide
commercial application if he succeeds."
"If !" Lavinia shrugged. "A small word with a big meaning. If we had wings we could fly. If sand was gold we'd all
be rich. What do you think, Alcorus?"
She wasn't interested, Dumarest knew, but was doing a good job of lightening the atmosphere. Alcorus didn't
help.
"I have no opinion."
"Howich?"
Suchong grunted as he sipped his wine. "The man is too old. He could be growing senile. I know we have no right
to scorn his interest, but it is more than that. How often does he attend Council? And he forgets his manners. Why,
when we visited, he didn't even greet us. All we were given was a message that he was not to be disturbed. How
could we argue? A man is master in his own house."
If the man happened to be a lord of Zakym and not a servant or artisan or a visitor from another world.
 Dumarest tasted bitterness and lifted a goblet from where it stood among others, filling it with wine from a
decanter, swallowing the liquid and feeling warmth spread from it down his throat and into his stomach.
It didn't help.
He needed money, not wine. He needed the coordinates of Earth and a ship to carry him across the void. He
wanted to get back home.

Chapter Three
The talk was a fountain; words kept spinning as the juggler had maintained his gilded orbs in the air without
apparent effort. An attribute of those who were accustomed to the long, leisurely discussions of the night, but
beneath the talk of weather, or crops and herds, of relationships and recipes, entertainers, exchanges, there was an
undertone of something else. Navalok edged toward it.
"This should be a good season for you, Lavinia, I saw your herd in the Iron Mountains a few days ago. They look
prime beasts in every way. Good, strong foals which should interest the buyers when they arrive."
"One already has." Suchong leaned forward in his chair to better inhale the plume of scented smoke rising in an
amber thread from a container of gemmed silver. "I met him in town. A buyer from beyond the Rift coming early so
as to make a good selection. I wonder he hasn't contacted you."
"He will if he's interested in mounts," she said. "From where? Beyond the Rift, I know, but which world?"
"Tyumen, I think. Or was it Tyrahmen?" Suchong lifted his head. His face, wreathed by the smoke, was almost
saffron and his eyes held a peculiar glitter. "His name is Mbom Chelhar and he seems to have money. The best
chamber at the hotel, the best foods and wines. He wears jewels on each finger and smells of riches. An agent, I think,
for some wealthy ruler or a combine. We talked about my freshendi and, if the crop is as good as I think it will be,
then I shall be a happy man."
"And if not?" Fhard Erason answered his own question. "We plant again and hope and wait again and, while we
wait, try not to envy others. But you, Lavinia, have nothing to worry you. As Navalok mentioned your herd is a
certain source of revenue. If my lands grew the herbs they need I too would breed such animals." And then he added,
with apparent casualness, "Gydapen was a fool not to have diversified more than he did. The desert could have been
put to better use."
Lavinia said, sharply, "Gydapen is dead."
"But his son is not." Alcorus looked from one to the other. "Yes, he had a son, a boy born to a woman he married
while traveling off-world. A secret he kept from all but a few. The lad would be grown now and there is talk of his
claiming his inheritance."
"What inheritance?" Lavinia looked at Suchong, at Navalok. "The lands were taken and voted to Earl. It was a
Council decision."
"And perhaps a wrong one." Navalok was blunt. "We were confused, disturbed, unsure of our facts and you were
pressing. The land needed an owner—retainers must be aware of a firm hand, but we could have made a mistake.
And, naturally, we knew nothing of Gydapen's son."
"If he is his son."
"The facts are attested."
"But—" She broke off, aware of her position. Gydapen had promised her marriage and, even for reasons of his
own, would have fulfilled the pledge had she permitted it. The previous marriage meant nothing—her own would
have taken precedence and her children would have been the undoubted heirs. But to mention it. To remind those
present that she had believed everything he told her. To admit that she had been little better than a gullible fool!
Dumarest said, "This talk of Gydapen's early marriage. When did it begin?"
"Recently. Why?"
"Who mentioned it? Who spread the rumor?" He looked at the blank faces. "Roland?"
"I don't know, Earl," he confessed. "I heard it from Jmombota. He claimed nothing for it but said that it was
common knowledge. I think he wanted me to relay the news. There was no need. Three others asked me about it
within two days and then—" He broke off, shoulders lifting in a helpless gesture. "Perhaps we should talk about it."
"About what?" Lavinia blazed her anger. "Gydapen was a dangerous man. If it hadn't been for Earl all of you
would now be paying him homage. Is this how you thank the man who saved you?"
"Please, Lavinia." Navalok made a soothing gesture. "Don't upset yourself."
"Are you mad?" She stared at the others. "Are you all mad? Gydapen—"
"Is dead as you mentioned, my dear," said Erason a little impatiently. "We all know that."
"And you know what he intended. He threatened our safety. He would have broken the Pact or—"
 Again Erason interrupted.
"We aren't sure of that, Lavinia. In fact we are sure of very little. Gydapen had guns, that is true. He was training
his retainers to use them, that also is true. He had hired a mercenary, Gnais, to instill obedience and elementary drill.
Gnais is dead and so is Gydapen. These things we know. But other things are less clear. Gydapen wanted to extend
his mining operations. He told us that. A danger to the Pact, I admit, and also I admit we were concerned as to what
action the Sungari would take once it had been broken. But the Pact wasn't broken and so the problem did not arise.
What have we left? An accusation, made by you, that Gydapen intended a war of conquest."
"An accusation made not only by Lavinia," said Roland, quickly. "I made it also."
"And you are a part of her Family." Navalok did not elaborate, it was unnecessary, a man would lie for a relative
and more than lie for a woman he loved. "And you could both be speaking the truth as you know it. In fact we all are
convinced of that." Pausing he added, softly, "It was a pity Gydapen was killed. Dead he can answer no questions."
"And present no threat." Lavinia drew in her breath, making an obvious effort to master her anger. "What is
happening here? If you are not all mad then what rewards have been offered for you to blind yourselves to truth?
How high did you set your honor?"
Suchong said, thickly, "Woman, you dare to smear my name and that of my Family? If you were a man—"
"If ?" Her contempt was a blow. "Don't let that stop you my Lord of Suchong. At dawn? On the upper
promenade?"
"You bitch! You—"
"Are overheated," said Dumarest. "And this has gone far enough."
He dominated them with his presence, his height, the aura which radiated from his somber figure. Despite their
talk and wild threats the rulers of Zakym were strangers to violence as he knew it. They adhered to the punctilious
code of the duello—he killed in order to survive and to give an opponent a chance was to act the fool. Looking at him
Lavinia remembered that, remembered too how close he had come to killing her. A fraction less swift in his
recognition and her larynx would have been crushed, the splinters of glass thrust up beneath her lower ribs into heart
and lung.
Drugged by his smoke Suchong had found unsuspected courage.
"You," he said, thinly. "Who are you to give us orders? A stranger. A fighter and little more. On Zakym we treasure
the old ways and the old blood. We have no time for those who do not belong!"

***

He would die, Lavinia was certain of it. Dumarest would stoop and rise and his knife would flash as she had seen
it flash before and Suchong would double, the steel buried in his heart and the insult would be avenged.
Instead he laughed.
It was a sound divorced from humor, the snarl of a beast, the bared teeth and exhalation a sound more stinging
than the lash of a whip. It held contempt and an acid comment on their concept of honor. It showed the hollowness
of gratitude. It made them feel soiled and a little ridiculous and more than a little ashamed.
Then he said, bluntly, "You want to get rid of me, is that it?"
"No, Earl! No!"
He ignored the woman, looking at Roland, seeing the answer in his eyes, at the others, seeing the same thing.
Roland, at least, was honest, his desire was born in human, natural jealousy and desire. Once Dumarest had gone
Lavinia might remember him. Could even turn to him. If she did he would consider honor spent wisely for the sake of
realized ambition.
The others?
Suchong had spoken the truth. He was an outsider. He was a stranger. Zenophobia, incredible in this age, was not
dead. And, on small, backward worlds like Zakym, what place had someone who did not belong?
"I own land on this world," said Dumarest, quietly. "Gydapen's estate. I didn't ask for it—you voted that it should
be given to me. But I think I earned it. No matter what you say or pretend to believe you know the danger he
represented. Well, he is dead now and can do no harm. And you have had time to regret what you did. And you talk
of a mysterious son of his who claims to be the "natural heir."
"An attested claim, Earl," said Roland. "The ceremony of marriage was performed by a monk of the Church of
Universal Brotherhood. The birth of the child, the acknowledged parents, the witnesses—there can be no argument."
And no real proof if it came down to it. The original child could have died, the present claimant an impostor, but
Dumarest didn't mention what should have been obvious to all. It suited them to believe and, should the new owner
prove intractable, ways could be devised to eliminate him once the future of the land had been decided.
Roland said, slowly, "I don't like this. Earl. It wasn't my decision. I think you have earned all that has been given
you. I know I would be pleased for you to stay among us."
"He will stay," said Lavinia. "Listen to me, all of you! Dumarest will stay!"
He wondered what made her so sure.
What made him so eager to go.
Satiation, perhaps. Life was cloying with its ease and he sensed he was in a trap baited with honey and entrancing
perfume. The softness of her body, the warmth of her bed, the future she spoke of so often, the hints, the acceptance
that, no matter what he decided, she would get her own way. And the other thing. The pressure at the base of his
skull. The odd feeling of detachment. The sudden wakings in the night, the fear, the imagined sound of crying.
Crying.
The ghosts.
The lost and lonely ghosts.
Dumarest blinked and looked sharply around but the figures he had imagined vanished as he concentrated. Tricks
of the light and not of delusia. The suns were far on their journey by now, the sky dark aside from the glitter of stars,
cold and remote points glittering like gems against the bowl of the heavens. There would be sheets and curtains of
luminescence, the fuzz of distant nebulae, the somber blotches of interstellar dust. The Rift would be close, stars set
close yet masked by the ocher haze of dust, a pass through a host of suns into the empty spaces beyond.
Did Sungari study the heavens?
Did they check and count and look, perhaps, for their home world? If they had a home world. If they had eyes. If
they cared.
"Earl?" Lavinia was looking at him. They were all looking at him and Dumarest realized that he had been standing
silent and ominous. The woman had expected an answer. She was still expecting it. But to what? A statement of some
kind? A challenge?
She said, "Earl, tell them you will stay."
That wasn't the problem. To the watching faces he said, "You gave me land. I will not allow it to be taken from
me. But I am willing to sell it."
"Sell it?" Navalok hadn't considered the possibility. Now he stood, frowning. "For how much?"
"Have it valued. I will take one quarter of the estimate in cash. Each of the Council can contribute to the total.
How you determine how much each should give I leave to you."
"Money," said Suchong. Amber smoke wreathed his face, clung in tendrils to his hair. "I was right—how can we
trust a stranger who is willing to sell his land."
"It would restore the old blood," said Erason. "And it is a solution."
"Earl is being kind." This from Alcorus. "It can't be easy for him."
"And it won't be easy for us," said Roland. He pulled thoughtfully at his left ear. "How can we put a price on
Gydapen's estate? When we trade land we do it by exchange or barter and always in small parcels. When did we ever
sell an entire estate? When would anyone ever be permitted to buy? It will take time. And the claimant—will he be
willing to wait?"
"He has no choice." Navalok shrugged. "Personally I've finished with the matter. What needed to be said has been
spoken. An arrangement has been made and one I think fair to all. It is time now to share wine and end our
differences. We are of the Council of Zakym. Let us remember our dignity."
Suchong said, suspiciously, "Are you hinting that I have conducted myself with less than proper standing?"
"No."
"I am old and need more help than most but, if you smear my name, then I must demand satisfaction." The
smoke had made him first aggressive then maudlin. Tears shone in his glittering eyes. "Satisfaction," he repeated. "On
the upper promenade at dawn. Knives, I think. I used to be good with a knife when I was young."
"I know," said Alcorus. "We were all good when young. It isn't kind of you to remind us." Then, turning toward the
woman, his tone became formal. "Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk, for any friction caused while beneath your roof as your
guests we apologize. Let all hurtful words be as never uttered. Let all misunderstanding be swept away. Let friendship
prevail. This, of your kindness, we beg."
A ritual born of the long nights and incompatible company when hot words, unforgiven, could lead to life-long
enmity. One she completed with equal stiffness.
"As my guests you are welcome now and in the future. Friendship prevails. This, of your kindness, I beg."
Then, as they sipped the ceremonial toast she whispered, "Earl! I'm sick of these fools! Take me to bed!"

***

It was a wide and ornate couch set in a chamber touched with brightness; inset panes reflecting the light of
golden lanterns in shimmers of ruby and yellow, violet and blue, amber, purple, cerise, magenta. Broken rainbows
spilled from clusters of glass, the pendants scored with fine, diffracting lines. A doll dressed as a bride sat on a stool
and watched with emerald eyes. In vases of striated marble flowers scented the air, thick, fleshy petals bearing swirls
of gold on scarlet, their stamens a somber black. A container held glimmering liquid in which bubbles rose in a
constant stream to burst in thin, brittle tinklings. A clock, counted the hours.
"Idiots!" Lavinia kicked at a cushion and sent it flying to strike a table and send glasses flying. As they shattered
she sent a vase to splinter against a wall. "The fools! Are they mad? Have they no memory? Earl, for my people, I
apologize. As for the Council—"
Dumarest caught her arm as she was about to add to the destruction.
"That's enough."
"Release me!"
"Stop acting like a spoiled child!" His eves met hers, held them, watched as the fury died. "That's better. Why
destroy things which have done you no harm?"
"Why allow men to live who have insulted you so deeply?"
"Should I have killed them for speaking their minds?"
"You gave in too easily," she snapped. "Any man worthy of the name will fight to hold his own. You should have
defied them. What could they do if you had?"
Dryly he said, "Do? They could kill me, Lavinia. From the shadows, from behind, with poison or disease or
sabotage. With an assassin or someone eager to earn a reward. No man can withstand a group determined on his
death."
The answer of a coward? From another she might have thought so but she knew that Dumarest had no lack of
courage. Even while they had talked he must have been assessing the situation, gauging probabilities and deciding on
a course of action. But what?
"Defying them would have gained nothing," he said when she asked the question. "But you heard what Roland
said—first the estate must be valued and then the money to pay me must be found. All of it will take time."
Time! The answer, of course, one she had been too blind to see. Time in which to prepare, to arrange support, to
plan. Time in which he would be safe from the drives of impatient men.
"You tricked them," she said. "You guided them and the fools couldn't see it. Earl, my darling, I didn't understand.
Forgive me."
The clock hummed, gave a soft series of chimes, a peal of bells as if wafted from a temple on some distant shore.
Colors flowed over the dial in a swathe of kaleidoscopic illumination which revealed bizarre figures moving in
silhouette across the surface in a stately saraband.
Another hour gone—how many more until the dawn?
Dumarest crossed to the table disturbed by the flying cushion and, from the wreckage, selected an unbroken
glass. His mouth felt dry and his head ached with a dull throbbing which ran from nape to temples. A bathroom
opened from the chamber and he filled the glass with water, sipped, swallowed, then thrust his head beneath the
faucet.
"Earl?" Lavinia watched him, her eyes anxious as he straightened, water dripping from his hair. He dried it with
the towel she handed him and dug his fingers into the bunched muscles at the base of his skull. It didn't help. "That
headache again? I've some drugs which could help."
Simple compounds which did nothing but raise the pain-level but they would help. He swallowed a triple dose,
took water to wash down the tablets, drank more to ease his thirst.
As he set down the empty glass he said, "You and Roland are close. Has he mentioned anything about Gydapen's
heir before?"
"No."
"Would he have done so had he known?"
"Yes—I am certain of it. We are friends, Earl. He has known me all my life and is of the Family. Had anything
threatened me he would have spoken."
"This doesn't threaten you."
"It threatens you, Earl, and Roland knows what you mean to me. For him it would be the same." Pausing she
added, thoughtfully. "There's something wrong, isn't there? Something which doesn't quite add up. You think there's
more to this than just a son eager to regain his father's estate?"
"If he is the son."
"You think he isn't?"
"I'm not sure. Things could be as they seem or a cover for something else. Gydapen had a plan to conquer this
world. With armed men at his command he would have had little opposition. Mercenaries could have been hired to
back his own retainers and, with the advantage of surprise, he would have won. But did he think of the plan all by
himself ? Was he working wholly alone. We know that he must have had at least one friend here on Zakym."
"The one who warned him we were coming to attack?"
"He was waiting for you," Dumarest reminded. "How else would he have known."
A warning which had almost cost them their lives and would have done had it not been for Dumarest's quick
thinking and fantastic speed. He had said nothing more of it at the time—had he intended to leave? If so then what
would be the problems of a backward world to him?
"A member of the Council," she said, bleakly. "Or someone close enough to one to know what was going on. It
could have been a friendly warning, Earl. We had time to fully explain. Whoever it was needn't have believed us."
"Perhaps," he admitted. "But there's something else. Gydapen had traveled off-world. Maybe he met someone,
arranged something. Those guns we took had to be paid for. Mercenaries, if hired, don't work for nothing. There's
little money on this world. Gydapen must have stripped himself to set up the operation and have promised rich
rewards. Treasures, perhaps."
"Treasure?" Her laugh was brittle. "On Zakym?"
"The promise would have been enough. A handful of gems shown with the lie they had been won from the
Sungari. A hint that there could be a mountain more waiting to be gained. I've known men to fight like demons for
less."
And with relatively few estates manned by retainers softened by routine and a protected life, with few weapons
and all strangers to violence as practiced by men accustomed to war the end was predictable. Some killings. Some
attacks and destruction. A few carefully calculated atrocities and, like an overripe fruit, the planet would have fallen.
"Tremendous returns for a small investment," said Lavinia, bitterly. "A culture developed over centuries destroyed
for the sake of money. Gydapen must have been insane. But, Earl, if he did have a partner then—"
"He would still be interested," said Dumarest. "The more so now that he doesn't have to share. But first he must
obtain Gydapen's estate in order to have a base. The retainers will form a cadre of reliable men, a bodyguard he can
trust. The new owner will provide a source of information and a means to exert pressure on the Council. He can't be
the partner—he is too young for that. He must be a willing tool agreeable to being manipulated. But once established
—"
"It will be the end of Zakym as we know it. The estates gone. The land ravaged. Slavery, maybe, everything that
is vile. No! It mustn't be!"
Dumarest said, "Of course I could be wrong. It is only a guess."
"No," she said flatly. "You aren't wrong. It makes too much sense and it explains too much. But how to get the
Council to believe it? They will think you are fighting to retain the estate. Earl—what can we do?"
"Nothing until dawn."
"Of course, but then?" She came toward him, hands lifting toward his shoulders, her eyes misted with appeal. "Do
we fight?"
A touch, the pressure of her body, the appeal in her eyes—did she think it enough to make the problem his? Once
he had the money all space was waiting and let those fight who had something to fight for. Why should he defend
those who had made it plain he was unwanted among their company?
"We will fight," she said, flatly. "And you will help, Earl, you have no choice. Or do you care nothing for the future
of our child?"

Chapter Four
It had grown colder and, as always at the onset of winter, the church was filled both with suppliants and those
who simply desired to gain a little warmth and comfort. Both were welcome for who could tell when a word, a nod or
smile, might not change a man from the path of violence? And, on Ilyard, such small victories were gains indeed. But
this was a special occasion. Today Brother Eldon would burn.
The service would be short as these things always were. A man had died, leaving his body to commence the final
journey into the infinite, and what he had left was nothing of real importance. It would be disposed of; a mass of
decaying tissue fed to the cleansing flames, the ashes to be scattered so that, even in death, he would continue to
serve as fertilizer if as nothing else.
And yet it was hard to think of the old monk as a heap of corruption.
Harder still to accept that never again would he be close at hand to help, to guide and advise, to lend his strength,
to understand.
A loss which Brother Veac felt as he stood beside the door watching those assembled in the hall. Their smell rose
from the benches to cling to the ceiling and walls; an odor of sweat and rancid oil, of dirt and natural exudations, of
fear and privation. The stench of sickness, the reek of poverty. Yet not all were poor.
Among the crowd could be seen the flash of expensive fabrics, the gleam of gems, the sheen of rich cloaks. Men
and women both who had cause to hold the dead monk in high regard and who had come to pay their last respects.
Others too, hard men, one in particular with a flat, scarred face. A mercenary by the look of him and, as such, hardly
a man to follow the Church.
"Kars Gartok," said a voice at his side. "I saw him enter."
Brother Biul, demonstrating again his seeming ability to read minds. He smiled as his companion turned.
"I noticed your interest—one I share. Why should a professional killer attend the last rites of an old monk? A
mystery, brother, but one which will have to wait for a solution. It is time we began."
There were words, ceremonies deliberately kept devoid of mysticism, the throb of bells. Always there were bells,
deep, musical notes captured on recorders, now filling the air with the melody gained on Hope where tremendous
castings of bronze, silver and brass throbbed and droned with a solemn pulse which touched the wells of life itself.
Here, in this place, with damp mottling the walls and the floor little more than tamped clay covered with tough but
bleak matting, the sound was that of an outstretched hand closing in warm friendship.
Veac felt his eyes sting with tears.
It was the pain of personal loss and yet a little more than that. A man had been born, had chosen, had lived to
spend his years in the service of others. He had suffered willingly and without complaint. He had helped and asked
for nothing and, in return, murder had come to him in the guise of a plea for aid.
Who could have wanted the old man dead?
The tears streamed as the doors opened and flame showed waiting to embrace the small, withered figure on the
bier. Veac let them fall, unashamed of his display of emotion and he was not alone. In the body of the hall a woman
cried out and tore at her hair. A man called something, a farewell, in a tone gruff with anguish. Even the scarred
mercenary lifted a hand and snapped a military salute, lowering his palm only after the doors had closed and the
small body vanished from sight.
Veac stepped before him as Kars Gartok made his way toward the door.
"A moment, brother, if you would be so kind."
"I have time, brother." Gartok took two steps to one side, watching as a woman, heavily veiled, shoulders bowed
and a handkerchief held to her eyes stumbled past. The man with her, rich in his puffed and pleated tunic, his cloak
thick and lined with scarlet material, looked over her head at the monk.
"Later, brother, I shall return for audience. Such a man as that must not be forgotten. An extension, perhaps?
Some little thing to remind those who come later what we have lost today?"
"You are most kind, brother." Veac was genuine in his response. "Brother Eldon will be missed but his work—the
work of the Church—must continue."
"Of course. Of course." The man nodded, one hand on the arm of the woman. "I know the Church does not
encourage personal enhancement—the whole embraces the part—but I have a personal regard and, well, later we
shall speak of it. I will send word. Now, my dear, be brave. Soon we shall be home."
The mercenary drew in his breath as the couple moved on their way.
"Charl Embris," he murmured. "And his lady Othurine. He's rich enough to build you a Church of marble faced
with gold. What did he owe the monk, I wonder? What service had he performed?" One he would never know, the
Church retained its secrets, but the sight of the man emphasized the power which could be used to aid the monks.
"Well, brother, you had something to ask me."
"Yes," said Veac. "Why are you here?"
"Does a man need a reason to attend a Church?"
"No, brother."
"But you are curious." Gartok nodded. "And I have no wish to insult those for whom I have a regard. A man in my
trade never knows when he may need help. Doctors aren't always available but, on every world where there is war,
monks are to be found."
Men with medical skill, with medicines and drugs to heal and to ease pain, with arts to end the torment of the
dying. Neutral friends, if nothing else and, always, they could be trusted.
And yet?
Gartok was a mercenary, shrewd, hard, selfish. And he had been almost the last man to see the old monk alive.
"You are kind, brother, but is there nothing else? Some personal regard, perhaps?"
Gartok shrugged. "You look for what isn't there, monk. I didn't know the old man. We spoke, exchanged a few
words, a little news, and that is all. But another, years ago, as old, did me a service once. In fact he saved my life. Call
my attendance here a belated tribute to that man." Turning he faced the doors behind which blazed the flame and,
again, saluted. "Farewell, brother. May you find the peace you lived to teach." And then, oddly, added, "May we all
find it."
The church never closed and, day or night, always someone was waiting to unburden themselves or to gain a
little comfort. The sick too needed attention, mothers with babies covered in sores, older children with eyes thick
with pus, themselves asking help and advice in order to avoid further pregnancies. Help and advice which was never
refused.
It was dark by the time Veac had finished his duties, rising from a sick man to ease the ache in his back, looking
down at the face now relaxed, the eyelids covering the eyes which flickered a little beneath the lids. One leg had been
crushed, the wounds infected, suppurating, stinking with putrescence. The body burned with fever. A hospital could
have taken care of the man, any competent doctor, but both would have asked for payment assured or in advance.
The aid given by the monks was free.
"Brother!" Audin was a new arrival, young, fresh, eager to serve. "I am to relieve you. Do you have any special
instructions as to the patients?"
"The man at the end of the first row is in extremis. He will most probably die before dawn. The woman in the
second row is close to crisis so make sure that she is not alone for long. This man," he looked down at the figure, "is
happy enough for the moment. I've given him subjective suggestion and will reinforce it later. Now we can do nothing
but ease his pain and allow the drugs to do their work. Brother Biul?"
"Is waiting for you with Brother Thotan."
He was a big man, wide shoulders filling his robe, his head a naked ball, his hands holding the strength of a vice.
A man who fought injustice and the ills of the universe as if they were personal enemies. The answer to all who
considered the Church to be weak and helpless, those who thought monks to be cringing effeminates. Only his voice
was soft and even then iron lurked beneath the gentle tones.
"I have completed my examination of your reports and findings and must admit there is no doubt as to the cause
of Eldon's death. He was murdered. A poison was injected into his hand, probably by a sharpened fingernail or some
instrument incorporating a hollow needle."
Veac said, boldly, "Wouldn't he have felt the pain?"
For a moment Thotan stared at the young monk, his eyes sunken in pits beneath his brows, the brown flecked
with emerald, the white tinged with yellow.
"A good question, brother. Never be afraid to ask questions—how else can you find answers? Why didn't he feel
pain when injected? Two reasons. One is that he simply didn't feel it. He could have been exposed to the cold for too
long, his flesh numbed and unresponsive, or the instrument used could have been loaded with an anesthetic." His
voice hardened as his finger stabbed at Veac. "The other?"
"He felt it but didn't comment. A jagged fingernail could have caused it or a broken button and, as you say, his
hand must have been chilled." Hesitating Veac added, "The puncture was in the fleshy part of the palm. It is relatively
insensitive to pain."
"And to anything else." Thotan nodded his satisfaction. "You have a sharp mind, brother, cultivate it. It could lead
you far."
To a large church of his own, perhaps. To residence in a city where he would counsel the rich and influential. To
Pace which held the second largest seminary of the Church, even to Hope which was the heart and fountainhead of
the Universal Brotherhood. The world on which the High Monk was to be found, the records, the schools of training,
the statues and adornments which generations of those who loved and worked for the objectives of the Church had
built and donated.
Then he blinked, conscious of the sharp stare of the probing eyes. Could Thotan, as Biul had seemed to
demonstrate, read minds? Telepathy was not unknown though those who held the talent paid for it in one way or
another usually with physical malfunctions. Was the bulk all bone and muscle or the growth of wild cells? Was the
head shaved or naturally bald.
Had the comment and praise, so casually uttered, been a test?
Veac straightened his shoulders. No monk could yield to fear and all had the right to be ambitious. It was only
when that ambition became a thing of self rather than of aiding the unfortunate did it become a sin. And yet he had
been close and could even have passed over the edge. The vision of Hope, the statues and items of price—avarice
and pride of possession were both to be shunned. No monk could wear gems while others starved. No church could
be built of gold while poverty reigned. Yet some things, while priceless, could not be sold.
"So we have an assassination," said Thotan. "Well, it isn't the first and I doubt if it will be the last, but monks are
too scarce to be targets." He looked down at his massive hands. They were clenched—at times it was hard to be
forgiving. "The question is—who wanted Eldon dead and why? We know how he was killed; the derelict who asked
for help when he returned from the field. The man must have been waiting, primed, placed like a weapon ready to
fire. Dead, of course?"
"He was dying when he arrived," said Biul. "He was washed and fed and given drugs to ensure rest and sleep. He
never woke. Only after Eldon had been found did we investigate. It seems a natural death but, though old, he was
strong and I grew suspicious. Tests showed the presence of poison. More from where it came. The rest you know."
The report which had been sent over the hybeam and which had brought him from a nearby world to make what
investigation he could. As yet he had discovered nothing new.
"Gartok," he said. "He was cleared at the official inquiry, I know, but that was a casual affair. Anything more?" He
pursed his lips as Veac told him about the man's attendance at the cremation, his salute. "Mercenaries are
superstitious and he could have told you the truth. And what connection could there be between him and Eldon? Yet
a man isn't killed without reason. If possible we must find it."
As a protection. As a warning to others who might be tempted to attack the monks and the Church which they
served. And as a comfort to those same monks who would be bolstered by the assurance that to be humble was not
to be weak.
Things Veac thought about as, later, he searched through Eldon's possessions. They were few—a monk owned
only what he could carry, but each held some strong memory and each had helped to soften the harshness of the
chamber in which he lived and slept. Light splintered from glass embedded in a polished scrap of wood, the edge of
the mineral flecked so as to create a razor-sharp edge. Perhaps it had served as a razor or even as a scalpel. A scrap
of fabric bore an elaborate design of knots. A piece of stone had been rubbed into a smooth complexity of curves
and concavities over which the fingers traveled in sensuous caress; a worry-stone striped with rippled rainbows. A
painting done in oils of a young man with a fresh, open face. Eldon himself ? Veac doubted it, few monks wanted to
be reminded of their past and the portrait was probably that of a relative or an old associate. Putting it down he
looked about the chamber. There had been something else, he remembered, a book in which the old man had written
from time to time. A record of his achievements, he had once explained. A slim journal containing fifty years of his
life.
Veac couldn't find it. Searching he found a battered medical handbook, another containing a list of useful herbs
together with illustrations and instructions as to preparation, a third which held a collection of poems. But the journal
was not to be found.
Going to the door he opened it. Thotan had arrived accompanied by Audin and another. He waited outside for the
room to be cleared, a small, slim man with liquid eyes and a skin like oiled chocolate.
"Brother Anz, a moment if you please." Veac stepped back into the chamber. When the other joined him he said,
"Have you seen anyone enter or leave this room today? Anyone at all?"
"Yourself and, earlier, Brother Thotan."
"Anyone else?"
"A woman. She came to clean, I think, at least she carried a bucket and held a broom. But I only saw her as she
walked along the corridor."
"Describe her," Veac nodded as the man obeyed. The woman was, as the monk had suspected, a cleaner—one of
many volunteers probably on her way to the infirmary or kitchen and taking a short-cut through the living quarters.
He would speak to her later and advise against her continuing the habit. "Thank you brother."
The book must have been lost somehow but, as Veac was turning toward the door, Anz said, "A moment, brother.
I remember now. Before I saw the woman and before I had entered the passage a man passed me coming from this
direction. I suppose he could have entered this room if he had wished but why he should eludes me. Perhaps he
wanted an interview with yourself or Brother Biul. He was big with a scarred face and—"
"A moment!" Veac described Kars Gartok. "Yes?"
"It is possible. I only caught a glimpse but that could be the man."
The mercenary a thief ? His breed were all thieves even if they called their loot the spoils of war but would such a
man steal a book? And of what possible use could the private journal of a dead monk be to such a man?
The auctioneer's hammer fell with a thud.
"Fifty men, semi-trained, sold to Ophren Hyde! The next lot consists of three trained weapon-guidance engineers.
All fully experienced having fought with Arkill's Avengers and the Poloshenic Corps. I start with five thousand…
five… five…"
A man called, "Their contract?"
"Open to negotiation. Purchase price refunded if transfer arranged. One tour of duty mandatory. Do you bid six?"
"Six."
They would go for nine and the buyer would be either Kuang Tao or Brod Lacour. Only they owned the
equipment which would make such a price worth the outlay. And, if either bought, then something must be moving
which as yet he was still ignorant.
 Damn Othurine and her tears!
Chart Embris shifted irritably in his seat as another parcel was offered for sale. This time it was a score of battle-
hardened mercenaries, good men and reliable and far better than the cheaper semi-trained and basic material which
usually was to be found on the block. But times were hard and even good men were willing to sign up for bed and
board and a few basic comforts which certain women, also on contract, were willing to supply.
"Three," droned the auctioneer. "No? Gentlemen you amaze me. Two then, let us try two. Still you hesitate? Then
let us forget the reserve. Name your own figure. What am I bid for a score of experienced fighters?"
Embris touched the button of the instrument in his pocket. Far to one side a man said, "Five hundred!"
"Five—surely you jest!" The auctioneer, an old man, had his pride. "I will start with one thousand. If there are no
bids the lot will be withdrawn. The reputation of Ilyard must be maintained. These are trained and skilled soldiers,
gentlemen! Do I have to remind you of that? Now, who will open the bidding?"
"One thousand."
"Thank you. I will accept bids in hundreds."
Again Embris thumbed the button and, like a marionette triggered by the radioed impulse, his agent lifted his
hand.
"Eleven."
Another man, "Twelve!"
"Thirteen!"
"Fifteen!"
That would be Gin Peng always impatient or intent on forcing up the price so as to weaken later competition. His
bid was secret, of course, as was any dealer's of note. Even a good reputation would inflate the price and, unknown
factions were opposed, then the fur really flew.
"Fifteen? Any advance on fifteen?" The auctioneer poised his hammer. "Going… going… gone!"
Well, if Peng had made the bid, then good luck to him. There would be other lots and more men and it would do
no harm to conserve wealth and outlay until he had a market for anything he might decide to buy. A conservative
outlook and one which would hardly make a man a fortune but he could afford to coast for a little. Forever if it came
to that—he had money enough to retire. But how else could he occupy his time? What could ever replace the thrill of
buying and selling men, of manipulating supplies, of weighing the scales against an opponent and arranging private
alliances, deals, surrenders?
"My lord!" His aide was deferential, his voice low as he stooped over the back of the chair. "There is a man
requesting an audience. A mercenary. Kars Gartok—I have his record."
It was a good one, at least the man knew his trade and wouldn't waste his time as so many others did or tried to
do. Embris looked up and around, seeing nothing of interest either on or near the block, noting too that several seats
were empty. He would lose nothing by leaving and could gain much.
"Give me an hour. Have the man wait in the iron-room of my house. See that he is fed. A meal will take up most
of the time."
And the wine which went with it helped to ease his tongue. Kars Gartok recognized the danger and sipped
sparingly at the rich and potent liquid an attendant kept pouring into his glass. The food was another matter and he
ate well, chewing at succulent meats and spiced vegetables, dabbing at the juice which ran from his mouth and over
his chin.
Once he saw the look of disdain the attendant threw at him and smiled behind the napkin. Let the fool sneer—the
food he ate now would see him through days if necessary. And the report the man would make would serve its
purpose later.
A game, he thought, as the dishes were cleared and only the wine left standing before him. In life everything was
a game, A man gambled for riches, for comfort, for ease and, if he had to set his life on the board to win them, well,
that was the nature of the play. Win all or lose all—a fair wager. Only the weak were afraid to take the chance,
clinging to a life little better than a hell in order simply to survive. Fools who overvalued the few years of existence
they could expect. What difference if life ended now or in a score of years? Ten? One? Against the immensity of time
what a small thing a year was.
"You dream," said Embris as he entered the room. "Of past victories, perhaps?"
"Of future gain, my lord." Rising Gartok bowed—those with titles liked them to be used and it cost nothing to be
polite. "And I was admiring the room."
A lie, decorative metal meant nothing to him, not even when it was fashioned into edged and pointed weapons
gracing the black leather beneath in a host of chilling glitters.
"A notion of my son's. He—" Embris broke off, shaking his head. "Never mind that. You have something to say to
me?"
 "A matter of mutual interest, my lord, and perhaps one of common profit." Gartok helped himself to the wine. "I
saw you and your lady in the church. The death of the monk obviously had affected you both. I too had attended to
pay my respects—did you know that I was almost the last to see him alive?"
"I did not." Embris looked at the decanter. "You appreciate the wine?"
"And your generosity in offering it, my lord." Gartok lifted his goblet and drank. "And now to business. As you
might expect a man such as myself often picks up items of information which could be converted into profitable
enterprises. Your trade is in the supplying of men and arms—mine is using them. We have a common interest. So, if I
hint that there is a world ripe for a little war, that there are those interested in seeing it takes place—well?"
"Continue."
"At the moment it is an aborted conflict. Apparently the instigator died. But what was once planned need not be
ignored. Naturally an investigation needs to be made and so we come to the purpose of my visit." Gartok set down
his goblet. "To be plain—would you be interested in backing me? In return you get the sole concession of the loot of
a world."
Embris said, flatly, "I have been made such promises before."
"Am I making promises?" Gartok shook his head, smiling. "I am stating probable facts. I have your confidence?
Then let me mention a name. Gydapen Prabang. It strikes a chord?" His eyes were hard, direct, gimlets searching the
other's face. "Gydapen Prabang," he said again. "He bought some guns which were shipped via Harald. Perhaps they
originated on Ilyard. You could even have handled the deal."
"And if I did?"
"Then surely all is plain. If not then others might be interested. Kuang Tao, perhaps, or Gin Peng? Both are always
eager to make a small investment in the hope of vast returns." Taking up his goblet Gartok sipped at his wine. Then,
casually, he said, "This room was decorated by your son, you say?"
"It was his idea."
"He must spend many happy hours here." Gartok blinked as if realizing he could have made a mistake. "I take it
that he is well?"
"He is—away just now."
"Children." Gartok shrugged. "At times I thank God I have no need to acknowledge any I may have sired. A man
has enough worry without adding to his burden. A wife, children—what need has a mercenary for such things? A fine
son like yours leaves an aching void when he is absent. How would you feel if he should die? To love is to store grief
for the future. None is immortal."
"Tomir's a fine young man."
"I know. I know. I've heard of him. Ambitious too so I understand. An eagle eager to spread his wings. With your
help he could command his own corps and he wouldn't want for men to serve under his orders. A pity he isn't here. If
he was we could have done business together."
"Your business is with me."
"Perhaps. You don't seem to be interested." Gartok was indifferent. "But it's worth investigating, don't you think?
And quickly if at all. Others could be interested and might already be acting. A wise man would make certain he
wasn't left out in the cold. An entire world—the dream of every mercenary. A whole planet waiting to be exploited—
and you hesitate to spend a little to make it yours."
Embris said, harshly, "I have men of my own should I need such work done."
"True—and those men are known. How long would it take before a half-dozen others knew exactly what you
intended? A world on the edge of war, nobles enraged, an offer made, troops employed and what should have been a
minor operation engrossed with a change of power turns into a full-scale conflict. Who will be safe then? How to reap
the rewards?" Gartok shrugged and drank the rest of his wine. "It seems I'm wasting my time."
"Maybe not. Where is this world you speak of ?"
"Somewhere."
"Its name?"
Gartok smiled and lifted the decanter. "Shall we discuss terms?"

Chapter Five
Lavinia said, "Earl, this is a waste of time. We should be training men and getting ready to fight. To hold our own.
Instead all you've done for days now is to take photographs. There will be time for sightseeing when we are safe."
She sat at the controls of the raft, half-turned so as to display her profile, the swell of breasts and the glinting
mane of her hair. The bar of silver which broke the raven cascade was a slash of reflected brilliance.
 A beautiful woman and a clever one in her fashion. Dumarest studied the lines and contours of the face, the eyes,
deep-set beneath strong brows, the lips full, the lower pouted in betraying sensuality. The cheekbones were high, the
jaw strong, the nose patrician. His eyes fell lower. Had the mounds of her breasts swollen? Was the waist a little
thicker than it had been? The curve of her belly more prominent?
Was she really pregnant or had she lied?
"Earl?" She was impatient, wanting arguments or explanations or perhaps only his attention. For long hours she
had done nothing but send the raft on a carefully plotted path at a carefully maintained height. Work for a machine
but they had none sophisticated enough and Dumarest had not wanted to use anyone else. "How much longer must
we do this?"
"This is the last leg."
"You've seen all you want?" Her tone was bitter. "Is the land worth holding? My ancestors thought so—some of
them died for it."
"And more have sweated for it," he said, dryly. "And gained just enough to hold their bodies when they died."
"Serfs," she said. "Retainers."
"People."
He turned as the instrument mounted at the back of the vehicle gave a sharp, brittle sound. An automatic camera
set on struts so as to allow the lens a clear field of view, a timing mechanism taking one frame after another at regular
intervals. The signal had been to warn him the magazine was close to exhaustion.
"Be ready to halt, Lavinia." He watched the counter, heard again the warning. "Now!"
Dumarest changed the magazine as the raft ceased its forward progress then leaned over the side of the open-
bodied craft to study the ground below. It was rough, the surface torn and savage, bare of vegetation aside from
patches of scrub. Yellow rock and sand edged the rims of crevasses, the dim bulk of massive boulders showing at
their bottoms, streaks of mineral brightness lying like a tracery of filigree in the murky shadows.
A harsh place but beneath it could lie thick veins of minerals; rare metals, gems, valuable chemicals, fossil fuels,
all things for which more sophisticated worlds would pay high prices to obtain. Refineries could be built and mines
started. Men could be hired together with skilled technicians. The old ways would vanish as the retainers now bound
to the great Families found economic independence. New towns would be built, new fields established. Traffic would
fill the air, the deserts would bloom and ships would come streaming in from space with their holds stuffed with
luxuries and essentials in exchange for the wealth torn from the bowels of this backward planet.
It had happened before. He had seen it happen—but it wouldn't happen here. Not while the Sungari ruled over
what lay beneath the surface and the Pact had to be maintained.
"Earl!" Lavinia looked at him from where she sat. "Earl, I'm sorry. Can you forgive a stupid woman?"
"No—not when she isn't really stupid but just chooses to act that way."
"One day I'll get used to you," she said, softly. "I don't know when that day will be, maybe not for years, but it will
come. When it does I'll understand why you do what you do. This raft, these photographs, why are they so
necessary?"
"You said we should fight, remember?"
"With men and guns and courage."
"There are more ways than one to fight," he said, flatly. "And the least efficient is to set one man against another.
It's also the most expensive both in terms of money and human misery. You claim to love this land—do you want to
see it destroyed?"
"Of course not!"
"What do you think would happen if armies met and heavy weapons were used? The castle is strong, but a single
missile could reduce it to rubble. Your retainers might be brave, but what good is bravery when flesh and hair and
bone are burning beneath chemical heat? In such a war there are no victors. Only the mercenaries stand to gain from
loot and pay and even then too many of them will die."
"Scum!"
"Workers," he corrected. "Men willing to do a dirty job. They don't demand that you hire them."
"Beasts! Predators!"
"If you hire men to kill you don't expect them to act like a crowd of monks." Dumarest checked the camera,
"Turn, move to the right for three hundred yards, head south and maintain course."
"Due south?"
"No. Run a course parallel to the other. Speed and height the same."
He sat as she obeyed, leaning over the edge of the raft and watching as the ground streamed past below. Not all
of Zakym was desert, much of it was fertile soil bearing a variety of crops; good, well-watered dirt which was the
source of the majority of food. Other areas were less fertile but supported enough vegetation to provide grazing for
beasts. There was a little mining in certain areas. A little fishing on the coast far to the west. A little industry—
everything on the world was little. A bad place for any traveler to be stranded. In more ways than one he had been
lucky.
"Earl!"
Dumarest hadn't needed the warning. He had seen the mote which came directly toward them; a raft, larger than
their own and bearing pennants striped in gold and orange. In it, attended by a half-dozen men, Jait Elz, the young
son of Alcorus, glared his annoyance.
"What right have you to traverse these lands?" His tone was peevish despite his efforts to make it strong and
commanding. A boy, barely a man, as yet unsuited for the exercise of authority. "Have you permission?"
Lavinia said sharply, "Don't be a fool, Jait. Since when have I needed permission to cross this terrain?"
"You should have asked."
"Asked who? Alcorus? Who?" Her sneer was plain. "Your father has more sense. Perhaps, when next you want to
fly your produce over the estates of Belamosk, you will gain as much. Certainly you will remember this stupidity. Your
lands are bound by mine and those of Prabang."
"We have no quarrel with you."
"I see." She glanced at Dumarest. "You have no liking for the Lord Dumarest, is that it? Have you forgotten that he
is a ruler of this world? That his estates are as large as those held by your Family?"
"They—"
"Are his!" she snapped. "Voted to him by the Council together with the title. You talk to the Lord Dumarest
Prabang when you address him and it would be wise of you not to forget it." Her voice lowered, became a feral purr,
"Or do you wish to challenge him? If so I am sure he will be pleased to accommodate you. It could be settled here
before your friends. Or did you want to goad him into challenging you?"
"No!" Jait had paled. "No!"
"Then—?"
"I came to intercept you. To bring you a message." Sweat beaded the young man's face. "The Council—"
"I know about the Council. Is there anything else?"
As the rafts parted and the larger dwindled she said, bitterly. "You know what all that was about, Earl?"
"It's obvious. They're closing in."
"Like animals eager for prey." The raft jerked a little under her hands. "Even that young fool thought he could bait
you. How many others will have the same idea?" And then, quietly, as if speaking to herself, "How many of them will
you have to kill before we are safe?"
Suchong had the chair. He slammed down the gavel and as the noise died, said, "I pronounce this meeting of the
Council of Zakym open. A quorum is present. What we decide will be binding as has been mutually agreed. The first
item for discussion is—"
A man rose, interrupting the chairman. He said, formally. "A question. Is this a public meeting?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then I protest at the presence of a stranger." The man glanced at Dumarest where he sat at Lavinia's side. "One
among us had no right to be here."
"Nonsense!" Lavinia rose to her feet. "You are talking about the new owner of Prabang, right? This Council voted
him the lands and the title. At the time they had cause to be grateful."
The protester ignored the sarcasm. "But not the seat. I was absent at the time but I have read the minutes. No
mention was made of him taking Gydapen's place on the Council. He was not put up and accepted. If I have
misinterpreted the intention then I apologize but the record is plain."
"The bastard!" Lavinia sucked in her breath with a vicious hissing. "Earl—"
"Leave it!" His voice was low but sharp. "Don't argue about it. This has been arranged. If you protest too strongly
they could expel you for this session on the grounds of undue interest. Stay and do what you can but ride with the
majority."
"Agree with them?"
"Lie to them. Smile and be gracious and delay things if you can. If you can't make friends at least avoid making
enemies."
Good advice if not easy to follow. She followed him with her eyes as Dumarest rose, bowed to the chair and left
the room. With his leaving the place seemed suddenly colder, the carved heads adorning the fresco beneath the
ceiling adopting a more hostile expression. A trick of fancy, she knew, wood could not change expression, but flesh
and blood could and it was no fancy that, as Dumarest left, men settled and relaxed and yielded to a minor triumph.
Alcorus for one and it proved again the brittleness of friendship. Had his son been sent to test the opposition or
had the boy, listening to the words spoken by his father, felt safe in anticipating what was to come. Roland? He surely
would remain loyal for her sake if for nothing else, but he too held a certain satisfaction. Dumarest could have told
her why, but as yet she was ignorant of the true extent of his jealousy. Suchong was, she thought, neutral even though
he backed the new heir. Navalok the same. Taiyuah, unexpectedly present, sat fumbling a carved box inset with a fine
mesh. A container for one of his precious worms, perhaps, or a cocoon. To him the insects were more important than
humans.
Again Suchong slammed his gavel on the table.
"Let us come to order if you please. Has anyone any further objection to the formation of this Council? No? Then
I move that we decide the status of Earl Dumarest, the present Lord of Prabang. Do we admit him to the Council?"
"Yes," said Lavinia. "He has earned the right."
"Then let us vote on the matter. Those in favor?"
"A moment!" Alcorus lifted a hand. "I am not arguing as to his right to be put up and will abide by the vote no
matter which way it falls, but is there any need of such a vote at all? We have discussed with him the desirability of
Gydapen's son taking over the estate and he has agreed to sell. As he will not be with us long what purpose can be
served by taking him among us?"
"The giving of honor and the recognition of his services." Taiyuah looked up from his box. "Are we so small-
minded that we begrudge him that?"
"Thank you, Khatya." Lavinia looked at the circle of faces. "At least one among you has the courage to admit
what we owe to Earl. And he has agreed to accommodate you in your plan so why the hostility? Incidentally, has the
land yet been assessed as to value?"
Roland cleared his throat. "Not exactly," he admitted. "There are complications as I suspected there would be.
How to gain a true figure? As yet the estimates vary between one sum and another eight times as much."
"Strike a medium," said Navalok. "Give him a quarter of the average. He agreed to a quarter."
"True, but—" Roland broke off, shaking his head.
"Even a quarter of the average would be more than we could easily find."
The reason for their hostility and Jait's stupid accosting of the raft. Men out of their depth and unsure of which
way to turn. To them the world of finance was a mystery, business a closed book. Farmers, breeders, dealing in inter-
family barter, buying what they needed with the profits of goods—money they never saw. And, if Gydapen's son was
growing impatient?
Lavinia said, loudly, "If it comes down to a question of money then why can't the proposed new heir meet the
bill? After all it is he who stands to gain the most.. Surely he doesn't expect us to buy his land for him?"
"We gave it away," snapped Alcorus. "It is up to us to regain it."
Or tell the heir to go to hell, but Lavinia didn't suggest that, remembering Dumarest's advice. If you can't make
friends at least don't make enemies.
But, at times, it was hard.
There were no beggars on Zakym. The streets of the town were clean; the houses neat, the people dressed in
decent clothing adorned with the symbols of their Families. Things Dumarest had noticed before and noted again as
he stepped from the Council Building and across the open space which occupied the center of the town. He had seen
similar conditions on other worlds but here were no armed and watchful guards to maintain the facade, no stinking
mass of hovels into which the poor were confined, no Lowtown to hold the stranded and desperate.
A nice, clean, easy-going world in which a man could manage to survive if he was willing to fit in. One which
resisted the exploiters and the things they would bring; the whores and touts and fighters and gamblers. The vice and
degradation. The crime. The pain. The human parasites who would put the most blood-hungry of their natural
counterparts to shame.
A good world, but the field was empty of ships and the trading post seemed deserted. Dumarest halted within the
doorway, smelling the combined scents of spices and leather, of oil, perfumes, fabrics, dried herbs, pounded meats—
a blend of odors which always clung to such places and gave each a haunting familiarity.
"Earl!" In the shadows something stirred, took the shape of a man, came forward with a flash of white teeth in the
ebon of a caste-marked face. "I wondered how long it would be before you came in."
"Jmombota!" Dumarest lifted a hand in greeting. "Anything new?"
"On Zakym?" The agent shrugged. "During the last period of delusia I saw my grandmother who told me that I
was wasting my time here. A waste, don't you think? I hardly needed a visit from the dead to tell me that. As I hardly
need you to tell me this world has compensations."
"Was I going to tell you that?"
"People do. All the time. But never, when I offer to allow them to take my place, do they show the slightest
eagerness to take advantage of my generosity." The agent glanced at an ornate clock. "A drink?"
Dumarest said, ironically, "Have we the time?"
 "I was checking. The suns are well apart now and we have hours before they close. Before delusia I'm going to
take something to put me well asleep and to keep me in that state. I was never fond of my grandmother even when
she was alive and now that she's dead I can't stand the sight of her." He laughed and produced a bottle. "To your
health!"
"To yours!"
They drank and stood for a while in companionable silence. They had little in common either in race or creed but
both were men, both alien to the culture of this world, and both knew the meaning of loneliness.
As he poured fresh drinks the agent said, "The ships will arrive when they come, Earl."
"Can you read my mind?"
"Do I have to? Each time you come into town you look at the field. I've seen your eyes and recognize what they
hold. I've seen it in other men and, once I think, I had it myself. Once, but no longer—a wife and child took care of
that. They provide strong anchors for a man with a tendency to roam."
Dumarest made no comment.
"Sweet traps, someone once called them," continued the agent. "Soft hands which cling and can never be shaken
loose." And then, casually, he added, "I understand that you are selling your lands."
"So?"
"I wondered why. Things hard won should not be thrown away. And it is hard to estimate a fair price. You could
be cheated, my friend."
"Or dead."
"That too, but we grow solemn." The agent smiled and lifted his glass in a question. The smile widened as
Dumarest shook his head. "A wise man once said that happiness can never be found in a bottle, only truth. And truth,
when found, can be painful."
"You know a lot of wise men," said Dumarest. "And have a lot of friends. Is Mbom Chelhar one of them?"
"No."
"But you know him?"
"As I know you, Earl. Less well and with less pleasure. He is away at the moment, a guest of someone, I think.
Probably examining a herd of some kind. He is an agent for the purchase of beasts so I understand. You see? My
knowledge is vague."
Dumarest doubted it. "Is he expected back soon?"
"Perhaps."
"When you see him give him a message. Or get one to him. He is invited to dine at the Castle Delamosk tonight."
He added, blandly, "A matter of business. Can the man be trusted?"
For answer the agent picked up a dried fruit from an open container. "Look at this, Earl. When growing in its
natural state it is a thing of beauty, apparently succulent and offering the promise of pleasant nourishment. But the
show is a lie. Bite into it and you would find the taste of gall and the attributes of medication. A wise man does not
trust what he sees."
A warning—and a Hausi did not lie. As he threw the fruit back into its box Dumarest said, "A most useful piece of
information. And one which should be rewarded. It is obvious that the Lady Lavinia will need a shrewd agent to
handle any business transaction which may arise from the selling of her beasts. It would be to her interest to deal
through you and, naturally the usual commissions will be paid. That is if you are willing to accept the commission?"
A good arrangement and one offering mutual advantage. Smiling the agent reached for the bottle.
"I shall be happy to serve. With contacts like yourself, Earl, I may yet achieve my ambition to retire to a palace on
Hitew. A small one, naturally, but large enough for the garden to be filled with the singing blooms of Zlethe. There I
shall sit as the sun descends and merge with the music which the plants and I shall create. Who knows? I may even
become a famous composer. You will join me in a toast to that?" His tone changed a little, became more meaningful.
"Let us drink to the ambitions of us both, my friend. May we each achieve our heart's desire!"
Again they stood in silence each engrossed in his own private dream, then the agent, setting down his glass said,
"An interesting item of news, Earl. A wrecked vessel was discovered drifting in the Rift. A small trader by the shape.
Incredibly it still contained a living man. They took him to Fralde."

Chapter Six
The building was of stone, massive blocks fused together with the heat of lasers, windows shaped in tall, pointed
arches, the stories rearing one above the other against a somber sky. Leaden stone set in leaden grounds against
leaden clouds. On Fralde everything was gray.
 Director Ningsia matched his environment. A short, blocky man with skin bearing creases as if it too were made
of stone. Gray hair swept back from a high forehead. His mouth was thin, the lips bloodless, the eyes slanted ovoids
beneath uprising brows. His uniform was gray; only the insignia of his rank riding high on his left bicep shone with
luminous emerald.
A neatly precise man dedicated to the stern dictates of his culture. One who believed in the submergence of self
to the good of the whole.
He said, "Cyber Ardoch the matter is being dealt with in the usual way. The man is beyond any aid we can give."
"But he is still alive?"
"Amazingly, yes. His continued existence is a contravention of all accepted standards of the survival-attributes of
the human race. My own speculation is that he has certain mutant traits which has increased his defense mechanisms
to an incredible extent. The condition of his epidermis and the internal decay alone would have killed any normal
man. An interesting specimen which is, of course, the reason we have devoted so much time and material to his
welfare."
An attitude the cyber could appreciate.
"You have information as to the original situation?"
"Of course. The rescue vessel was a small ship operating from this planet and engaged in plotting the energy-
flows occurring in this region of the Rift. Its detectors spotted mass and an investigation was made. The wreck was
little more than twisted metal as was to be expected but, incredibly, a portion of it remained intact. Apparently the
sole occupant had sealed himself within and insulated the compartment with a pattern of meshed wires fed by
battery-power. In effect he had, somehow, managed to heterodyne the destructive energies of the Rift. Naturally he
had also a supply of food and water which, together with quick-time—but surely you have read the report?"
"I have."
"There is nothing more I can add." Ningsia made a small gesture, one of dismissal. "A full autopsy will be made
after the man has died and the report completed. If you are interested I will see to it that a copy is sent to you."
Ardoch said, evenly, "That is not why I am here, Director. It is essential that I see the man."
"See him?" Ningsia frowned. "What purpose would that serve the patient? He is comatose."
"Even so, Director, I must insist."
The cyber didn't raise his voice, it continued to be the trained, even modulation carefully designed to eliminate all
irritant factors, but the Director was under no illusion. The Cyclan was powerful and the cyber was a servant of the
Cyclan.
As he hesitated the cyber continued, "It is a small matter, surely? It will not inconvenience the running of your
hospital. All I require is access to the patient and the services of a medical practitioner who will obey my orders. That
and privacy."
Privacy? Ningsia's frown deepened—what business could the cyber have with the near-dead survivor of a
wrecked vessel? Yet how could he refuse to cooperate? Fralde was on the verge of completing negotiations with a
sister world—an alliance which held great promise. The Cyclan had been of tremendous help in gaining maximum
advantage. To deny the request would be to risk his own advancement and to court punishment for his lack of
discernment.
Stiffly he snapped to attention. "I am at your full disposal, Cyber Ardoch. The patient is in ward 87, bed 152,
Doctor Wuhu will attend you." He added, bleakly, "He will do everything you ask."
Wuhu was a younger edition of the Director; a little less stiff, a little less tall. Following him through the hospital
the cyber, by contrast, was a pillar of flame. His scarlet robe with the great seal of the Cyclan glowing on its breast
reflected the light in a host of ruby shimmers. His shaven skull, rising above the thrown-back cowl, looked emaciated
but was simply bone and muscle devoid of fat. As was the rest of his hard, lean body.
To a cyber food was something to fuel the metabolism and nothing else. Fat was a waste of both food and energy,
unwanted tissue which slowed mental processes and physical function. Like emotion it was unessential to the
working of the intellect.
And no cyber could feel emotion.
An operation performed at puberty on the thalamus reinforced earlier training and divorced the mind from the
impulses of the body. Ardoch could feel no hate, no fear, no anger, no love. A flesh and blood robot he followed the
doctor through the bleak corridors of the hospital, indifferent to the cries, the moans, the sounds of anguish coming
from the beds ranked in the vast wards.
Indifferent also to the glimpses of doctors working in operating theaters, the machines, the attendants, the
creatures on which they worked. People were basically machines; those who healed them were engineers repairing
the biological fabrications. They were merciful in their fashion—but efficiency came first.
An attitude of which the cyber approved.
 "In here," said Wuhu as they approached a door. "Far down on the left."
"You have mobile screens?"
"Of course."
"See they are placed in readiness. I understand the patient is comatose—have drugs on hand together with a
hypogun. You use such a device?"
"We are not primitives," said the young man, stiffly. "May I ask what drugs you intend to use?" He blinked at the
answer, his momentary hope of scoring a small victory over the other's ignorance vanishing as he realized the cyber
knew as much about medicine as himself. Even so he uttered a warning. "They are potent compounds. Excessive use
or certain combinations could result in convulsions and death."
Ardoch said, "Your orders were plain, were they not?"
"To obey you—yes, they were plain."
"Then do as you were directed. See to the screens, obtain the drugs and equipment but, first, show me the
patient."
He lay on a narrow cot, a mass of decaying tissue, the face distorted, the cheeks sunken, the lids closed over the
twitching eyes. Beneath the thin sheet, which was his only cover, the body seemed distorted, one leg ending in a
stump, the hips swollen, asymmetrical. The skin was scaled, cracked and oozing a thin, odorous pus. A crust had
formed at the edges of the mouth.
He was not alone.
Ardoch stiffened at the sight of the cowled figure which sat beside the cot, hands resting on the patient's arm, his
voice a low, soothing murmur as he enhanced the hypnotic trance into which he had thrown the sick man.
"You are standing on a meadow bright with little flowers with a brook running along one end and trees giving
shade at the other. There are friends with you, a girl whom you love and who loves you in return. Soon you are to be
married but now you are young and filled with the joy of life. The sun is warm and together you will swim in the clear
water. You can feel it now. You are touching it and your friends are laughing and your girl is smiling and you are
content. From the trees come…"
The monk paid no attention as the cyber halted at his side, concentrating on the hypnotic suggestions he was
implanting in the mind of the dying man so that, at least, he would know a brief if final happiness.
As Wuhu came to join him Ardoch said, "Does this man have permission to do what he is doing?"
"Brother Venn is known to the hospital. He comes and goes as he pleases."
"That is not what I asked."
"Yes, he has permission to tend the patients. When we have done all that we can do then he seems able to give
added comfort. It costs nothing."
"I understand the patient was comatose."
"He was, brother." Verin rose to his feet to stand beside the cyber, his brown robe in sharp contrast to the scarlet,
the homespun to the shimmering weave. "But there are ways to bring comfort even to a mind locked in on itself."
"You have used drugs?"
The monk shrugged aside the accusation. "I have used nothing but touch and words, brother. They are all that is
needed for anyone wise in their application. Words and—" he let irony edge his tone "—a little understanding. Men
are not machines no matter what those who would find it convenient for them to be may claim."
Watching them Wuhu sensed the mutual antagonism which wreathed them like an invisible cloud. Masked yet it
was there as they faced each other. Like natural enemies, a cat and dog perhaps, or the opposing articles of differing
faiths. The monk who believed in love and tolerance and the cyber who believed in nothing but the cold logic of
emotionless reason which had no room for sentiment and no place for mercy. The Church and the Cyclan face to face
over the dying.
If it came to a war between them who would win?
An academic question as the young doctor was quick to realize. Those who had dedicated their lives to the
doctrine of peace would never seek to kill and those who followed reason would never yield to the final stupidity.
Between them would be no bloody battles or corrosive wars in which planets would burn and men wither like flies in
winter. And yet, even so, always between them there would be conflict.
But, if by some incredible twist of fate actual war should rise between them, Wuhu would back the Cyclan. They
were not afraid to exterminate.
And yet who could assess the stubborn resolve of a crusade?
He shook his head, aware that such speculation had no place here at this time, if ever, and the moment of strain
passed as Ardoch turned toward him.
"Where are the screens?"
They arrived as the monk, after a final glance at the dying man, moved quietly down the ward to where another
patient was in need of his ministration. He and all the occupants of the neatly set rows of beds, vanished from sight
as attendants set the screens into place and turned the area around the bed into an oasis of privacy.
"The drugs." Ardoch gestured at the physician. "This man is in a deep, hypnotic trance. I want him brought out of
it and his mind placed in a state of conscious awareness. It would be as well if you recognized the urgency of the
situation."
In other words kill him if it was necessary but wake him long enough to listen and answer. Wuhu was aware of
the implication but, a physician of Fralde, he had no compunction at cutting short a life which was already lost. And it
would be an act of mercy to shorten the dying man's anguish.
As he stepped forward to lift the charged hypogun and rest it against the flaccid throat of the patient the cyber
caught his arm.
"A moment. I wish to check the medication." He twisted a knob and ejected the charge. "As I suspected. You
were about to give far too high a dose of painkiller. Coupled with the rest it would have given him a momentary
euphoria. You forget that he is experiencing subjective pleasure. Before he can be of use that must be eradicated.
Here." He handed back the instrument. "I want him awake, aware and in pain. Commence!"
Silently the doctor obeyed. The hiss of the airblast carrying the drugs into the patient's bloodstream was
followed, within seconds, by a groan.
It yielded to a scream.
"God! God the pain! The pain!"
The voice was thick, slobbering, the words almost lost in the liquid gurgle of phlegm, the dissolving tissue of
decaying lungs. On the cover the hands clenched, fingers digging into the fabric, pus thick at cracked joints.
"The pain!"
"It will be eased if you cooperate." Ardoch sat on the edge of the bed and leaned towards the contorted face.
Reflected light from his robe gave the pasty flesh an unreal flush of artificial health. "Your name? Your name, man!
Your name!"
"Fatshan. Fatshan of the Sleethan. The engineer. We got caught in the Rift. A generator—for God's sake do
something about the pain."
The hypogun hissed as the cyber gestured. Wuhu stepped back, eyes and ears alert, Ningsia, for one, would be
grateful for any information he could gain and convey. As if guessing his thoughts Ardoch held out his hand.
"Give me the hypogun and go."
"Leave my patient?"
"To me, yes. And I shall not remind you again of your instructions." As the man left the cyber stared at the dying
engineer. "Look at me," he commanded. "At the robe I wear. You have seen others like it before I think. On Harald?
On board the Sleethan?"
The only pleasure a cyber could experience was the glow of mental achievement and, as the dying man nodded,
Ardoch knew it to the full. A prediction confirmed and his skill demonstrated without question. From a handful of
facts, diverse data collected, correlated, woven into a pattern he had extrapolated the logical sequence of events. An
attribute possessed by all cybers, the fruit of long and arduous training which enhanced natural talent, the thing
which made them both desired and disliked by those who paid for their services.
Would a certain pattern gain favor in the markets? A manufacturer of clothing could find the answer—at a price,
the predictions as to sales and shifts in fashion guiding him and ensuring the maximum protection against loss, the
maximum anticipation of profit.
Should a proposed marriage be canceled or the original intention pursued? A cyber would point out the path such
a union would take as appertaining to the shift and balance of power, the influence of possible children, the merging
of interests, the alienation of potential enemies.
To hire the services of the Cyclan was to ensure success and to minimize error. Once used the temptation to take
advantage of such advice could not be resisted. So the Cyclan grew in power and influence, with cybers at every
court, in every sphere of influence, predicting the sequence of events following any action, weaving a scarlet-tinted
web.
Sitting, listening to the liquid gurgle of Fatshan's voice,
Ardoch filled in the parts left unsaid, verifying previous knowledge, endorsing made predictions.
"On Harald men took passage on board the Sleethan." he said. "Cyber Broge, his acolyte and a man called
Dumarest. Verify!"
The ruined face lolled on the pillow. "Gone! All gone!"
"Dead?" A doubt to be resolved and a search to be ended. "Did they die in the ship with the others?" He leaned
forward as the bloated head signaled a negative. "They did not die."
"Not in the Rift. They vanished before we reached Zakym."
 "Vanished?"
"Disappeared." The engineer reared. "The pain? I can't stand the pain! For God's sake give me something for it."
"You'll talk? Cooperate?" The hypogun hissed as the man grunted agreement, the instrument delivering its reward
of mercy. A double dose; the drugs which numbed pain were accompanied by others which gave a false confidence.
"Tell me!"
"We were on Harald," wheezed the engineer. "But you know that. The cyber and his acolyte took Dumarest
prisoner. The captain had no choice but to agree. The reward—you understand."
A free-trader, operating on the edge of extinction, any profit shared by the crew—how could he have refused?
"There were three of us," continued the engineer. "Me, Erylin the captain, Chagney the navigator. Too few but we
had no choice. We were less later." He doubled in a fit of coughing. "The Rift—damn the luck. Damn it all to hell!"
"What happened?"
"They vanished. They simply vanished. Three men disappearing from a ship in flight They must have died.
Maybe they had a fight or something and the survivor threw out the bodies and himself after them. I don't know. We
were going to report it but Chagney advised against it. He acted odd. Kept drinking though he knew it was bad for
him. Erylin tried to warn him but nothing he said made any difference. Not him nor me." He coughed again, blood
staining the phlegm he spat from his mouth. "Damn the luck. We needed a navigator."
"In the Rift?"
"Where else? How the hell can you hope to navigate without one? Erylin tried but he'd forgotten his skill. The
instruments were acting up, old, rotten, the whole stinking ship was rotten. I should have gone with it. Died while I
was still whole. Quit like Chagney did—at least he had guts. Jumped out after we left Zakym. Just walked through the
port and breathed vacuum. There are worse ways to go."
Lying cooped in a small compartment with a mesh of wire singing with trapped energies—electronic spiders
leaping with scintillant darts of flame and no certainty that rescue would ever come. Eking out the food, the water,
lying in filth, the body rotting with accelerated decay. Waiting while quick-time compressed days into minutes, the
drug altering and slowing the metabolism and so extending life. A convenience which reduced the tedium of long
journeys. One used by the engineer to extend his life. One which ended as the cyber watched.
Fralde was a bleak world; the suite given over for the use of Ardoch was little better than the harsh wards of the
hospital and differed from a prison only in that the doors were open and the windows unbarred. The Spartan
conditions meant nothing to the cyber. A desk at which to work and a chair on which to sit were the only essentials
and, in the room to which he retired, a narrow cot was all he asked.
Now he moved toward it, giving the attendant acolyte a single command.
"Total seal. I am not to be disturbed."
As the youth bowed he closed the door on the inner chamber and touched the thick band of metal embracing his
left wrist. Electronic energies streamed from the activated mechanism to form a zone through which no spying eye or
ear could penetrate. His. privacy assured, Ardoch turned to the bed and lay supine, relaxing, breathing regularly as,
closing his eyes, he concentrated on the Samatchazi formula. Gradually he lost the use of his senses. He became deaf
and, had he opened his eyes, he would have been blind. Divorced of the irritation of external stimuli his mind gained
tranquility, became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness the only thread with reality. Only then did the
grafted Homochon elements rise from quiescence.
Rapport was established.
Ardoch became wholly alive.
He soared like a bird and yet more than a bird, flying through vast immensities by the sheer application of
thought, gliding past pendants of shimmering crystal, seeing gleaming rainbows locked in an incredible complexity;
arching bridges, bows, segments of multi-dimensional circles, lines which turned to twist and turn again so that the
entire universe was filled with a coruscating, burning, resplendent effulgence of light which was the essence of truth.
And, at the heart of it, an incredible flower of brilliance among an incredible skein of luminescence, was the
convoluted node which was the headquarters of the Cyclan. A fortress buried deep beneath miles of rock and
containing the mass of interlocked brains which was the Central Intelligence. The heart of the Cyclan. The multiple
brain to which he was drawn, his own intelligence touching it, being absorbed by it, his knowledge sucked into it as
dew into arid ground.
Instantaneous organic transmission against which the speed of light was a veritable crawl.
"Dumarest alive! Explain in detail!" Ardoch felt the pulse, the urgency, the determination. "Are you certain?"
The engineer had not lied, of that he was convinced. And there was verification. Broge had found Dumarest, had
taken him, was on his way to a rendezvous in the Sleethan. He had communicated and was confident that nothing
could go wrong. Too confident for that was the last communication received. Had he been alive he would have
established rapport—as he hadn't, it was logical to assume he was dead.
 "The engineer was genuine?"
Affirmative.
"And he stated the party had vanished?" A pause. "From the ship and Dumarest must have been the cause. Even
if he had died his body would have been delivered. He destroyed the cyber and his acolyte, evicted them and after?"
A split second in which countless brains assessed all possibilities, discarded the impossible, isolated the most
probable and produced the answers.
The affinity twin. The secret Dumarest held and for which the Cyclan searched. For which they would hunt him
over a thousand worlds and through endless parsecs. Had hunted him and would hunt him still, using every resource
to gain the correct sequence in which the fifteen molecular units had to be joined in order to form the artificial
symbiote which would ensure the Cyclan the complete and utter domination of the galaxy.
Fifteen biological molecular units, the last reversed to form a subjective half. Injected into a host it settled in the
cortex and meshed with the motor and nervous system transmitting all sensory data to the dominant portion. In
effect the person carrying it became other than himself. He became the host, living in the body, looking through the
eyes, feeling, tasting, sensing—enjoying all the attributes of a completely new body.
An old man could become young again in a firm, virile body, A crone could know the admiration of men and look
into a mirror and see the stolen beauty which was hers. A cyber could take over a person of influence and work him
as a puppeteer would a marionette. And what one cyber could do so could others. They would occupy every place of
power and wealth, each throne, every command.
A secret thought lost when Brasque had stolen it. Thought lost again when every sign pointed to Dumarest
having died together with Broge and his acolyte when the Sleethan had been lost. As it had been lost, wrecked in the
Rift, only the wildest chance bringing it and its sole survivor to light.
"Verification?"
Surely a test, the Central Intelligence did not need the calculations of a lone cyber to check its findings but
already it had taken the prediction from Ardoch's brain.
"Probability is in order of ninety-three percent that you are correct. Dumarest must have chosen a crew member
to be the host which is the only logical step he could have taken in order to ensure his own survival and arrange for
the disappearance. Which?"
A name.
"Correct. It had to be the navigator, Chagney. After the ship had deposited its cargo on Zakym the man had to die
in order to release Dumarests intelligence. Therefore the excessive drinking. Therefore the apparent suicide."
A question.
"Yes. Dumarest must have landed on Zakym hidden in a box of cargo. The probability is that he is still on that
world. There are unusual attributes to the planet which would have had a peculiar effect on him. Certainty is lacking
but the prediction is eighty-two percent that he is, or was while on that world, not wholly sane."
A query.
"Correction. Sane is not wholly appropriate. He will be a little abnormal. You will proceed to Zakym with the
utmost dispatch. Dumarest is not to be killed or his life or intelligence placed in danger. This is of utmost priority.
Once found he is to be removed from the planet immediately. That is if he is on Zakym as the prediction implies. If
not he must be followed."
Acknowledgment and, again, a question.
"No. Do not hold him and wait for contact by our agents. Zakym is approaching a critical state as regards the
stability of the present culture. Information from Ilyard and other worlds shows the interest of mercenary bands.
Find Dumarest and move him before he becomes embroiled in a war!"
The rest was sheer euphoria.
Always, after rapport had been broken, was a period when the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence
and the mind began to realign itself with the machinery of the body. Ardoch hovered in a dark immensity, a naked
intelligence untrammeled and unconfined by the limitations of the flesh, sensing strange memories and alien
situations, knowing things he could have never learned, living lives which could never have been his. A flood of
experience, the shards and overflow of other minds, the contact of other intelligences.
The radiated power of Central Intelligence which filled the universe with the emitted power of its massed minds.
One day he would become a living part of that tremendous complex. His body would age and reach the end of
its useful life but his mind would remain as sharp and as active as ever. Then he would be taken, his brain removed
from his skull, placed in a vat of nutrient fluids, connected to a life support apparatus and then, finally, connected to
the others, his brain hooked into series with the rest.
He would become a part of Central Intelligence and, at the same time, the whole of it. His ego merging with,
absorbed by, assimilating the rest in one total unification.
 Converted into a section of an organic computer working continuously to solve each and every secret of the
universe. To meld all the races of mankind into a unified whole. To make the Cyclan supreme throughout the galaxy.
The aim and object of his being.

Chapter Seven
Mbom Chelhar lifted his goblet, studied the engraving, tapped his nail against the edge and, as the thin, clear note
died into silence said, "Surely this is not of local manufacture?"
"An import." Lavinia filled the goblet with wine from the decanter she held. "This also. From Ieldhara."
"An interesting world." Chelhar sipped with the fastidiousness of a cat. "Mostly desert but there are fossil deposits
to the north together with a high proportion of potash in beds to the south. A combination which lends itself to the
production of glass. Have you been there, my lord?"
"Once." Roland selected a fruit and began to remove the peel with a silver knife. "I traveled a little when young
and visited most of the Rift-worlds. Do you know it, Earl?"
"No."
"But you have traveled, surely? You have the look of a man who has seen many worlds." Chelhar leaned back in
his chair, his eyes lifting to study the groined roof of the hall, the carvings gracing the stone of the walls. "Finally to
find a haven, yes? I envy you. Few men have such good fortune."
He was too brash, too forceful and Dumarest wondered why. Lavinia had suggested inviting the man to dinner
and he had made no objection; a meal was a good way to gauge the depths of a man when, lulled by food and wine,
he felt safe to relax. Roland had joined them, now he rose, dropping the remains of his fruit on the table as he dipped
his hands into a bowl of scented water.
"Lavinia, you must excuse me, there are matters demanding my attention. Earl? Chelhar? We shall meet again
and soon, I trust."
"Naturally." The man rose, towering above the other by over a head. A tall man, almost as tall as Dumarest and
taller than Lavinia who was tall for her race. "You will return home, now?"
"Roland has a suite in the castle." Lavinia touched a bell summoning a servant to clear away the dishes. "In any
case he has to stay. Curfew has sounded."
"Of course. Curfew. I had forgotten."
There was irony in his tones and Dumarest watched from where he sat in his chair, noting the play of light over
the ebon features, the shape of nose, mouth and jaw. With caste-marks he would have been taken for a Hausi but the
cheeks were smooth and there was a subtle difference in the slant of the eyes. A kindred race, perhaps, or someone
who carried the stamp of a common ancestry. A dealer who need not be what he seemed.
"You were most gracious to invite me to share your meal," he said. "I appreciate the hospitality and can only
regret that we have not met earlier. But I have been busy, you understand. And, always it seems, I get trapped by the
curfew." His smile widened. "I think I should introduce the habit on my home world. It has advantages."
"Such as?"
"My lady, I do not care to embarrass you. It is enough to say that the ladies on my planet are somewhat stilted in
their conduct toward men and social intercourse is difficult. But if we had a curfew which froze all movement after
dark—what an excuse that would be!"
"Your world," said Dumarest. "Tyrahmen?"
"Tyumen," corrected Chelhar. "The names sound similar, I agree, but such error could lead to confusion. My
home world lies beyond the Rift towards the Center. Yours?"
"Somewhere." Dumarest poured himself wine, added water, gulped the goblet empty. Lavinia glanced at him as
he refilled it, this time with water alone. He was drinking too deeply and too often as if assailed by an unquenchable
thirst. "One day I shall return to it."
"Show me the traveler who does not say that!" Chelhar lifted both hands, eyes turning upwards in a parody of
prayer. "Always it is 'one day 'one day'… never does it seem to be tomorrow. Strange is it not how the world we
remember with such tenderness was the one we were so eager to leave? Like a man I knew once who had a wife who
was the most beautiful thing in creation if he was to be believed. Always he praised her but always he remained at a
distance. Once, when he had drunk more than he should, I asked him why he stayed away. Can you guess what he
answered?"
"No," said Lavinia. "What?"
"My lady, he said that the memory was sweeter than the reality. That to see her would be to spoil his illusion. But,
at least, that man was honest with himself. Too many other are not."
 "Are you?"
"I have no illusions, my lady. One day I shall return to my world but not until I have made enough money to live
as I would like." Chelhar tapped his nail against the rim of his goblet as if to provide an accompaniment to his words.
"At times I pray that it will not be long. There are worse planets than Tyumen. We have seas and plains and
mountains tipped with snow. The skies are blue and the clouds are white and, at night, a great silver moon adorns the
stars. It is old and scarred so that, with imagination, you can see a face looking down at you. Lovers find it pleasant to
stroll in its light."
Earth? The man could have been describing Earth—but how many planets had a single moon? A coincidence if
not a deliberate trap. But why should a dealer want to set a snare?
Then Chelhar said, softly, "Moonlight. How could you understand its magic? Sunlight, polarized and reflected but
somehow magically changed so that the mundane takes on the aspect of mystery and enchantment. Moonlight and
starlight, the glory of the heavens, and yet you of Zakym want none of it."
"Can have none of it," corrected Lavinia. "The curfew—"
"Close the door of your prison of night." Chelhar shrugged. "I am in no position to question the local customs or
beliefs of any world, but this is one of the strangest Yes, I know about the Pact and the Sungari, but I've also heard
about ghosts and goblins and things which lurk in the mist. Superstitions which have grown to control the minds and
habits of men and peoples. On Angku, for example, no woman may be seen with a naked face. All wear masks and
some are fantastic in their depictions; birds, beasts, reptiles, insects, some are things of horror. Yet those same
women are forbidden to cover their breasts. Odd, is it not?"
"An original belief or cultural eccentricity," said Lavinia. "But the Sungari are real."
"Of course."
"They exist!" Dumarest had not liked the glance, the hint of a sneer, the smooth manner of a man who was a
guest but who seemed to have his own ideas as to how he should conduct himself. "I know."
Chelhar insisted on arguing. "Are you saying that the Sungari actually and literally rule the night? That if I left this
castle now, before dawn, they would kill me?"
"Something would destroy you. You would not live to see the dawn." Dumarest halted his hand as it reached for
the goblet. "If you wish to put it to the test it can be arranged."
"You would permit me to leave?"
"You spoke of a prison of the night," said Dumarest. "Every house on Zakym is such a prison but I am not your
jailer. Leave if you want."
"And die?"
Dumarest picked up his wine. "Yes," he said, flatly. "And die."
The day broke clear, the wreaths of night-mist which had gathered during the night already dissipated in the
crisp, cool air. Lavinia had chosen to ride and was in the lead, the hooves of her mount ringing against the packed
stone of the road, softening to a drumming beat as she led the way to a dirt path which wound up and around the
point known as Ellman's Rest.
Dumarest glanced at it as he passed, seeing the gnarled old tree in whose branches a dead man sat and talked at
times; a suicide who returned during delusia to warn others against the end he had chosen. Rocks were heaped at the
base of the trunk and some night-mist, lingering in the protected shade, hung like wisps of gossamer.
Chelhar turned in his saddle, smiling, and pointed at the lace-like stuff with his whip.
"Food for your mysterious Sungari, Earl? It seems they had little appetite last night."
He smiled, impeccable in his clothing, rich fabrics adorned with gilded thread. His hands were bare, heavy with
rings, the nails smooth and neatly rounded. His spurs were rounds of metal rimmed with blunted spikes.
As Dumarest made no answer he said, "I am irritating you, my friend, and for that I apologize. For the informality
also if it should offend. I ask you to be generous with my failings—last night we drank deeper than was wise."
Deep, but not too deep for caution and Dumarest wondered if they both had played the same game. As Lavinia
had talked enthusiastically about her herd, the dealer making appropriate noises, he had watched with casual
attention. Did the man lift his goblet too often and drink too deeply for the amount of wine it contained? Were his
gestures a little too wide, his speech a little too hurried? Once he had risen and stumbled as he had crossed the floor
and once his hand, as if by accident, had knocked over a glass. Had he pretended to be fuddled?
An old trick for one in his profession but others who dealt in more lethal business could have adopted the same
camouflage. As the man rode ahead Dumarest brooded over what he had heard. A ship found drifting in the Rift—the
Sleethan? The news was old now, the man found would have talked had he been able. It could only have been the
captain or the engineer but either, if questioned, would have said too much for his safety. The trail he had thought
safely buried would be clear to any with the intelligence to see. And Dumarest had no doubt as to who that would be.
"A fine day, Earl." Roland had ridden to his side. Behind them attendants conveyed mounts loaded with packs;
bales of meats and wines for the midday meal which Lavinia intended to make a social occasion. A raft would have
provided better transportation but the vehicle would have frightened the beasts. "Comfortable?"
"I can manage."
"Of course. I didn't mean—" Roland broke off, flustered. Rising in his stirrups he looked back, then ahead to
where Chelhar was riding close at Lavinia's side. "I'd better join them. There are things I want to say to her in private.
Perhaps you would engage the dealer for me, Earl?"
He was being discreet and offering an opportunity to break up the couple. A mark of his jealousy or he could
have genuinely had something to tell the woman. Dumarest watched him ride ahead then urged his own mount to a
faster pace. Chelhar pulled to one side and waited for him to catch up.
"The Lord Acrae tells me you have the gambler's spirit, my friend. Shall we have a wager? Ten eldrens that I reach
the clump of shrub at the edge of the foothills before you. A bet?"
One he couldn't lose. The man rode as well as Lavinia and Dumarest knew himself to be hopelessly outclassed.
Chelhar shrugged as, bluntly, he refused.
"I understand. No man wants to appear less than his best before his lady. But we must do something to beguile
the journey. For the fun of it, then. I will give you a start. Ride ahead and, when you reach that heap of yellow
boulders to the left, I will follow and do my best to win."
Nodding Dumarest touched his heels to the flanks of his mount. The animal started a little, felt the firmness of
the hands on the reins and stretched its legs into a gallop. Dumarest, riding with lengthened stirrups, standing so as to
clear the jouncing of the saddle, watched as the ground streamed past. He would lose, that was certain, but he would
not lose by much. His manner of riding, learned while on Ebth, made for comfort but not for continued bursts of
speed. The dealer would win.
But Chelhar was slow in catching up.
Turning Dumarest saw him as he urged on his mount, lying low over the saddle, body rising and falling in perfect
synchronization with the movements of the beast. As the patch of scrub came nearer he could hear the thud of
hooves, the creak of leather, the pant of the animal's breath.
"Earl!" Lavinia called, waving as she rose in her saddle. "Wait, Earl! Wait!"
Her voice was thin, barely heard over the thud of hooves, the rush of wind, but Dumarest slowed a little,
swinging his mount to the side as Chelhar came up level. The man turned, smiling, teeth flashing against the ebon of
his skin, eyes bright beneath the curved line of his brows.
"Fifty eldrens if you catch me, Earl. We are almost at the scrub. Fifty—"
"No."
"Then follow me if you can!"
A stupid challenge, one born of the excitement of the moment and belonging more to a juvenile academy than to
the world of grown men. Dumarest slowed even more as the other lunged ahead. He saw Chelhar reach the scrub,
vanish into the patch of vegetation and heard again Lavinia's call.
"Stop him, Earl! There are crevasses—broken ground—stop him!"
A man galloping into the unknown, risking his life and that of his mount—for what?
And why?
Dumarest slowed to a walk and edged into the growth. Bushes lay ahead, broken by the passage of the other
beast, leaves and broken twigs strewing the ground. Beyond lay a slope scored with shallow gullys, deeper slashes
invisible until reached. A blur of movement revealed Chelhar as he urged his mount up a slope. At the crest he
turned, waved, vanished from sight as he plunged down the other side.
Dumarest heard the scrabble of hooves, the ring of metal against rock, the shout and then, rising above all, the
ghastly sound of the animal's scream.
It was lying at the bottom of a gully, legs kicking, head rearing, eyes suffused with blood. More blood lay thick
around the intestines which bulged from its ripped stomach. Jagged stone, now smeared with carmine, showed where
it had hit on the way down, tearing open its belly and breaking its back. Leaving it to kick and scream in helpless
agony.
Chelhar lay limp and silent on the edge, a patch of bright color against the drab stone. One hand was thrown out
to reveal the empty palm the other, equally empty, lay at his side. He appeared unconscious. He was also unarmed.
The crippled animal screamed again and Dumarest urged his own mount away from the edge. Dropping over the
rim he slid down to a narrow ledge, moved along it, dropped again and, slipping, sliding, braking himself with hands
and boots, skidded down the steep slope to the bottom of the gully.
The animal reared as he approached, catching his scent, realizing, perhaps, what he intended to do. A man might
have been grateful but a beast knew only the need to survive, the drive to avoid extinction. It snapped as Dumarest
knelt behind the head, catching it, holding it as, with one quick movement, he plunged his knife into the throat and
sent the edge to slice the pulsing artery carrying blood to the brain.
An act of mercy which showered him with blood from the fountain gushing from the wound. A time in which he
held the dying beast, easing its pain, giving it what comfort he could. Only when the eyes dulled and the head sagged
did he rise, wiping the blade on the dappled hide, thrusting it back into his boot.
Turning he saw Chelhar.
The man had descended the wall of the gully with the agility of a cat, picking his path and drifting down as
soundless as a falling leaf. Now he stood, watching, shaking his head as Dumarest stepped from the dead beast.
"A pity, Earl. That was a fine animal."
"It's cost will be put on your account."
"Am I responsible for its death?" The shrug was expressive. "It started, threw me, jumped for some reason and
fell. Something must have alarmed it. Almost it killed me—and you want me to pay?"
"Not I—the Lady Lavinia. It was her animal."
"But what is hers is yours, is it not?" The dealer's smile was expressive. "I know the situation, my friend, there are
those who have no love for it and they are loose with their mouths at times. How did it happen? A jaded woman, an
engrossing stranger—well, such things are common. But do they last, my friend? Have you thought of that? And
when the novelty has died—what then?"
Dumarest looked at the man, past him, eyes lifting to study the edge of the gully, seeing nothing but the glowing
light of the twin suns. Magenta and violet which blended to cast a strange, eerie light in this shadowed place.
"You do not answer." Chelhar stepped forward, his right hand lifting, fingers extending as if he intended dropping
his hand on Dumarest's shoulder. On the index finger the polished mound of the stone set in the wide band of a ring
glowed like a lambent eye.
Glowed and dissolved as something spat from it in a winking thread of flame.
A dart which hummed and sang with a thin, shrilling vibration which grated at the nerves and created a blur of
distortion in the air.
One which thudded home in the sleeve of Dumarests tunic as he flung his left arm upwards to protect his face.
Hitting it drilled; the plastic fuming into smoke, the protective metal mesh beneath fusing to rise in searing vapor,
the flesh it covered bursting, pulping, oozing into slime.
Dumarest felt it as his right hand snatched the knife from his boot, sent it slashing upward to rip the dart from its
seat, to hurl it to one side where, smoking, it vented the last of its energy on the stone. Another had followed, hitting
the tunic where it covered the stomach, falling as again the knife jerked it free.
"Fast!" Chelhar backed, his hand rising to his mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. "I heard you were fast but never
dreamed you could move so quickly. I—"
He died as the knife spun through the air to hit, to drive its point into the soft flesh of the throat, to sever arteries
and to finally lodge in the spine. A death too quick, too merciful—but Dumarest had had no choice.
He swayed a little as he looked down at the dead man. His arm, and stomach bore pits of disrupted tissue. The
fingers of the Jiand which had held the knife were bruised, the nails oozing blood, cells ruptured by the transmitted
vibrations of the darts. The ring from which they had spat was empty now but Chelhar wore other rings, some as
harmless diversions but at least one other must be carrying a lethal device.
It was on his other hand, the one he had been lifting to his mouth when, by talk, he had hoped to engage his
intended victim's attention. An assassin's trick. One which had failed.
Dumarest looked at the walls of the gully. For an active, agile man they presented no real obstacle but he was
hurt and knew he could never climb them. The darts had done more than disrupt tissue; toxins had been formed
which even now were poisoning his blood and affecting his senses. To shout would be to waste time as no one was
within earshot. His mount could have been found but a search for its rider would take time.
He moved, stepping over the body, heading to one end of the gully where a wider patch of sky could be seen.
The sides would be less steep there, the chances greater of finding an easy path. Then he halted, remembering,
wondering why it had taken him so long to think of a better way.
To try to climb would be to accelerate the action of the toxins, to shout would be to waste strength, but a fire
would send up smoke which would attract any searchers.
He lit one, striking sparks from the back of his knife with a stone, feeding them to fragments of frayed cloth from
Chelhar's garments, adding more fuel, forming smoke with fabric dipped in blood. As the bottom of the gully there
was no wind, the smoke rose high and straight, spreading only when it rose into the upper air. Even so stray wreaths
of it flowered from the blaze and stung his eyes and caught at his lungs. Harsh, acrid fumes which held the stench of
roasting tissue. Billows of smoke which veiled the area in a noxious haze.
In it something moved.
Delusia? The suns were too far apart for that. A predator? They were unknown in the Iron Mountains. The
Sungari?
Dumarest reared up from where he leaned against the wall of the gully and reached for his knife. It was daylight,
the Sungari had no right to appear, by doing so they broke the Pact. Then the creature moved again, a foal which
whinnied and ran from the smells and sight of death, leaving Dumarest alone to sit and drift and fall deeper into the
pit at the bottom of which death was waiting.

Chapter Eight
"You were lucky," said the physician, "But then, without luck, how long would a man like yourself continue to
live?"
A question Dumarest didn't bother to answer. He stretched in the bed, feeling the tug of newly healed flesh on
arm and stomach. His right hand, when he examined it, was clear of bruises. Aside from hunger and a consuming
thirst he felt completely well. Slow-time, of course, the converse of the drug which made long journeys seem short.
Beneath its influence his metabolism would have speeded so that he lived hours in a matter of minutes. Kept
unconscious his body had healed while he slept.
"You've been under for a week subjective," said the doctor. "I used hormone salves and gave you a complete
blood-wash to remove the toxins. Forced growth of injured tissue and, naturally, intravenous feeding. I've had you
resting under micro-current induced sleep for a while—I'm not fond of jerking my patients awake directly from slow-
time unless there's a good reason. You're hungry, of course."
"And thirsty. Some water?" Dumarest drank, greedily. "Thank you. What happened?"
"You were unconscious when found. I was summoned and fortunately was able to get there in time. I gave you
emergency treatment, had you brought into town and here you are." The doctor frowned as Dumarest helped himself
to more water. "Do you always have such a thirst?"
"Recently, yes."
"Strongly recurring? By that I mean you drink, wait, feel an intense thirst and then have to drink again. All in short
intervals. Too short to be normal. Yes?" His frown deepened as Dumarest nodded. "Any vomiting, signs of nausea,
double vision?"
"No. Why?"
"Persistent thirst is a symptom of brain damage. A symptom, mind, not conclusive evidence that such damage
exists. Coupled with difficulty in moving and a general torpor it could signal a lesion in the base of the brain." His
eyes narrowed at Dumarest's sudden tension. "Is anything wrong?"
"No. Can you test for such damage?"
"Of course. If you wish I'll make an appointment for you to come in later."
"Now." Dumarest threw his legs over the edge of the cot and sat upright. He wore only a thin hospital gown.
Rising he felt a momentary nausea which was the natural result of a body which had rested too long and had been
too quickly moved. "I want you to do it now."
As the doctor readied his instruments there was time for thought. The dominant half of the affinity twin which he
had injected into himself had nestled at the base of the cortex. When Chagney had died it should have dissolved and
been assimilated into his metabolism. But—if Chagney had not died?
The concept was ridiculous. He had forced the body to step into space. He had seen through the borrowed eyes
the naked glory of the universe. Had felt them burst, the lungs expand, the tissue yield to the vacuum. All had died,
brain, bone, body—all dehydrated in the emptiness of the void, drifting now and for always in the vast immensity of
space.
Dead.
Totally erased.
Then why did he continue to hear the crying? The thin, pitiful wailing of a creature trapped and helpless and
knowing he was to die?
"Are you all right?" The doctor was standing before him, leaning forward over the chair, his eyes anxious. "Here!"
His hand lifted bearing a vial, pungent vapors rising from the container to sting eyes and nostrils. "Inhale deeply.
Deeply."
Dumarest pushed it aside. "Doctor, how long can a brain live?"
"Without oxygen about three minutes. After that time degeneration of tissue begins to set in and any later
recovery will be attended by loss of function."
"And if it could be preserved in some way? Frozen, for example?"
"As it is when you travel Low?" The doctor pursed his lips. "Theoretically, in such a case, life is indefinite. In
actual practice the slow wastage of body tissue will result in final physical breakdown and resultant death. I believe,
on Dzhya, they have criminals who have lain in the crytoriums for two centuries and who still register cerebral
activity on a subconscious level. In theory, if a brain could be thrown into stasis, residual life would remain."
In a brain suddenly exposed to the vacuum of space? One dehydrated and frozen before any cellular disruption
could have taken place?
Was the subjective half of the affinity twin still alive?
"You're sweating," said the doctor. "You don't have to be afraid."
Not of the machines and instruments ringing the chair but there was more. Was he still connected to Chagney?
Would he continue to hear the man crying? Had he locked himself into a prison from which there could be no
escape?
How to find a drifting body in the void? How to destroy it?
"Steady," said the doctor. "Just relax and close your eyes. I want to insert a probe and take some measurements.
Just think of something pleasant."
A dead man drifting, ruptured eyes scars in the mask of his face, blood rimming his mouth with a long-dried
crust, his heart a lump of tissue, stomach puffed, lungs a ruin—but his brain? His mind? The thing it contained?
"Easy," said the doctor. "Easy."
A probe slipping into his mind. Dumarest could imagine it, the slender tool plunging deep, touching the artificial
symbiote nestling at the base of the cortex, stimulating it, perhaps, building a strengthened bond with its other half.
Would his mind fly to that other body? Live again in dead and frozen tissue? Know nothing but the silent
emptiness, the unfeeling void?
A chance, but a risk which had to be taken. He had to know.
"Steady!" The doctor drew in his breath. "There!" He let the moment hang as he checked the withdrawn probe
and studied the findings. "Nothing. The scan shows no trace of a tumor and no excessive pressure. There is no
scarring and no malformation. There is however a trace of an unusual compactness of tissue at the base of the
cortex as if there was a slight concentration of molecular structure. Biologically it is nothing to worry about. It may
barely, have given rise to your increased thirst but I tend to think the cause is more psychological than physical."
"How so?"
"As you know Zakym is an unusual world. Some adapt and some do not. A few find it too disturbing to live here
for long. There is a breakdown in the adaption syndrome which reveals itself in unusual physical oddities. One man, I
remember, developed a tormenting itch while another acquired a craving for salt. If the thirst continues I would be
tempted to look for the reason in the psychosomatic region. You are in excellent physical condition and you most
certainly have nothing to worry about as regards the organic health of your brain."
"Thank you," said Dumarest.
"For giving you reassurance?"
"For saving my life. The bill?"
"Lady Lavinia has taken care of that. She left word she would be waiting for you at the hotel."
It was night and Dumarest made his way through the maze of tunnels connecting the various buildings of the
town. A corridor led to the hotel and he climbed stairs leading to snugly shuttered chambers. Lavinia was in the
common room seated at a table. She was not alone.
"Earl!" She rose as she saw him and came to meet him, smiling, hands extended. They lifted to fall to his
shoulders as, without hesitation, she pressed herself close, her lips finding his own. "Thank God you are well! The
doctor—"
"Gave me a clean bill of health." Holding her he added, quietly, "You saved me."
"You saved yourself. We saw the smoke and found you and I had men ride back to summon the physician and get
a raft. Roland helped. Chelhar—Earl, what happened?"
"A mistake." One which had cost the assassin his life but this was not the time or place to talk about it. Dumarest
glanced at the man seated at the table. "A friend of yours?"
"Not of mine, of yours. Don't you recognize him? Kars Gartok. He arrived this afternoon Ilyard. He claims to
have known you for years."
He rose as they approached the table, his scarred face creasing into a smile. His bow was deferential without
being obsequious. A man accustomed to dealing with the rich and powerful but one who had retained his
independence.
He tensed as Dumarest strode towards him, seeing the eyes, the anger they held, the set of the mouth which had
grown cruel. A killer's mask. Quickly he lifted both hands and held them before him. The fingers were devoid of rings.
"I am unarmed!"
"And a liar!"
 "There are times when need dictates deception. You were unavailable." He glanced at the woman. "My lady I
apologize for my subterfuge yet I did not wholly lie. While not close we do have mutual acquaintances if not exactly
friends. Major Kan Lofoten, for example? You remember him, Earl?"
Dumarest met the deep-set eyes, his own shifting to the temples, the scars, the corners of the mouth, recognizing
the choice the man had given him by the use of his name. He could reject it and learn nothing.
"Hoghan," he said. "You were there?"
"A bad world and a bad war. Yes, Earl, I was on Hoghan fighting under Atlmar."
"And Lofoten?"
"Dead with most of the Legion. Cheiha—all plagues are a curse, of them all cheiha is most to be feared. I was
lucky and managed to escape in time. Well, enough of that, some things are best forgotten." Gartok glanced at the
bottle standing on the table. "Are best drowned in wine. Of your charity, my lady?"
She smiled at the quaint method of asking for a drink. "You need no charity."
"You are gracious." Gartok lifted the bottle. "You will join me, Earl?"
Dumarest nodded, watched as the man poured, lifted his glass and studied the other over the rim. A man typical
of his type but with a gift the majority lacked. A touch of humor, a philosophical attitude towards the life he had
chosen, a native shrewdness which had enabled him to survive. A man who had sought him out—why?
"To warn you," he said when Dumarest asked the question. "You are a target, my friend. Need I say more?"
"A target?" Lavinia didn't understand then, as the meaning dawned on her, she caught her breath. "An assassin?
Earl!"
"His name?"
"How can I answer that? Men use many names, my friend, but watch for a stranger who has an excuse for getting
close. Someone not too—" Gartok broke off, his eyes narrowing. "Am I too late?"
"Chelhar!" Lavinia's glass broke in her hand. "Mbom Chelhar!"
A man who had been a little too eager, a little too inexperienced and so had made the lethal mistake of
underestimating his victim. His casual disregard of protocol, the lack of elementary courtesy, his challenge, his very
attitude had jarred with his adopted pose. Now he was dead and his secrets with him.
Dumarest said, "How did you know I was a target?"
"Rumors. Whispers in the dark. Hints dropped over wine—does it matter?"
"It matters. You mentioned Hoghan. I never saw you there. You fought under Haiten, you say?"
"Haiten lost. I was with Atlmar." Gartok reached for the bottle and poured himself more wine. "And we never met
—did I claim we had? I learned of you from a captain who was greatly impressed. Listening to him I gained the
impression that you watched a soldier lift his rifle, waited until he had fired then dodged the bullet. An exaggeration,
naturally, but stories gain in the telling. And later I saw you as you walked in the town." He glanced at Lavinia. "You
were not alone."
"A woman, Earl?" Lavinia had caught the subtle shift of inflection. "Were you with a woman?"
Looking at the mercenary Dumarest said, "Describe her."
"Tall, well-made, beautiful if your interests lie in the patrician mold. She had red hair and her nails were tipped
with metal. Her name—"
"I know her name." The man was either well-schooled or telling the truth. "Why are you here?"
"I told you. To carry a warning." Gartok stared at Dumarest for a long moment, then sighed. "There is more,
naturally. Sometimes in life a man recognizes an opportunity. If he is wise he takes it. And if others aid him in his
ambition, well, what else can he do but follow the tide? On Ilyard I heard rumors of the situation here on Zakym. Of
an heir eager to claim his inheritance—or a man claiming to be that heir. You see the difference?"
"Go on."
"There was a monk who died. An old man but tough as monks always are. Why should he have died? I was
curious and went to his cremation. I saw there a man with his wife and both seemed unduly distressed. The woman
was almost hysterical. Again I wondered why she should have been so upset at the death of an old man. So I
investigated and found something, an old book which the monk had kept. A record of sorts. I borrowed it."
"And?"
"I will make it plain, my friend. Gydapen had a partner as surely you must have guessed. His name is Charl
Erabris and he is one of the largest dealers on Ilyard. You want men, guns, heavy equipment in order to wage a war?
He can supply them. Credit? He can supply that too. Offer him the loot of a world and the prospect will fill his
universe." Gartok drained the last of his wine then added, quietly, "You can appreciate why such a man would be your
enemy."
"He sent the assassin?"
"Yes."
 "And the monk?" Lavinia leaned forward over the table. "What had he to do with it?"
"Nothing. He was a victim and that was all. Lady Othurine, Embris's wife, was distraught and sought comfort from
the church. The old monk attended her. She would have told him things others wanted to remain secret. Her husband
for one. Her son for another. Especially her son."
"The false heir?"
"You are shrewd, my lady. When Gydapen died an excuse had to be found to continue with the original plan. The
original heir provided it. He is dead, of course, and his identity has been adopted by another. A vicious murder for the
sake of greed, but what intelligent man would set another on a throne when he could take it for himself ? The Lady
Othurine loved her son and is afraid for him. She spoke of this to the old monk." Gartok stared into his empty glass.
"For that he died."
Assassinated in order to close his mouth. Such things were easily arranged on a world devoted to the pursuit of
war.
But the mercenary—where did his interests lie?
"You mentioned a book," said Dumarest. "Which you borrowed."
"And which the monks reclaimed. The Church abhors violence, Earl, but justice is another matter. We came to an
arrangement. Armed with knowledge they had given me I visited Embris and came to an understanding. He thinks I
am here on his behalf."
"Are you?"
Gartok lifted his glass and turned it in his thick fingers, a single drop of wine moving sluggishly over the crystal;
blood won from a reluctant wound.
"I am a gambler, Earl, what else can a mercenary be? To work for Embris is to work for the man who hopes to
make this world his own and for what? Small pay and high risk and, when the prize has been won, scant thanks and
small reward. Now, if I were to work with you…?" He let his voice trail into silence.
"I have nothing, you realize that?"
"You have yourself."
Lavinia said, sharply, "What do you hope to gain?"
"Money, my lady." Gartok was blunt. "A high place, lands, certainly rich compensation—all conditional on victory.
If we lose I get nothing."
"If we lose Earl could be dead!"
A prospect which tormented her and one she mentioned when, later, they were alone. The room was one of the
best the hotel could provide, the light soft amber from lanterns of tinted glass, the floor thick with woven rugs. Sitting
on the edge of the wide, soft bed she looked at him, noting the way he moved, the calm, contained energy he
radiated, the determination.
"Earl, what would I do without you?"
"You'd live."
"How can you say that? Before I met you life was just an existence. Now—?" She broke off, knowing she needed
to be strong, wondering why she was not. To yield to a man, to rely on him was to become weak and yet it was nice
to be comforted by his strength, to rest warm in the assurance that she was not alone. "Can we trust him?"
"Gartok?" He frowned. "I think so."
"We could make certain," she suggested. "There are tests—no?"
"No."
She didn't ask him to explain, to point out that a man of Gartok's stamp had his honor such as it was and that to
demand tests was to offer insult. And, had the man been conditioned, available tests would prove nothing. Instead she
said, with acid jealousy, "That woman he mentioned. The one you were with on Hoghan. You didn't let him mention
her name."
"Dephine."
"Just that?" Her tone made it plain what she thought. "A harlot?"
"A woman who is dead now."
"Dead?" She smiled then grew serious. "Like the others, Earl? The ones you see at delusia? Kalin and Derai and
the one you thought I was? Lallia? You remember? All the women who come to talk to you and smile and warn you
against me, perhaps. Is that what they do, Earl? Laugh at me? Deride me for loving you!"
"Stop it!"
"Yes." She looked at her hands and made an effort to hold them still. Light caught her nails and was reflected in
trembling shimmers. "I am the Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk. A member of the Council of Zakym. I should not be
jealous."
"No," he said, flatly. "You shouldn't."
 "But, Earl—" She rose and stepped toward him, hands extended for comfort, wanting him to tell her that no other
woman had meant anything to him, that only now, with her, had he found love. "Earl, please!"
He said, quietly, "Did life only begin for you, Lavinia, when we met? Am I the only man you have ever known?"
For a moment she made no answer then, drawing in her breath, lowered her hands and managed to smile.
"I'm sorry, Earl. I was being foolish. Before you came to me you didn't exist and nothing you had done could
matter. The women you knew—none of them are real to me. They live only in your memory. It was just that I was
afraid, thinking of you getting hurt, of dying, even."
"Death is a risk of war."
"Do we have to fight?"
"No." The answer surprised her and he smiled at her expression. "We could yield to all demands made by
Gydapen's heir."
"The false heir."
"True or false makes no difference. He is coming with the power to make his claim real. Once he is accepted who
will argue as to whose son he really is? Tomir Embris will do as well as any. He will rule. Zakym will become his
world. His father will supply the arms and men he needs. There will be a dozen others who would be eager to share in
the operation and every unemployed mercenary on Ilyard will hurry to join the feast. If I yield the lands—"
"If ?" Her voice carried her shock at the suggestion. "Earl, you can't! You mustn't!"
"Why not?"
"You haven't been paid! Our child must inherit!"
The first reason was enough; a bargain made was a bargain which should be kept and money was necessary for
continuing the search for Earth. The second?
Dumarest looked at the woman. Was she pregnant or was the claim a woman's wile? A lie designed to weaken his
resolve to hunt for the planet of his birth, to keep him at her side? It was possible, as possible as the claimed
pregnancy if his seed was still viable after so many years spent exposed to the radiations of space.
"Our lands, Earl," she said, urgently. "Those of Belamosk and Prabang. Together they will make the largest
holding on Zakym. We could absorb others, expand, break and cultivate new ground. Grow, Earl. Grow!"
Building chains to hold him, new responsibilities which would claim his attention, a net of need in which to hold
him fast. Looking at him Lavinia realized she was going too fast too far. Little by little, step by step, to catch such a
man needed care.
"The child you speak of." He was blunt. "Are you pregnant?"
"You doubt me, Earl?"
"I asked a question."
"And received an answer. We of Belamosk do not lie."
And neither did they tell the whole of the truth. No answer had been given and she must know it. Then why the
reluctance? Fear of losing him on the first vessel? Fear of his reaction? Fear that what was yet in doubt could turn out
to be a false hope?
A trap baited with honey—and what could be sweeter than a baby's need?
"Earl?" She came to him, all warmth and invitation, perfume rising from the mane of her hair, the subtle scents of
her body augmenting the selected odor. "Earl, will you fight?"
For Earth. For the money to find it. For the pride of holding what was his own. For the woman and the child she
could be carrying and the security both would need.
"Yes," he said, "I'll fight."

Chapter Nine
Castle Belamosk changed. The gentle air of unhurried indolence vanished to be replaced by a fevered sense of
urgency with women kept busy sewing uniforms of strong fabric reinforced with leather, with artisans making heavy
boots, edged weapons, belts, canteens. Others furbished old weapons; sporting rifles and pistols used in formal duels,
even crossbows made to designs supplied by Dumarest.
He shrugged when Lavinia pointed out the primitive nature of the weapons.
"A bolt can kill as surely as a bullet if well-aimed. It would be nice to equip the men with lasers but we haven't got
them."
"But crossbows?"
"Are easy to make and simple to use. The bolts they use can be recovered and used again and again. The weapon
itself will get them used to the weight of arms." Patiently he ended, "Leave it to me, Lavinia. I know what I'm doing."
 Arming and teaching men to be soldiers, to march and drill and to kill when given the order. But, as the days
passed, she realized that to train men wasn't as simple as she had thought.
"It's a matter of cultural conditioning," explained Roland when she spoke of it one day after watching a group of
young boys try and fail to perform a simple maneuver. "Our retainers have never had to think for themselves in their
entire lives. They know what to do and how it should be done and have never had the need to think of alternative
methods. Now they are being asked to change their social pattern into something strange and a little frightening. To
perform acts without apparent purpose. To obey without apparent need. March, turn, halt, drop, aim, fire—words
new to their vocabulary. But don't worry, my dear, Earl knows what he is doing."
Bran Welos wasn't so sure.
At first it had been a game and he had been eager to thrust himself forward for, as his dead father had advised
during delusia, the one who was among the first would be the one to gain rapid advancement. And Gelda had been
pleased and given him the reward of her body that same night after curfew when the castle had been sealed against
the dark. Even at dawn when he has assembled with the others it hadn't seemed too hard. The initial marching had
become tiresome and the drills were stupid but there were watching faces to smile at and familiar things to see.
Then Kars Gartok had struck him and knocked him down and swore at him as he lay with blood running from his
nose.
"Pay attention you fool! Left is left not right! March, don't slouch, and take that silly grin off your face. You're a
man, not a clown. Head up, shoulders squared, stomach in, chest out, back straight, eyes ahead—now on your feet
and march! March! March!"
March until his legs grew weak with fatigue, his feet sore with blisters, his eyes burning with glare and dust.
March and obey until he had become a machine without sense or feeling. Then the long, long journey out into the
arid lands without water or food and with the crossbow he had been given a dragging weight at his shoulder.
"Keep in step there!" Dumarest was in charge of the party. "Left! Left! Left, right, left! Don't drag your feet! Left!
Left!"
Welos spat and muttered something. Dumarest heard it but paid no attention. Anger was a good stimulus and if a
man trained to be deferential all his life could have found the courage to vent his displeasure then it was a sign the
training was having some effect.
A man stumbled, fell, lay in the dust. He turned to face the sky, his cracked lips parting.
"Water I must have water!"
"On your feet!"
"A drink! I must—"
"Get up!" Stooping Dumarest lifted the man by brute force. "You aren't thirsty," he snapped. "You haven't been out
long enough for that. Now suck a pebble or something and stop thinking about water. Just concentrate on putting one
foot before the other. March!" His tone became ugly. "March, damn you, or I'll cut your throat!"
One glance at the harsh set of the features and the man hurried to catch up with the rest, thirst and weariness
forgotten. As he moved forward Dumarest looked at the sky. The suns were past the zenith, edging close but, he
hoped, not too close for delusia. He had enough problems without having the group of men complain to their dead
relatives and friends and, perhaps, being given destructive advice.
He halted the column at the summit of a knoll and checked for landmarks and guides.
"Listen." He looked at the ring of attentive faces. "Pay attention. You're all hungry and thirsty and tired and you'd
like a chance to rest and take things easy. Right?"
He waited for the murmur of agreement to fade.
"If you were ordinary men you could do that but you are soldiers. Soon you'll have to fight and your lives will
depend on your ability to learn. What I want you to realize is that you can go on far longer than you think is possible.
You can last without food and water and rest and move faster than you know. We're going to prove it. You!" His finger
scanned. "How much further can you walk?"
"A few miles, sir. Maybe three."
"You?"
"Five at least." The man scowled at the murmurs of protest. "I'm not soft like the rest of you. I worked on the
land."
And so was relatively tough as those who tended the herd were the toughest of them all, but those men couldn't
be spared.
"On your feet!" Dumarest waited then, pointing, said. "Over there lies food and water and huts with beds in which
to sleep. Normally it would take a man seven hours of hard walking to cover the distance. It will be dark in six. So, on
the double, move!"
The lamp was a glass container filled with oil, an adjustable wick, a chimney of tinted crystal. Kars Gartok lit it,
adjusted the flame and set it on the table. Bowls of food stood on the board together with flagons of brackish water
and thin wine.
"Three," he said. "You pushed them hard, Earl."
Dumarest leaned back in his chair, lines of fatigue tracing their paths over his face. "Dead?"
"No. Just exhausted, but if we hadn't sent out for them they'd be where they had fallen." He looked at the
shuttered windows. "Out on the desert in the dark. They were crying when we found them, sick with fear of the
Sungari." Pausing he added, "Would they have died?"
"Yes."
"Of fear or—"
"Not of fear." The wine was tart, refreshing to the heart and Dumarest took some, holding it in his mouth before
swallowing. "How are you making out?"
"How would you expect? They handle a gun as if it were a brick? A few have learned how to load, cock and fire
and, of those few, some even manage to hit the target. Those who were trained by Gydapen are better."
And were being used to instruct others but even they were short of the standard Dumarest hoped to achieve.
"You can't do it, Earl." Gartok helped himself to wine. "With the best will in the world you can't do it. It's been
tried before. On Marat some farmers were being oppressed and formed themselves into a defensive unit. They got
hold of weapons and elected a leader. They marched and drilled and learned how to use a gun and hit a target almost
every time. They thought they were ready and made their defiance. Need I tell you what happened?"
"They failed?"
"It was a shambles." Gartok gulped at his wine. "They scattered when they should have held their ground,
advanced when they should have retreated, fought when they should have waited and waited when they should have
gone into action. No skill. No application. Nothing but raw courage and it wasn't enough."
"And?"
"These men you've found don't even have courage. They simply obey because they're used to taking orders.
Roland thought that was all we needed. He didn't understand as we do that a good soldier obeys, true, but he uses his
own intelligence when carrying out orders to achieve the maximum benefit from any situation. To listen to the Lord
Acrae you'd think all a commander had to do was to swamp guns with targets. Amateurs!" He echoed his disgust.
"Damned amateurs!"
"Like Tomir?" Dumarest rose as the mercenary stared at him. "Is he an amateur?"
Gartok frowned. "What do you mean, Earl? He's the son of a foremost dealer on Dyard."
"But not a trained and experienced mercenary. Not a seasoned commander. He's coming with armed men but
what else? Flyers? Heavy equipment? Mobile detachments? Long-range artillery? Field-lasers? How much is Embris
willing to spend? The boy will want a cheap victory in order to prove himself, right?"
"I guess so."
"Don't guess!" Dumarest was sharp. "You're a professional and I want a professional opinion. In Tomir's place
what would you do?"
For a moment the mercenary remained silent then he said, slowly, "Heavy forces or light—which way will the cat
jump? A wise man would use every man and weapon he's got and saturate the area. He'd crush all thought of
opposition before it could even get started. But that would be expensive and so many men could create a problem
later. Embris isn't noted for his extravagance and he has no way of knowing you intend to oppose him. I'd say Tomir
will arrive with a small force and have reinforcements at hand waiting his call."
A calculated assessment and probably correct.
"And?"
"We could get him when he lands, Earl. Snipers set to open fire when he appears. A few shots and it will be over."
"You're not thinking, Kars. Kill him like that and his father will want revenge—and he wouldn't spare any expense
to get it."
"True." Gartok helped himself to more wine, leaning forward so that the light of the lamp shone strongly on the
seams and scars of his face giving him the momentary appearance of a gargoyle. "What then?"
"We wait for him to attack."
"That's crazy! Why give him the advantage?"
"We have no choice." From a cabinet Dumarest took a folded paper and opened it. The photographs he'd taken
had been trimmed, matched, details enhanced and the whole copied to give an aerial view of the area around
Belamosk together with that of other holdings. "He's coming to claim Gydapen's land. To attack him before he gets it
will be to alienate the Council and to invite retaliation. We'll be giving him an excuse to commence a war. We can't
hold both Belamosk and Prabang so Prabang has to go."
"You surrender it?"
 "I have to. Now Belamosk will have the only armed force on Zakym aside from Tomir's men. He'll have to attack
us first before he can hope to expand. If he doesn't and reaches for other holdings then the Council will appeal to us
for help. Either way we shall have right on our side."
"Right?" Gartok was cynical. "That, my friend, belongs to the side with the biggest battalions."
"And the largest rewards to those with the smallest." Dumarest cleared the table with a sweep of his arm and
spread out the map. "Assuming Tomir will attack from the direction of Prabang he will raft his men in to this area.
Agreed?"
Gartok studied the terrain. "Flat ground and a wide field of view. Close enough to avoid excessive fatigue yet far
enough to be safely out of range. A natural choice, Earl. So?"
"If he does then the column must move along this defile and through this pass. We can set up defensive points
here and here." Dumarest's finger tapped at spots, on the map. "But if their commander is wise he will be expecting
an ambush and divert his attack to pass along here. It's the next best route."
"If he follows the book, Earl, yes. It's the classic pattern."
"So we set our men here and here and catch the column in a crossfire. They'll be cut to pieces before they know
what's hit them."
"Maybe." Gartok was doubtful. "I've seen these map-strategies fail before. It's a mistake to rely on them. If Tomir
follows the book your plan could work but what makes you think he will?"
"Pride." Dumarest straightened from where he leaned over the map. "He is young and eager to prove himself. He's
an amateur but he won't let that stop him. He'll want all the credit and all the glory but, above all, he'll want a quick
victory. That's a combination guaranteed to breed mistakes. He'll forget something or overlook something and, when
he does, we'll have him."
"So we move to Belamosk?"
"Yes."
"And wait?"
"And wait." Dumarest folded the map. "And get ready to welcome Tomir."
He came in a dozen rafts adorned with bright pennants each vehicle filled with armed and armored men.
Dumarest watched them from his place on the summit of a hill, seeing the helmets, the body-armor, the glint of
weapons. A show of force designed to intimidate and a little exaggeration to enhance the display. The rafts were not
filled to capacity—half the number would have served to move the men, but against the bowl of the sky they looked
menacing; shapes of destruction coming to deal death.
A courtesy visit, so Tomir had claimed, but Dumarest knew better. Now, lowering his binoculars, he called to the
mounted man standing at the foot of the slope.
"Ride to the summit of knoll 8 and raise the blue standard."
A prearranged signal which would keep half his forces hidden, expose a third of the remainder as a diversion and
warn Gartok not to hesitate when the rafts came close enough to ensure direct hits.
Turning he studied the castle. The walls were deserted and the great doors closed. Rafts could drop into the
courtyard but, if they did, a storm of fire would bathe the area. Tilting his head he looked at the sky. The suns were
wide apart and long hours remained of the day. As yet Tomir had planned well.
"Earl?" Gartok was below astride a sweating animal. "I've spotted movement to the east. Ground troops, I think,
keeping under cover. The rafts could be a diversion to get us to expose our positions."
A possibility Dumarest had considered. "How far distant are they?"
"A mile or two."
The rafts were closer but moving slowly and keeping high. An aerial reconnaissance? Any good commander
would have ordered one but, if the men remained under cover, it would do him little good. The area around the castle
was broken stone and arid soil and could hide a small army.
"We could go out and meet them," suggested Gartok. "Exchange shots and keep low. It would make them reveal
their intention."
"No." Dumarest made his decision. "That's what they want. If they can draw us out they'll learn our numbers and
state of our men. As it is they have to guess. Well keep them guessing. Hold your positions and stay out of sight. Let
them come to us. Guerrilla war—you know what to do."
"Hit and run." The mercenary was sour. "Stab in the back. Kill stragglers and those who aren't looking. A hell of a
way to fight a war."
"We aren't fighting a war," said Dumarest. "We're trying to stay alive. Now get moving."
Dumarest descended from the summit of the hill as Gartok rode away. Men out riding were to be expected on
land used for the breeding of mounts and any watching would see nothing of potential danger. Looking up he saw the
rafts had drifted lower. A good sign; if they had been suspicions the vehicles would have been lifted high or landed
fast. But the movement could be a diversion to hold the attention from the men Gartok had spotted. And, if he'd seen
them, there could be others he had missed.
A classic strategy straight from the book. Divert, decoy, distract—then destroy.
How to break the pattern?
Dumarest looked around, saw a slope of rock facing the direction from which the rafts had come, jagged stone
which edged the crest, boulders resting precariously to either side.
Hefting his rifle he moved into the cover.
It was a sporting weapon, the stock decorated in an ornate design, the universal sight showing a ruby dot to mark
the impact point of the bullet. The magazine held a score of them each capable of blasting a hole through a brick
wall at a thousand yards. The rifle could place all twenty in a half-inch circle at twice that distance.
Dumarest aimed at the leading raft.
It was slightly tilted, the men gathered to one side and leaning over the edge, one pointing at something he had
seen below. The hand was replaced by the barrel of a gun, a beam of ruby light guiding the laser blast which
followed. From somewhere to one side a man screamed.
Dumarest fired.
The man who held the laser reared, turning, dropping the weapon as he clutched at his upper arm. The visor of
his helmet was raised, his face visible, crumpling as a second bullet smashed into the forehead between the eyes.
As he fell Dumarest fired again and again, sending a stream of bullets against the raft. The body-armor the men
wore was protection against slow-moving missiles and the reflected beams of lasers but not against the high-velocity
ammunition he was using. A direct hit would penetrate and kill.
The raft spun, tilted, turned and sent men falling like tattered leaves to the broken ground beneath.
As Dumarest reloaded, return fire sent chips of stone humming like broken razors through the air.
"Fire!" He heard Gartok's roar. "From cover, at the rafts, aim steady and squeeze slow. Get those bastards! Get
them!"
Weeks of training now put to the test. If the men broke and tried to run from the return fire they would be
mowed down. If they fired wildly all they would do would be to waste ammunition. If they froze they were useless.
"Steady!" Again the mercenary's voice rose above the sound of firing. "Steady, damn you! Aim before you fire!
Aim!"
A raft jerked upwards and a man shrieked as he fell, blood showering from his riddled legs. Another, leaning far
over the side, slumped as Dumarest sent a bullet into his throat, the laser he was about to use spinning to shatter on a
rock. Shifting aim Dumarest fired at the rafts further back, aiming at the engines and hoping to bring them down. One
suddenly dropped, leveled, fell again with smoke rising from inside. The others climbed high into the sky.
"Cease fire!" Gartok yelled. "Stay under cover. Check your loads. Any wounded?"
He turned, grinning as Dumarest joined him. Standing in the open he appeared to be alone then Dumarest saw
the men lying beneath slabs of stone, huddled in cracks, curled beneath boulders. The air held the stench of burned
explosives.
"They held, Earl!" The mercenary gestured around. "They held and they returned the fire!"
"How many hurt?"
"Three dead." Gartok shrugged at Dumarest's expression. "Well, it happens. Twelve with minor injuries, cuts and
singes. Four seriously wounded—one the man who started it all."
He lay in a crumpled heap to one side, a young man with wide eyes and hair through which some girl had loved
to run her fingers. The laser had caught his arm and stomach, severing the limb and leaving a charred stump, slicing
into the abdomen to leave a wound which oozed blood and twisted intestines.
A man already dead but who stubbornly refused to let go.
"He ran," whispered Gartok. "God knows why. He suddenly upped and ran and that bastard in the raft let him
have it. Not even a clean kill either. I'm glad you got him, Earl."
Revenge, but what did it matter to the dying man? Dumarest saw his eyes, their movement, the tip of the tongue
which touched the lips.
"Get some water."
"For him? With that gut-wound?"
"He's dying, what difference does it make?" Dumarest knelt with the canteen in his hand. Gently he moistened the
parched lips, feeling the febrile heat of the cheek, the burning fever which consumed the young man. "Sip a little," he
urged. "Easy now. Easy."
"Did we win?"
"We won." A lie, but what did it matter? Frowning Dumarest added, "I know you. Bran Welco, isn't it?"
"Bran Welos, sir. I'm glad you remember me. I was on that march when you almost ran us into the ground. I didn't
think I'd make it, but I did." The stump of the charred arm lifted a little as if he wanted to put out his hand. "Why did
that man burn me?"
"You ran. Why?"
"I saw my grandfather. He smiled and beckoned to me."
Delusia? Dumarest glanced at the sky and saw the suns still well separated. Imagination? Shadows in the rocks
could adopt odd shapes to a worried mind. The old man must have meant something special to the youth or his need
had been great.
"He wanted to talk," whispered Welos. "I knew it. I could see him but I couldn't hear him. I thought if I could get
closer I'd make out what he was saying. He—" Pain contorted the features. "He—God, it hurts! It hurts!"
"Kill him," whispered Gartok. "Pass him out easy."
Rough mercy and the only thing to do. Dumarest reached out and rested his hand on the flaccid throat, his fingers
finding the carotids, pressing them, cutting off the blood supply to the brain, bringing blessed unconsciousness and
death.
Rising he said, "Let's get on with the war."

Chapter Ten
The song was one Lavinia had never heard before. It rose and fell with a wailing ululation which held all misery
and pain and despair. A sound which grated on the nerves so that she screamed and clutched at her ears and then, as
it faded, realized that it wasn't a song at all but the throbbing harmonics of the curfew which, sounding, promised for
a while at least there would be peace.
Tiredly she rose from her bath. Always, lately, she seemed to need washing and always she was tired. A symbolic
guilt, she wondered? A ritual cleansing? Or was it the subconscious desire to lave away the hurt and pain and to
restore life as she remembered it?
A weakness—things were not and could never be the same. But some things would survive; the castle, the land,
the dead who had never deserted her.
"A mistake, my dear." Charles smiled at her from where he stood against the wall. "You should have left things as
they were. Well, no matter, soon you will be with me and then we shall have time to do all the things once you
dreamed about."
Charles who had died long ago and who had been her early love. But now she had no need of him so why did he
insist on returning?
"I don't love you," she said. "You know that."
"Do I?"
"Earl is my man now and for always. Leave me, Charles. You disturb me."
His smile thinned as his shape began to dissolve and became a part of the decoration of the bathroom. Delusia or
had she almost fallen asleep in the warm water? Stayed asleep as she left the tub? Remained in a near-coma as she
dried herself ?
"My lady?" Her maid was at her side, her eyes betraying her concern. "Is anything wrong, my lady?"
"Yes. No. Bring me a drink. Something strong." Then, as the girl hesitated. "Hurry, damn you!"
The brandy helped, the stinging astringents helped still more, and the phial of pungent vapors which she inhaled
finally drove the fuzziness from her brain. Did all women feel this way, she wondered, when their bodies became the
receptacle of a new life? Her hands lifted to touch her breasts, fell to caress her stomach. And yet how could she be
sure? There were tests which would answer the question one way or the other and yet she was reluctant to use them.
It was an added joy to guess, to wonder if her missed periods were the result of love or physical disturbance, a baby
growing in her womb or a metabolic upset caused by the fulfillment of desire. Such things happened to others so why
not to her?
And who could be normal in time of war?
Bleakly she looked into the mirror as the girl dressed her hair, remembering, thinking of the wounded carried
back into the castle, the dead cremated in heaps where they had fallen. Too many wounded and too many dead.
Drugs and surgery could help the injured but how to replace the fallen?
War—a time of much sadness. Who had said that? Charles? No, he was the confirmed cynic. Roland? Perhaps
when they had walked the upper promenade and he had touched her hand and mused on the workings of the
universe. How long ago now? A year? A decade? A lifetime?
"My lady?" The girl had stepped back, her task accomplished, the mane of hair lifted and crested to show its bar
of silver to best advantage. A crown for the smooth perfection of her face; shimmering, beautiful in its ebon
profusion.
Would her daughter have such hair?
"It pleases you, my lady?" The girl was anxious, of late her mistress had been the victim of strange moods and
sudden violence. "A touch more perfume, perhaps?"
"No." The girl had an animal-like instinct for preservation. The offer, rejected, had broken Lavinia's introspection
by giving her the opportunity to make a decision.
Now she made another. "The ruby necklace and pendant earrings. The matching tiara and a ring. A large one."
Gens to adorn living flesh then, studying herself, she felt a sudden revulsion at her choice. Rubies—was she mad?
At a time like this to wear the color of blood?
"Take these away." The jewels made hard, rattling noises as she threw them down. "Bring me pearls—no!" Pearls
were tears of pain. What then? What? "The crystals," she finally decided. "Bring me the crystals."
Faceted stones backed by metallic films graven with lines to form a diffraction grating which reflected the light in
glowing spectrums. An inexpensive novelty bought when she was little more than a child when bright and shining
things had held a peculiar attraction.
As war seemed to hold a terrible fascination for men.
Madness, of course, a destructive urge which caused them to volunteer and to go out and face injury and death.
Would women be so insane?
Her reflection told her the answer. Fight, she had demanded. Protect what is ours. Kill if it comes to that but
stand against those who would rob us. Words—when translated into reality what did they mean? The answer lay in
the infirmary whimpering in pain. Rose on columns of black smoke to the sky. Was in the red eyes of bereft women,
the wondering gaze of deprived children.
When would it end? For the love of God, when would it end?
"My lady?" The girl was patiently waiting. "Is there anything else?"
"No." There was nothing else. Just a thing which had to be done because, once started, there was no choice. "You
can go. No—a moment." Lavinia looked at the face reflected in the mirror, that of the girl's looking, it seemed, over
her shoulder. "Do you have anyone in uniform?"
"No, my lady."
"No one? Not a young man?"
"Certainly not." The girl was offended. "That would be foolish, my lady. He could be killed."
"Yes," said Lavinia. "How right you are, girl."
Dressed, perfumed, adorned she made her way downstairs to find all her preparations wasted. Dumarest was not
to be seen. Roland sat alone at the table crumbling bread into little balls with the fingers of one hand.
"Earl?" He shrugged at the question. "He's busy somewhere. Did you know they brought in a prisoner? They're
questioning him, I think. Lavinia—?"
But she was gone and, again, he sat alone.
The room was small, bleak, lit with a somber light from suspended lanterns. A place with a bare, ugly floor, a
table, a chair on which a man sat his body held by ropes.
He seemed little more than a boy then she saw his eyes, the way they roved over her body, and Lavinia knew this
was no boy but a man slow to age with a cynical disregard for others and a selfish pandering to his own whims.
Dumarest glanced at her as she entered the chamber.
"Leave."
"Earl? Who is he?"'
He said, again, "Leave."
"Please, my lady." Gartok was more discreet. "There is something which must be done and it may not be
pleasant."
"Torture?" She looked at the man tied to the chair. "You intend to torture him?"
He was leaning back, smiling, his hair cropped and his nose up-tilted a little. His clothing bore stains and the
fabric over one thigh was red with blood. His lips were sensuous and his teeth even and white. Time would harden his
features and rob him of the spurious youth—if he was given time.
"Earl?"
"I asked you to leave."
"And I asked a question." Then, as he made no answer, she added, bitterly, "Has it come to this, Earl? Are we to
lose the very last scrap of decency? To torture a wounded man!"
"He has a choice. He could talk but refuses to do so."
"But he will talk," said Gartok. "He and I are in the same business and I know a man when I see one. He's made
his protest and acted the part but now its over. Now he will talk. Right, my friend?"
 "Go to hell!"
"You see, my lady, how stubborn he is? Looking at that face you would never guess that he gouged the eyes from
a helpless man and laughed while he did it. Nor that he shot an unarmed boy in both knees and left him to crawl over
rocks as sharp as broken glass. I know him. I saw it done. And there was a woman—but I'd better not mention her.
And he will talk, that I promise. Now let me get to work."
"Outside, Lavinia."
"You too, Earl." Gartok was blunt. "If I get nothing else out of this war I'm going to have this. Don't try to stop me.
Just take your lady and go."
Lavinia was silent as Dumarest led her to the great hall. She remained silent as Roland rose, sat again as he was
ignored to toy with more bread. A servant deftly served the first course. Irritably she pushed aside the plate.
"How can I be expected to eat?"
"And how can you expect men to be other than what they are?" Dumarest was harsh. "I told you once that when
you hire men to kill you don't expect to get monks. Well, Kars is a killer and lives by his own code."
"He will kill that man?"
"Yes."
"And you allow it? Earl, what has come over you? Why are you so different?"
"Different to what? Did you ever know me when I too had to kill? Can I stop Kars? Do I want to? That man would
be dead now if I hadn't saved him. I did it so he would talk. Well, he's going to talk and what he says might win us this
war. Or would you prefer others to die in his place? Your maid, for example. Roland. Me."
"Not you, Earl!" Her cry was from the heart and Roland sensed it. Watching, Dumarest saw his hand close on the
bread he was crumbling, tighten to mash it into a ball.
"Lavinia, calm yourself, my dear. Earl, what did you mean when you said there was a chance you could end the
war?"
"It's a secret."
"From me?" Roland smiled. "Surely you trust me?"
"I trust no one. Lavinia, can we have some food?"
Protocol dictated that unless she ate no food was served. With an effort she mastered her distaste and the
servants continued with the meal. Gartok appeared before it was ended. His hands, Lavinia noticed, had been freshly
washed and his eyes held the satiation of a man who has found an excess.
"Kars?" Dumarest relaxed as Gartok nodded. "So you got it. Good. You'd better eat now. We'll leave in an hour."
"Leave?" Roland shook his head. "You can't, Earl, and you know it. The castle is sealed until dawn."
"Seals can be broken."
"But the Sungari—no!" Lavinia was firm. "No, Earl."
"We leave."
"But you can't." Her plate moved to fall from the table as she pushed it with her arms; a gesture demonstrating
her agitation. "You know the Sungari are real. You know how dangerous they are. We were caught outside at night,
remember?"
"And lived." Dumarest rose from the table. "And we'll live again. Join me when you're ready, Kars. I'll be at the
raft."
Beneath the lights it looked something like an elongated bubble, the opaque canopy fitted to the vehicle providing
a covered space in which to operate the controls. Discs of transparency pierced it and apparatus had been fastened
to the outside; grabs and rams and pincers which could be operated from within.
Dumarest had checked it by the time Gartok appeared.
"We'll lock in, open the doors and fly out," he said. "Where do we hit?"
"There's a place on the Prabang estate. A collection of huts used to train some men—you know it?"
"Yes," Dumarest glanced around the chamber. The inner doors were all sealed, aside from the two of them the
area was deserted, the outer doors which had been hastily constructed were held by a single bolt which could be
thrown by remote control. "Let's go!"
The lights died as the doors slid open and the converted raft edged into the courtyard. There would, Dumarest
knew, be a short period of grace and he had the raft up and moving high above the ground before closing all but one
of the transparent ports.
"Why do that?" Gartok grunted his displeasure. "I wanted to look outside."
"It wouldn't be wise."
"Why not?"
"Just take my word for it." Madness waited in the night but how to explain? Trapped energies from the suns
swirling in mind-disturbing vortexes? Some radiation emitted by the Sungari? Imagination and hallucination running
wild?
"Like I did about the Sungari? They're as odd as the ghosts but, at least, the ghosts don't kill. Maybe the Sungari
don't either? Nothing's happened yet."
"Give it time," said Dumarest. "Give it time."
He had lifted the raft high and sent it at top speed to their destination, sending it like an arrow hurtling through
the night but, as fast as he was, the Sungari were faster. Something touched the canopy with a brittle rasping sound. It
came again, then a shower of things which scraped at the thick plastic, rattling like hail, like thrown spears.
"What the hell is that?" Gartok reached for one of the ports. "Something is out there."
"The Sungari. Don't touch the port!"
"I want to see."
"Don't touch it!" The one Dumarest had used was now closed, the raft flying blind. "If you look out they can look
in."
"The Sungari?"
Or the things they had sent. The last time they had been winged missiles constructed of chitin and tissue, barbed
darts moving too fast to see, living machines programmed to attack, anything in the shape of a man. This time they
could be different but Dumarest doubted it. A good design was worth keeping and the creatures had proved their
worth. But did they have abilities he didn't guess?
"Don't talk," he said as Gartok made to speak. "Don't move. Vibration could attract them."
"The engine—"
"Is a regular sound pattern, unusual but different from a living organism. Words are something else. We can do
without them."
Remaining silent as the raft hurtled on its way, the rasping of alien bodies gone now, the shape tested and passed
as a lifeless thing and not a deliberate breaking of the Pact. A chance Dumarest had taken, a gamble he hoped would
succeed.
Before dawn, he thought. The journey should take them long enough to arrive a couple of hours before dawn. A
good time, there was no need to wait longer than they had to and enough would remain of the night. Reaching for the
controls he slowed the craft, mentally reviewing the terrain below. There would be hills, gorges, flat places, ravines a
range of mountains which they should pass to the right.
Should pass, but if they had been diverted by the shower of impacts or a vagrant gust of wind they could hit and
plunge to ruin.
Height would save them but the raft was small, the engine weak and the canopy had loaded the vehicle to
capacity.
Cautiously he unsealed the port. Starlight shone like liquid silver on the ground below, shadows filling crevasses
and distorting perspective. Turning he stared to one side and saw the loom of darkness against the blaze of stars.
The mountains were too close. The raft veered as he adjusted the controls and, immediately, it shuddered to the
impact of a rain of glancing blows.
"They're back!" Gartok's whisper was louder than a shout. "Earl, they're back!"
A gleam from the port, his face, a familiar silhouette—how to tell? The movement of the raft even, inert matter
did not move in such a fashion. And yet still they could not be sure. Animals roamed unmolested as the Sungari
gathered the night-mist but they were familiar. The raft was not. But attacked it had not retaliated and was therefore
harmless.
The human method of thinking but the Sungari were alien and who could tell what motivations drove them?
They shared this world with men and that was all anyone knew. A Pact had been made based on mutual
noninterference but who had made it and how it had been made was forgotten.
Dumarest nodded, dozing, resting like an animal with one part of him alert while the others rested. Then,
checking the instruments, he knew they must be close.
"Kars?" He heard the man grunt. "Are you awake?"
"I'm awake." The man edged his way forward. "Have we arrived?"
"We're close. Better get into the armor now. You first."
Plates of metal which fitted close, articulated joints, helmets to protect face and skull. Normal protection for
mercenaries engaged in close-quarter fighting and now it would be an added protection.
Again Dumarest opened the sealed port. The raft was still riding high and for a moment he was completely
disoriented then he saw a crevasse, a desert naked in the starlight, a formation he had seen before.
"We're going down," he said. "Brace yourself."
He dropped fast, slowing at the last moment, moving forward to halt, to turn, to dart ahead again as he found the
huts. They were set in line backed by the cookhouse and stores all now tightly sealed. The raft landed between them.
 "Now!"
Gartok was already at the handles of the external apparatus. A pincher moved out, closed, tightened.
"Up!"
A ripping as a section of the roof gave way. Down to fasten a grab, to rise again, to jerk one end out of the hut
and expose the interior.
To move on and repeat the move lower down.
To slam the tough canopy of the raft against a wall.
To see emptiness and to taste the sourness of failure.
"They're gone!" Gartok swore as, in the starlight, he saw nothing but empty cots. "The damned huts are empty!"
"Could he have lied?"
"No." Gartok slammed his hand against the canopy. "No, Earl, no! He didn't lie. He told what he thought was the
truth. He told me!"
Urged with pain, dazed, craving release—could he still have lied? Did it matter?
The raft jerked as something smashed against the port, glass splintering, showering inwards. The hole widened,
plastic shredding, yielding to the things outside. Gartok yelled as a winged shape ripped past his visor, yelled again as
it turned to slam with numbing force against his chest. Unarmored he would have died.
"Earl!"
"Out!" Dumarest dropped the raft with a jar. The vehicle was a marked target. "Head for the storeroom. Follow
me!"
He staggered as he jumped through the opened door, falling to roll, rising under the savage impact of blows
which filled his mouth with the taste of blood. The door of the storeroom flew open beneath the drive of his heel,
light splintering from a lantern, the door slamming shut as Gartok followed Dumarest into the hut. It was heaped with
empty crates and the air held the scent of oil and sickness.
On a cot a man reared upright snatching at a gun.
"Hold it!" Dumarest took a step forward. "Don't make me kill you!"
"You're human!" The man sagged with relief then broke into a fit of coughing, blood staining his lips and chin. He
dabbed at it with a hand, looked at the smears, then dug beneath his pillow for a rag. "When you burst in here I
thought—how come you made it through the night?"
"We were lucky."
"More than some. Three men tried it the first night here. Five more the following week and we lost two the day
before yesterday. They went out and didn't come back." The man coughed again, "Just vanished. We didn't even find
a bone."
"Where is everyone?"
"Gone." The man leaned back against the wall. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes bright with fever, the whites
tinged with the blue stigmata of the disease which rotted his lungs. "They pulled out yesterday afternoon. I was too
sick to go with them so they left me behind."
Dying, with a gun, to protect an empty store.
"Moved? Where?" Gartok snarled as the man made no reply. "Talk, damn you!"
"Or what?" The man shrugged. "You want to kill me then go ahead—you think I like being like this?" He coughed
again and almost choked on the fretted tissue which rose from his chest. Dumarest found water, held it to the
carmined lips, supported the man while he drank. "Thanks, mister," he whispered. "You going to kill me?"
"No."
"Just leave me here?"
"You've got food, water and a gun." Dumarest eased the man's head back to the pillow. "Which way did they go?
North? East? South?" He watched the subtle shift of the eyes. "Any heavy equipment? Rocket launchers? Field-lasers?
How about supplies? How many rafts? Did they get much warning?"
The man said nothing but his eyes spoke against his will, minute flickers, little tensions, signs which Dumarest
had learned to read when facing players over countless gambling tables.
Gartok looked up from where he sat on a crate at the far end of the hut when, finally, Dumarest allowed the man
to sink into an exhausted sleep.
"Well?"
"They moved out late in the afternoon, heading north and taking plenty of supplies. They had rocket launchers
but no field-lasers. It was a sudden move—Tomir sent urgent word."
"Damn the luck!" Gartok glared his anger. "A day earlier and we'd have had them!" He sobered, thinking, "Rocket
launchers, eh? Light or heavy?"
"Light."
 "A strike force. Men able to live on what they carry, lightly armed, highly mobile, ready to hit and run. But where,
Earl? Where?"

Chapter Eleven
In the infirmary a man was sobbing, "God help me. Please help me. Someone help me." On and on, a plea without
end in a voice which sounded as if it had come from a broken machine.
A good analogy, thought Lavinia, but one she wished she didn't have to make. Too many human machines lay
broken in the room now crowded with beds. Too many voices muttered and mumbled in droning susurations,
sometimes crying out, sometimes falling into a low, animal-like moaning.
Why did they need to suffer?
She knew the answer to that; slow-time was expensive and in short supply. Other drugs were also in unusual
demand. Injured men were doped and bandaged and left to heal in full awareness of their condition. Heroes faced
with their folly—no, she was being unfair. They had fought for her and to mock them was to be cruel. They had the
right to look to her for aid. The right to demand that she give it.
"My lady?" A woman, old, her face seamed and withered like the skin of a dried fruit, had caught her by the arm.
"Are you ill?"
"No."
"You look pale. This place is not a good one for you to remain in. And it is bad for the—" She broke off,
swallowing, realizing to whom she spoke. Women had a common function but not all of them enjoyed being
reminded of it. "You must be careful, my lady," she ended. "Why not leave this to me and the others?"
The old and the young and those with the stomach to stand the cries and sights of pain. The injuries. The burns
and sears and torn and ruptured tissue. The ruin of what had once been men.
And would be again, she told herself. Nothing must be spared, money, pride, nothing.
But what sacrifice could she make to equal theirs?
She forced herself to stand upright, to throw back her shoulders and smile, to move slowly along the line of beds,
touching those who were awake, talking to those who could hear, resting her hands firmly on those who could not
see.
And, even while she walked and talked and smiled she wondered. Had the old woman recognized her condition?
Some, she knew, had the reputation of being able to spot pregnancy in its early stages before any signs were clearly
visible. An intuition, a sixth-sense, something which they could read and understand. How else to account for the
warning? The unfinished sentence which caution had broken short?
Were unborn babies affected by external stimuli? Would the atmosphere of the place affect her child?
Science told her that was impossible, but was science always right? Or did she want an excuse to stay away and
her own hopes and imagination were hard at work to find one?
Outside the door she took a deep breath. Inside the air was clean and scented with pungent spices and sprayed
essences of pine and roses but, even so, that outside seemed better, more wholesome, more pure. More imagination
or had she a greater sensitivity than she had guessed?
Idle speculation and of no immediate importance but one matter required her immediate attention.
Roland looked dubious when she asked him to accompany her.
"Ride, Lavinia? Is it safe?"
"Safe? What has that to do with it? I must inspect the herd and select stock for breeding and for sale. It should
have been done before." Would have been done if it hadn't been for Chelhar. "Well, are you coming with me or not?"
He insisted on caution, riding slowly, keeping armed retainers close, sending out scouts to check the terrain
ahead. A caution which would once have irritated her but now she had lost the desire to gallop and it was good to
amble along and enjoy the warmth of the suns and the touch of a cooling breeze.
Warned, the herdsmen were waiting. They had assembled the beasts and urged them past her in line so she could
make her selections. Yenne, the master-herder, sat on his mount close to her side, brand-gun in hand ready to shoot
colored dyes at her signal.
"That, one!" she pointed. "That and that and that…" She glanced at him as he fired a blotch of ebon on the
shoulder of a beast without her signal. "Why cull that one?"
"Weak in the legs, my lady. I've been keeping an eye on her. I'd hoped that her foal would be free of the weakness
but it must be a dominant gene."
"The foal?"
His shrug gave the answer. Dead, of course, culled as soon as the fault was recognized. The mother, now caught
in the general sweep, would shortly follow, bones, meat, hair and hide all put to good purpose.
The way of nature—only the fit and strong could be allowed to survive.
And the herd must be kept in prime condition.
As the animals passed and she continued to select the beasts Lavinia studied the old man. Later they would pick
over the selection together for his final approval. It would be given discreetly, of course, sometimes by no more than
the lift of an eyebrow, but he would not permit her to make expensive or stupid errors. But her attention had nothing
to do with his skill or her determination to match it.
He was married, she knew, and had sired children. Would he have culled his own offspring?
Would Dumarest?
If the child she was now certain reposed in her womb proved defective in any way would he permit it to survive?
Small, yes, size was a variable. The color of hair and eyes was not important. The shade of skin would be
determined by their ancestry. But if it were blind, or deaf or with a grotesque and swollen skull? If it had a split spline
or misplaced features or internal organs wrongly placed? If it were a freak like some she had heard about which were
displayed on barbaric worlds for the enjoyment of those with money to spend?
Dumarest would kill it.
He would do it with speed and love and mercy but the mite would die and so be spared the lifetime of agony and
humiliation, the knowledge of inadequacy and the burden of handicap which had been its heritage.
He would spare it that, she was sure of it, as sure that she sat on her mount and watched beasts pass before her
eyes. His face—she had seen it when he had killed. The face of a trait, not of a man, the naked determination to
survive.
Would he condemn anyone to a life of hell?
She remembered the rumors of him having killed a wounded and dying man to give him peace. Would he deny
that peace to his own child?
"Lavinia!" Roland was at her side, his hand touching her arm. "Here!"
She took the bottle he gave her and tilted it and felt the touch and burn of brandy in her mouth and down her
throat. It helped ease the chill which had gripped her despite the warmth of the suns but did nothing to ease the
turmoil of her mind.
A traveler, moving through the varied radiations of space, one who had spent years traversing the void and who
had spent time beneath violent suns. A man who more than most had been exposed to the conditions favoring
mutations.
What were the chances of his siring a normal child?
"Lavinia!" Roland's hand closed on her arm. "You shouldn't be out here. You're tired and worried. Dismount and
rest for a while. Yenne can handle the selection."
"No." She took another swallow of brandy. "I'm all right."
"You looked distant."
"I was thinking."
Of Dumarest and his child and the moment which would come when she would show it to him and watch and
wait—did all pregnant women feel this way? She would have to find out.
It was late when she returned and she was aching with weariness but when she saw the converted raft lying in the
courtyard she went directly to the room which Dumarest used as his office. He was alone, seated at a desk littered
with papers; maps, overlays, projections, lists. As he saw her he rose and, taking her hands, sat her in a chair.
"You're a fool," he said, gently. "A good soldier knows when to rest. If you overdo things you'll fall sick and we'll
have another casualty."
"Don't humor me, Earl! Success?" She frowned as she listened to his report. "They knew you were coming, they
must have!"
"It's obvious!"
"It could have been coincidence, that isn't important, what is, is why they left?"
"To save themselves, of course!" She was annoyed at his apparent inability to recognize the obvious., "A simple
matter of the need to survive you keep preaching at the men. The wisdom of knowing when to hide and run so as to
fight another day. The doctrine of cowardice, I think it's called, at least that's what my ancestors would have called it.
They believed in meeting their enemies face to face."
He said, sharply, "Who told you that?"
"About my ancestors? It's a matter of record."
"No, the other, the part about men being cowards if they develop a regard for their lives. Who!"
"I don't know." She was startled by his sudden anger. "Some talk, perhaps when I was in town, a rumor—you
know how these things happen. But does it matter?"
 "It matters. It's a question of morale. Make a man feel bad and you've half-won the battle. Make him feel foolish
and a coward to take care of himself and you've gained an easy target. Was it Roland?" He watched her eyes.
"Suchong? Navalok? Taiyuah? A trader?"
"I don't know." She felt her own irritation begin to flower into rage. "Someone, somewhere, that's all I can say."
"Do you believe it?"
"That to be careful is to be a coward?" She remembered the infirmary. "No." Then, to change the subject.
"Where's Kars?"
"We went into town and I left him there."
"After news?"
"Yes. Now you'd better get into your bath."
"Later. I'm not a child, Earl." She looked at the clutter of papers. "And this is my war too, you know."
"Are you enjoying it?"
"I hate it. I want it to end. That's why I wish you had succeeded last night. Earl, where did they go?"
A question he had been working to answer. From the heap he took a map, an aerial survey, the heights yellow, the
depths green, ravines and crevasses made red slashes, deserts ocher smears. Stark against the shades of color were
uncompromising black flecks.
"The stop-overs," said Lavinia as he touched them. "Are you sure?"
"Not certain but I'd put money on it." Dumarest used dividers to step out distances. "See?"
"See what?" She didn't apologize for her ignorance. "Tell me, Earl."
"It was late afternoon when they pulled out," he explained. "They headed north. That could have been a
diversion, but I don't think so. They didn't have time to waste. We can estimate the speed of the rafts. They were
heavily loaded but there was a south wind which would have helped them along. Say they ran until an hour before
dark. Not long enough to reach a castle but long enough to put them in this area."
She looked at the circle his finger made. "In the stopovers. Of course."
They were thick-walled, barn-like constructions set at irregular intervals in the empty places. Buildings provided
with food and water and emergency medicines for the use of those who may have been forced to land and had been
trapped by the night. A relic of the old days when much travel had been by animal or foot. They could be sealed and
lit with lamps burning oil. Their maintenance was the responsibility of the Family owning the land.
"They couldn't have all got into one," said Dumarest. "But they wouldn't have wanted to separate too far. That
puts them here if my guess is right. It's the only place they could have reached where the stop-overs are close."
"On the edge of Taiyuah's land," she mused. "His grandfather tried breeding a herd there and built those huts for
his men. Later, when he abandoned the idea, he turned them into stop-overs. That's it, then, Earl. We have them. Now
you know where they are you can send a force against them."
He smiled at her enthusiasm but she had the naivete of a child when it came to war.
"I'm not certain they are there," he said, patiently. "As yet it's only a guess. But assume they are. If we attack on
foot they would spot us and catch us in a crossfire. If we rafted in they would blast us out of the sky with their
launchers. And look at the terrain." His fingers illustrated his words, moving from shaded patches of yellow to red.
"The place is ringed with hills. They'll have spotters on the summits and attack groups in the crevasses. Surprise is
out and the rest would be slaughter. They're professionals. Experienced mercenaries. All we can send against them is
barely trained retainers."
"They can kill, Earl."
"And have," he agreed. "But a lot of them got hurt doing it."
To be expected when men, flushed by the desire to be heroes, took too many chances. Wounded they would
learn. Dead any lesson came too late.
"So what do we do? You can't just leave that force out there."
"Why not?" He shrugged at her expression. "Because they might attack or move? They can do that anyway. We
can't stop them. All we can do is to keep them under what observation we can. If they're there we'll know it. If they
make a move we'll know that too. But we can't do a thing without information."
And Tomir's had been good. Was there intent behind the move and, if so, what? An attack on Belamosk?
Launchers could reduce the castle to rubble given time and assuming their crews would remain unmolested. But no
commander could hope for that. A feint? Was he setting a trap? And the sudden pulling out, the luck Gartok had
cursed. Luck or something else? A day earlier—but they hadn't known where to strike until the prisoner had been
questioned. Tomir would have learned of his capture and guessed he would talk. Had the knowledge triggered the
move? But why? Night attacks were unknown on this world. Who could have predicted one would be tried?
Cybers were masters of prediction—had one come to Zakym?
Ardoch stood in the open doorway of a chamber and watched a man play at the childish game of war. The room
was old, the walls crusted with mineral deposits which seeping damp had piled on the stone, the floor uneven as the
ground beneath had settled over the centuries. A place buried deep beneath Castle Prabang which now held the man
who had made it his.
Tomir Embris who carried a false name and claimed a false identity. A clever fool—but one the cyber could
handle.
"Ardoch?" Tomir lifted his head from the desk at which he sat. "I didn't hear you. Come and join me."
A board stood on the table, chessmen set in their squares, locked now in one of the surrogate battles which the
man loved to play. He was large for his height, his body stocky, muscled like a bull. His head was almost a perfect
round, the nose prominent, the eyes piercing. The greatest resemblance to his father was in his mouth and chin. From
his mother he had inherited his thin mass of too-fine hair.
"Chess," he said as the scarlet robe of the cyber came near. "A game which should suit you. A matter of sheer
prediction. Your color?"
Ardoch yielded the opening and, within six moves, knew how the game would end. Tomir lacked subtlety, seeking
to crush and weaken rather than concentrating on the finer nuances of the play. A betrayal of a desire to destroy than
merely to conquer yet never would he be able to admit to it as a weakness. A barbarian who would have been in his
element leading a blood-crazed horde.
"You've beaten me!" He glared at the board. "In two moves—how do you do it?"
"A knack, my lord."
"As you warned me of the night attack? Was that another knack?" Tomir smiled and shook his head. "Of course
not. You are trained to look ahead and to make the future plain. What was the prediction again? There would be an
attack and the probability was in the order of eighty-one percent it would come when it did. And," he frowned, "what
was the other?"
"The prediction that the attack would be made was ninety-one percent, my lord. The time was a greater variable."
"And the uncertainty was high." Tomir laughed with a harsh, barking sound. "I remember you saying that. High!
But then you are never satisfied. Always you search for absolute certainty."
A mistake, no cyber would waste time reaching for the logically unattainable. Nothing was or could be wholly
certain, always the unknown factor had to be taken into account remote as it might be. As the corroded wire in the
generator of the ship which had carried him from Fralde and which, breaking, had caused delay. An incident which
had led him to offer his services to the young conqueror who had snatched at the opportunity.
All that remained now was to capture Dumarest.
"Another game?" Tomir set up the pieces. "Let us look at this board as the field. Now, my troops are here and
here. The enemy is there—a rabble hiding in a fortress. I can destroy it with missiles but will that win me the game?"
"The threat of destruction is effective only while it remains a threat, my lord."
"As is the threat of death. But what is the real objective? To conquer? To have the rulers of this world
acknowledge me as supreme? Yes, I think so. Now how best to achieve that aim?" He paused as if expecting a reply.
"You remain silent, aren't our interests the same?"
"My lord, in return for my help you promised me the man Dumarest."
"He's yours."
"Unharmed."
"How can I promise that? He insists on defying me. If he continues—what is the prediction that the Council will
turn against me?"
"Ninety-six percent, my lord."
"So high?" Tomir frowned. "By my bribes and promises—surely they will continue to hold them back?"
For a fool the man had been clever but he had failed to look far enough ahead. Patiently the cyber explained.
"They were united in a common dislike of Dumarest as a stranger who threatened the status quo. That is why
they were so eager to accept your claims. Dumarest was willing to sell and, had you been patient, there would have
been no war."
"Why should I pay for what is mine?"
"You were not asked to pay but, had you been wise, you would have backed a loan."
"I didn't."
"And so the conflict. Dumarest knew you would attack but was confident he would receive support. He has been
patient but that will not last. He will force the Council to give their support."
Tomir laughed. "How? What can he do?"
"He could, for example, dress his men in captured clothing and send them, armed and armored as mercenaries,
to burn and pillage. You will get the blame."
"And they will give him—what? Raw retainers and a few inferior weapons." Tomir stared at the board and moved
a piece. It landed with a small clicking sound. "Would he really do that?"
"Yes. The prediction—"
"Is high. I know. When? Soon?" Tomir moved another piece, as the cyber nodded. "Even untrained men can be a
nuisance," he murmured. "Guards must be maintained and the effective fighting strength diminished. And they could
even hire an opposing force. Then we would really have a war."
Together with the waste and misapplication of resources which it would bring. A matter of small concern to the
cyber but Dumarest would be involved and how to safeguard a man in the midst of a war?
"My lord, it would be unwise to permit the escalation of this conflict. The expense would be prohibitive and your
reputation would suffer."
He was a commander who had failed to win a minor battle against servants armed with primitive weapons when
armed with modern equipment and served by trained soldiers. The cyber was right; unless he won and soon his
hoped for career as a leader was ended.
Thinking he set up the pieces on the board. How to win? How to force a surrender? There had to be a way and
playing the game with its symbolic figures would help him to find it.
"It's your move, Cyber."
"No, my lord, yours."
And, unless he moved correctly, his life would be over.

Chapter Twelve
"My lord, my lady!" The entrepreneur bowed. He was a small, smoothly rounded man with cool eyes and an
ingratiating smile. A man of many interests who now dealt in the things of war. "Flame bombs of a new pattern
which can be thrown or fired from a light-weight projector. Variable time-set fuses or impact detonation. The radius
of effective destruction is thirty feet. The granules are adhesive and will burn through medium body-armor within
five seconds. Secondary characteristics are metabolic breakdown of tissue together with the introduction of a nerve-
poison. Truly a most effective weapon."
"No!" Lavinia shook her head. "To use such a thing against men!"
"A screaming mob can be a terrifying thing, my lady. And an opposing force, when faced with such devices,
quickly lose their taste for combat. Am I not correct, my lord?" He waited a moment then, as Dumarest made no
answer, delved again into the case his assistant had lifted on the table. "Miniature mines which can be dropped from a
raft or sown from any moving transport. Each is the color of the terrain and will adjust by the action of
photosensitive elements to acquire the exact shade on the place in which it lands. You see?"
He held out his hand and, as they watched, the egg-sized object he held took on the color of his palm.
"They can be adjusted for proximity detonation or impact; time-lapse or sonic sensitivity. They can remove the
feet and legs up to the knees for an effective range of twenty feet. I can supply ten thousand of them packed in crates
of two score dozen for a most reasonable price."
"Delivery?"
"Within a month, my lord." The man beamed at the prospect of a sale. With luck he would be back in town well
before dark. "Payment in advance, of course."
Dumarest looked at the case. "Have you anything else?"
A new model laser, a sleeve gun, some mortar shells, a gas, liquids which were light sensitive and would burst
into flame when exposed to the suns. Kars Oartok grunted as the man lifted an eyepiece together with its attendant
wires and pack.
"Don't waste time showing us that. No one has any use for light intensifiers on Zakym."
"No?" The man shrugged and Dumarest watched the flicker of his eyes.
"A moment." He held out his hand. "I'd like to see that."
"A recent innovation, my lord." The man was quick with his praise. "Not a light intensifier in the sense that it
amplifies existing light-sources but something more. It scans the infrared areas of the spectrum and converts the
pattern of received energies into a visible form. That alone would be an achievement though, as I will admit, not a
novel one, but there is more." He paused to gain dramatic impact. "The scanners also resolve residual energy content
on and within the object examined. To be short, my lord, with this device you can see in absolute darkness."
"Impossible!"
"Not so, my lady. What is light? A source of energy, yes? Therefore, as long as energy exists in one form or
another it can be converted to light. Others have found the device most attractive."
"For night attacks, yes," grunted Gartok. "But we don't have those on Zakym."
 "As you say." The man replaced the apparatus in the case.
Dumarest followed it with his eyes, remembering the flicker he had seen, the hidden amusement. Gartok had
brought the man to Belamosk with him on his return from town and, from his expression, was beginning to regret it.
"I'm sorry, Earl," he said. "I thought the man would have something we could use. Everything he's shown us so far
is too costly, too elaborate or based on a late delivery."
"Not so, my lord!" The man had heard. "I have other items resting in the warehouse."
"Drugs? Medicines?"
"Yes, together with antibiotics, hormone salves, regrowth mediums, skin renewers—all the things the wounded
need to regain mental and physical health. An order for Khasanne where they are locked in a vicious struggle—"
"But which you are willing to sett if the price is right," interrupted Dumarest, dryly. "Immediate delivery?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good!" Lavinia smiled her relief. "We have credit with the Hausi and there will be more when the herd is sold. If
—" She broke off, recognizing the man's expression. "No?"
"My lady, I am a man of business. Expenses are high and profits small. To wait is to breed debt. If it were left to
myself I would not hesitate but there are others, partners, you understand, who are not as confident in your victory
as I am. And the load is spoken for and money is waiting. How can I explain my trust in your cause to those who are
already using the money for a new enterprise?"
A lie, but the meaning was plain—no cash, no trade.
But she had jewels.
Dumarest led Gartok to one side as the man examined them. "Aside from him what else did you discover in
town?"
"Little aside from rumor. Tomir expects more men and a few free-lances are looking for work. I gave them a half-
promise. One of them told me that Tomir's equipment included long-range missiles for his launchers. And there was
talk of a cyber."
"A cyber? When?"
"A while ago. He arrived after Tomir—something about a delayed vessel. I asked around but he seems to have
vanished." Gartok shrugged. "Probably a mistake—a man saw someone wearing red and let his imagination run wild.
I—" He broke off as sound filled the air, the rolling thunder of released energies which tore at the ears and filled the
chamber with dancing motes of dust.
"Earl!" Lavinia turned toward Dumarest, her face startled, her eyes wide with shock and fear. "For God's sake!
What's happening?"
Another explosion gave the answer, a third made it certain.
Castle Belamosk was under direct attack.
In his ear the voice from the combat radio said, "Nothing, Earl. I can't see a thing."
Roland, riding a raft following the foothills of the Iron Mountains, searching every inch of ground with high-
powered binoculars.
Another voice, Gartok's, this time from close at hand, "Bare to the east. Not a man to be seen, not a trace." He
sounded irritable. "I don't understand it. The bastards must be somewhere. And why the hell didn't they continue
firing?"
A feint? But if Tomir had wanted to draw out the forces protecting Belamosk where would he attack next? And if
he had wanted to reduce the castle then why cease firing before any real damage had been done?
Squatting in the raft Dumarest studied his maps, tracing the lines of suspected flight from the impact-points of
the missiles. One had struck far beyond the western wall, another had landed close to the eastern side, more had dug
craters in a wide-flung pattern to the south. The last had hit Ellman's Rest and blasted the old tree to splinters.
Each, he knew, could have been sent directly against the walls to blast a hole and bring down ancient stone.
"Earl?" Roland's voice again. "There's nothing here. Shall I return to the castle and supervise the work you
ordered done?"
Cellars cleared, strengthened, stocked with food and water. The injured protected with bags filled with sand set
along the infirmary and between their beds.
"Yes. Check with Jmombota about the drugs. Keep low—if you can see them then they can see you and a laser
could burn you before you know it."
"There's no one here, Earl."
No one he could see, but Dumarest didn't bother to explain the difference, and the man was probably safe
enough. Had units been placed on the attack he would have been shot at long before. Triggering the radio he said,
"Kars?"
"Earl?"
 "Rendezvous as arranged."
The radios were part of the equipment captured from the mercenaries Tomir had hired and were probably being
monitored. But Gartok knew what to do.
He stepped from the raft as it landed and strode to where Dumarest was waiting. The sunlight glinted from his
helmet and body armor and gave him an appearance of ruthless, mechanical efficiency. Halting he scowled at the
suns.
"Nearly ghost-time, Earl."
"We'll be on the way back before then." War on Zakym, had to be carefully timed. "We'll hit one point, do what we
can, then run. Prisoners if we can take them."
"Bodies if we can't. A stop-over?"
"This one." Dumarest dropped to his knees and unfolded the map. "I'm making a lot of assumptions and they
could all be wrong but if I've guessed right we could catch them here. See?" His finger traced lines. "The trajectories
could have a common origin here. The team could have moved between shots but I doubt it, they came too close and
were too carefully aimed."
"They all missed!"
"That's what I mean. I think the misses were deliberate. Roland found nothing in the foothills and neither did you
in the east, That narrows it to about here. They could have gone to there but they'll guess we'll figure that. So they
could be just here." He tapped at one of the black flecks.
"Or rafted right out of the area."
"They didn't ride high or we'd have spotted them. Later when we searched we saw nothing. No, they are still
close." Dumarest folded the map and rose. "Let's see if we can get them."
He took the lead, riding low, lifting the raft barely enough to skim the massive boulders and summits of hills.
Behind him the half-dozen men forming his unit crouched low and remained silent. Those in Gartok's raft did the
same. A small defense but it helped, sound and the glint of sunlight from equipment could attract instant attention
where the soft, ground-hugging approach of the rafts need not.
A crevasse drifted past below, a rounded jumble of boulders like the marbles tossed by a child tired of its play, a
patch of gnarled vegetation. A turn into a narrow pass, a lift, a long, slow passage over the contours of rolling hills
and then, at full speed, a downward glide to where a long, dark building showed against the ocher dirt.
"Out!" Dumarest hit the ground and rolled to the cover of a rock as his men obeyed. "Cover!"
He loped forward, dropped, signaled with a sweep of his arm, waited as shapes scuttled past to drop in turn while
he searched the area ahead with narrowed eyes, rifle poised to fire.
Nothing.
The building was silent, the area around void of any trace of life. Gartok, landing to one side, lifted his helmeted
head.
"Nothing, Earl. The place is deserted."
"Be careful!"
Men could be waiting, traps set, even now fingers closing on triggers ready to loose a storm of fire. Yet if present
those men remained invisible and instinct gave no warning. There was no movement aside from that caused by a
sudden flurry of wind; little plumes of dust rising from the acrid soil.
"I'm going in." Gartok rose to his feet. "Cover me."
Dumarest moved so as to increase his field of view. He saw the mercenary step cautiously towards the building,
dodge around a corner, vanish. A moment later he reappeared, waving.
"A bust," he said as Dumarest came close. "The place is empty. You guessed wrong."
Not wrong—they had arrived too late. Kneeling Dumarest looked over the floor seeing the marks of booted feet
and trails of dragged equipment. The doors had been open and wind would have carried dust to hide the marks had
they not been recent. And a pot of coffee resting on a stove was still hot.
"Warned!" Gartok slammed his hand against the pot and sent it flying to fall in a pool of steaming liquid.
"Someone ordered them out, but why? If they had known we were coming they would have had us in a trap. If not
why the move?"
Khaya Taiyuah brought the answer, landing an hour after their return to the castle, arriving as the suns were low
and curfew was near. He was distraught, waving aside the wine Lavinia offered to him as he was ushered into the
great hall. Waiting only for the servant to leave he said, abruptly, "You must yield. You must end the war."
"What?"
"I bear an ultimatum. I had no choice, to have refused was to have lost my worms." Bitterly he added, "For the
shame I ask your forgiveness. You are not a coward. But the conflict must cease."
Dumarest said, "The terms?"
 "Lavinia must yield and you must be handed over as a prisoner. You will not be harmed—that is a promise. All
other prisoners will be exchanged. No compensation will be demanded other than the cost of the forces involved. If
you refuse then Belamosk and other castles will be destroyed. My worms—" He gulped. "The work of a lifetime will
be destroyed. Everything will be lost. Everything."
He sat, a man suddenly older than his years, this time not refusing the wine Lavinia set at his side. As he reached
for it Roland said, "The castle! What can we do?"
"Fight!" Gartok snarled his impatience. "So we lose worms and collect bruises but that is war. An all-out offensive
starting at first-light. Every raft and man to sweep the surrounding countryside and find those launchers."
An empty defiance. If Tomir had obtained the services of a cyber the outcome of the situation would already
have been predicted and it was obvious what that would be. Pressure exerted on Lavinia to yield. More to have him
handed over as a prisoner. The price of survival and who would resist? Taiyuah afraid for his precious worms?
Navalok? Alcorus? Suchong? They would kill him to preserve their castles. Roland?
"You can't resist," he said. "The very thought of it is madness. They'll destroy the castle."
A bluff, but he didn't know that and could never be convinced. Dumarest knew better. The Cyclan wanted him
alive for the secret he carried in his brain. The reason the stop-over had been deserted, why no shots had been fired
at the rafts, why the missiles had fallen well clear of the walls.
The promise would be honored. For how long was another matter.
"Earl?" Lavinia stared at him, her eyes wide. "What can we do? What do you want us to do?"
"It doesn't depend on Earl," said Roland quickly. "It's up to you to decide. If you agree to yield the war will be
over. There will be peace. And what choice have you?"
"Earl?"
"We can fight." He glanced at the woman. "We could even win if you're willing to take the gamble."
"How?"
He said, flatly, "We ask the Sungari to help us."
Dawn broke with a scud of cloud which blurred the suns and threw a dull light over the upper promenade.
Despite the thick cloak she wore Lavinia shivered, knowing the cold was less the result of temperature than
trepidation. Roland, at her side, rested his hand on her arm.
"It's cold, my dear, you had best go below."
"No."
"What do you hope to see? Earl has gone with Gartok and we shall know nothing until the mercenary returns.
And the whole thing is madness. Surely you know that? The Pact must not be broken."
"Is courage madness?"
"No, but a madman can have courage. Or," he corrected, "a blind determination which has that appearance. Why
does Earl insist on continuing the war? He was willing to sell the land a short while ago."
"But not willing to be a prisoner. Why, Roland?" Turning she met his eyes. "Why should they want him handed
over? And why should you?"
"I don't." He was quick in his defense. "I am only thinking of your welfare. Belamosk a ruin, the land ravaged, the
herd slaughtered, and for what? Haven't enough men died as it is? If he loves you—"
"If ?"
"—he will not want you to suffer. He will sacrifice himself for you as I would. And, after he has gone, things can
be as they were." His hand tightened a little on her arm. "And I shall be with you, my dear. I shall never leave you."
"Neither will Earl."
"No?" He shrugged as if at the unthinking stubbornness of a child. "How can you be so certain of that? He is a
traveler, restless, impatient to move on. What is he doing now? A thing of madness. To try and meet the Sungari and
enlist their aid. To break the Pact and hope not to be destroyed. Fortunately the chances of him doing what he hopes
to achieve are small. He could even die trying and, if he did, what has he gained? How can you trust that such a man
will remain at your side? It would be best to forget him."
"That is impossible."
"So you may think, my dear, but you are wrong. Time is a great healer and the passing days erase even the
strongest of memories. Soon after he has gone, it will be as if you had never met. Then, like a dream-—"
She said, impatiently, "Roland, you are a fool. I am carrying his child."
"What?" He fought for breath. "No. You are mistaken."
"Time will prove me right." She missed the hurt in his eyes, the pain, too occupied with her own pleasure. "Be
glad for me, my friend. You can see how impossible it is for me ever to forget him? Each day, each hour a part of him
is with me."
"Does he know?"
 "I hinted but I think he is convinced I was teasing. But soon he will have no doubt."
She smiled, thinking, imagining, the swell of her belly which would announce the coming life, the kick of barely
formed, the stir of impatient life eager to be born. Boy or girl? A son or a daughter? No matter which, either would be
an anchor to hold him fast. And there would be others to keep the first company.
"Lavinia, I am glad." She felt his hand resume its pressure on her arm and, looking at him, saw an emotion in his
eyes she did not recognize. "As you say Earl will always be with us. His child if nothing else. Together we could watch
it grow and teach it the old traditions of the Family."
"We, Roland?"
"If Earl does not return. If something should happen to him." His eyes searched her face. "Are we to pretend it
couldn't?"
As she had pretended during the long night when, alone, she had thought of him sitting, brooding over his maps,
forming a plan.
A chance, less than one in a thousand, but a chance all the same. The only one he had if he hoped to escape the
Cyclan and the trap he was in.
The caverns of the Sungari were unknown. They were a legend from the past. A scrap of history distorted,
possibly, into fable. The things which killed in the night had never been investigated. The entire story could have been
invented to protect the early settlers from the nocturnal threat.
And yet how often had he been told that Earth did not exist—and of all men he knew as well as any that it did.
And there were clues; a crevasse containing a dead beast and a dead man, smoke which had stung his eyes and
which had held a moving shape, a foal which had trotted from the smoke to vanish.
To vanish where?
He had been ill, dying, toxins flooding his body, the smoke catching his lungs and blurring his vision. A
movement which had taken on the shape of a foal. But foals did not run alone and no mare had been close.
"There!" Roland pointed. "The raft, returning."
But without Dumarest. Lavinia watched as it landed and Gartok, jumping out, came towards them. Pearls of
moisture glinted on his helmet and armor.
"Kars?"
"He found an opening, my lady. A cavern of some kind or a natural fissure. Earl wouldn't let me enter it with him.
Said to come back and take command of the men." He glared at Roland. "I take it there's no argument?"
"From me? None."
Lavinia said, "Is there anything we can do to help?"
"We can pray, my lady. I'm not much good at it myself, but I'm willing to learn."

Chapter Thirteen
There were rasps and drips and small, rustling sounds, the somber beat of a drum and a liquid gurgle which
could have been the pound of surf but which was, as Dumarest knew, the roar of blood in his ears.
As the drum was the beat of his heart, the rasps and rustles the scrape and movement of boots and clothing. The
drips alone came from the outside world, the slow fall of moisture from the roof, its soft slide over time-worn stone.
A cavern which had opened from a tunnel which had led from a smaller cavern which he had reached by a
winding fissure. Miles of endless turns and twists and descending floors. The weight of a world pressing in around
him.
Darkness broken only by the ghostly shimmer of converted energies, residual forces amplified by the mechanism
bought from the entrepreneur which he wore clamped to his eyes. In its field he saw the life-pattern of a lichen,
something which moved and crouched against a wall, a shower of tiny motes which provided food for the lurking
predator and which fed in turn on things too small for him to spot.
Water splashed as he pressed on his way. If the Sungari were here surely they would have noticed him by now. If
the Sungari existed. If he were not plunging hopelessly into the empty world of caverns and tunnels which lay
beneath the mountains.
And yet the flying creatures had come from somewhere.
There had to be a hive.
He stumbled and fell and climbed carefully to his feet. The apparatus on his eyes confused him a little but, if he
should break it, he would be lost in total darkness to wander blindly through an unknown world. Halting he touched
his waist, found the laser holstered there and drew it. Closing his eyes he fired at the ground directly ahead. Adjusting
the gain from the light-amplifier he peered from between shielding fingers.
 And looked at a palace of marvels.
Light streamed from the place which had received the bolt of energy, the stone still radiating in the visible
spectrum, blazing like a sun in the infrared, emitting energy which was caught and retained by the walls and roof to
register as a host of scintillating rainbows, each node a sparkling gem, each irregularity a vortex of luminous wonder.
A signal to the Sungari if they should exist.
Dumarest stood waiting, wondering if again the signal would fade to linger as a ghostly luminescence long after
he had moved on. Another failure which would join the others he had placed along the path from the upper air.
And then, in his brain, something turned.
It was a numbing pressure which shifted as a worm would shift in loam, as butter would slide over butter, a wave
move in the ocean, a hand turn in a hand. A thing which sent him to his knees, head bowed, sweat starting from face
and neck to fall and sting his eyes to gather in droplets beneath his arms.
He heard the crying, the thin, pitiful wailing which seemed always to be with him.
And, abruptly, he was in space.
It was there, the stars, the fuzz of distant nebulae, the sheets and curtains of luminescence unhampered by the
dulling effects of atmosphere. The void was all around him and he floated, alone in the empty universe as the air
gushed from his lungs and the eyes bulged in their sockets and his internal organs began to burst under the pressure
of boiling blood.
Dying as he had once died before.
As Chagney had died; died and still drifted, his empty eyes staring at blazing stars, his skin burned by the kiss of
blasting radiations, dehydrated, frozen in stasis, still living, perhaps, somehow still aware.
And crying… crying…
"No!" His voice was a gasp of pain. "No! No!"
Another voice, strange, remote, whispering in the recesses of his brain.
"A sensitive—quickly, the apparatus is erratic. Some malfunction and loss of integration… foreign elements…
adjust… align… so!"
Coolness and the aching died. Peace came, the sickening movement within movement vanishing as did the blaze
of stars, the fear, the crying, the pain.
Dumarest lifted his head and rose, trembling, aware of the aftermath of strain—aware too that his eyes were no
longer covered by the amplifying apparatus.
Then how was it he could see?
The walls glowed with a soft nacreous light to either side. The floor was a dusty amber lined with green. The roof
was bathed in an azure haze. The figure of the monk standing before him was a familiar brown.
A monk?
He stepped forward and stared into the cowl seeing a calm and placid face. Brother Jerome? Once he had known
the High Monk, but Jerome was dead.
"And so no longer exists in the form you knew," said the figure. "But the shape is one you find comforting and
trust. Why are you here?"
"I am looking for the Sungari."
"And have found them. We are the Sungari. You have broken the Pact."
With good reason, how else was he to ask for aid? And what good was a Pact when no one knew what it was all
about? And how was it that an individual claimed plurality? And what was the real shape of the Sungari?
"You will never know," said the monk evenly. "And it is best that you do not. Yes, we have the ability to read
brains. Those who first came to this world and contacted us used sensitives to communicate. We arranged a mutually
agreeable settlement which you must know. Why did you not communicate earlier? We were watching you and your
primitive attempts. Almost we destroyed you."
Curiosity had saved him—one thing at least men and the aliens had in common. And telepathy explained how
they first had agreed to cooperate. The talent must have proved a recessive gene and had died from the surface
culture.
Dumarest said, "How is it that I can see?"
"A direct stimulation of the brain. We also adjusted that which was in it. Life persisted due to the radiation of the
twin suns. Now it is dormant and will eventually be absorbed but, while it lasts, we can communicate. You want
something but what do you offer?"
Another familiar trait or was he misunderstanding the meaning behind the words? How to understand an alien
mind? Yet some things all life had in common; the need to feed, to expand, to breed, to find safety. As the Sungari had
found it by burrowing deep into the planet using the rock and soil as a barrier against the energy of the suns. Which
meant?
 "We are not native to this world as you have guessed. Long, long ago a ship was wrecked beyond repair. We did
what had to be done and achieved a balance. When those of your race came there was attrition but finally we struck
a new balance. Now you come asking for help and offer what?"
"Trade."
"How?"
"Items can be left for you to collect. In return you provide minerals and other sub-surface products. Later, if
mutually agreeable, a closer cooperation can be achieved."
A hope, but what else had he to offer? As the figure remained silent Dumarest took another step closer. The robe
the monk wore seemed to move and, stepping even closer, he saw that it was not solid material but a mass of tiny
creatures shifting, each hooked to the other, their bodies providing the illusion.
As others made up the face, the lips, the eyes, the body of the monk.
A hive—but could things so small have the mental power he had experienced? Or was the figure merely an
extension of a greater intelligence?
"Is the part the whole?" said the monk. "If you shear your hair is the hair you or are you the hair? If you should
lose a limb which part is you? The part with the intelligence and brain? But what if the brain itself is in many parts?"
And then, as Dumarest remained silent, "Do not try to understand. We are the Sungari."
Creatures from a different existence to that he had known, perhaps bred on worlds men had yet to reach.
Dumarest thought of an ant and its nest, a bee and its hive, a cell and the body to which it belonged. A brain
commanding a host of appendages each able to convey information. A computer would be much the same and if its
scanners were mobile and obedient—was the Sungari a giant organic computer?
More important—would it help?
"Come," said the monk. "You shall see."
And suddenly dissolved into a mass of glinting particles which rose and spread and spun a curtain before and
around Dumarest so that he was enclosed in a sphere of shimmering brilliance which took shape and form and…
He looked down at a world.
It was Zakym, the terrain was obvious but the conviction was stronger than that. He knew and, knowing, ceased
to question. Hills moved to one side and a building grew large in his sight. Castle Belamosk, almost he could discern
the figures on the upper promenade then, as he dropped lower, or appeared to drop, they grew clear.
Lavinia, Roland, Gartok huge in his helmet and armor. Others stood tense and watchful, some armed, others with
empty hands. One was speaking but there were no words. Only vision as if he looked through the eyes of a flying
scanner which, Dumarest realized, was probably what he was doing. Some creature of the Sungari flying high, seeing,
relaying back what it saw. Something in a familiar shape or with transparent wings and body so as to be invisible
against the sky.
Against the wall of the castle a flower bloomed with a gush of red and orange, wreaths of gray smoke rising to
vanish, to reveal the ragged crater the missile had left. Others lay behind it; raw pockmarks in the dirt, each signaling
the path of a creeping barrage. Soon they would reach the wall and send the massive stones to fall in splintered rain.
A blur and he looked at another castle, smaller, less graceful, less fortunate. A turret had fallen and one wall
showed an ugly breech. The missiles which reached for it widened the gap in warning of what would come unless the
ultimatum was met.
Already the owner must be on his way to Belamosk with what men he could find and arm. Navalok would join
him, Suchong, the others. Tomir had increased his force by a simple threat.
Tomir?
He sat in a somber room looking at his maps, a communicator at his side and, behind him, like a scarlet flame,
stood the cyber Dumarest and known must be at the commander's service.
And, this time, there was sound; the rustle of papers, the sigh of breathing, the rustle as Tomir moved, the scrape
of his chair.
"Report!" he snapped into the communicator. "Unit Two!"
"No change, sir." The man had a hard, rugged face. "Still no surrender."
"Advance barrage."
"More and we'll be on the walls."
"Obey!" Tomir slapped at a button. "Unit Five! Report!"
"Castle walls breached and internal damage achieved. Alcorus asked for permission to fly to Belamosk and urge
surrender. Permission granted."
"Hold your fire. Unit Four?" Tomir grunted as he heard a similar report. "Maintain surveillance. Unit Three?"
"No reaction as yet, sir."
"Increase destruction. Cease only when the owner asks for permission to visit Belamosk."
 Ardoch said, as the communicator died, "My lord it would be best to cancel your orders to Unit Two. Belamosk
must not be put at risk."
"This is my war, Cyber!"
"And you will win it, my lord. But we have a bargain."
"Dumarest. I know. But he is stubborn and I refuse to wait longer. Once he sees his woman in danger he'll show
himself. Once she sees her precious castle begin to fall apart she'll surrender. Either way we win."
A crude prediction, too crude for any satisfaction and too dangerous for Ardoch's mission. One missile and luck
could send stone to crush Dumarest's skull. There was no safety for anyone under fire. Even a near miss could ruin
his mission and, as he well knew, the Cyclan had no patience with those who failed.
He stepped closer to Tomir, unaware of the things lurking in the crevasses of the walls, the eyes and ears which
caught and relayed every word. Creatures of the Sungari living in the gloom of the underground chamber, adapted
for a specific task and set to spy.
"My lord, you must cancel that order." His voice retained its even monotone but, even so, Tomir caught the
hidden threat.
"Leave me, Ardoch!"
"The order, my lord. You will cancel it." The cyber's hand rose, a finger pointing at the young man's face. From
beneath the nail something gleamed and, as the hand darted forward, pierced the skin of Tomir's cheek. "You will do
it now."
The man was already dead, the drug injected into his flesh robbing him of all volition. He would obey as if a
marionette and then, like a puppet with broken strings, he would fall.
But, as he turned to the communicator, his hand slipped and hit the destruct button incorporated into the military
unit.
The unexpected. The unknown factor which could ruin any prediction. The element which could render useless
any plan. Ardoch looked at his hand, the dead body, his mind already assessing probabilities. The orders had been
given, even now the missiles would be closing the gap to the walls. Orders could stop them but would they obey his
commands? Louchon was the the next in line, he could stop the barrage, but first he had to be convinced.
Dumarest watched as the cyber left the chamber.
"Now! If you are going to help do it now!"
A wordless cry from the mind to those who had shown him a little of the power they possessed. The Sungari who
alone could do what needed to be done.
And he was looking at a group of men standing around a launcher.
They were efficient, glad the waiting was over, eager for what spoils victory would bring. Their officer lifted an
arm and waited for a moment. He wore the visor of his helmet raised and few of his men wore body armor. There
was no need when fighting at so far a distance. The sky was clear of rafts, no enemy could touch them, and confident
in their safety they were careless.
"Now!"
Before the missile could be fired, the load it carried delivered to the castle, the fury of the warhead tearing at
stone and flesh and bone and turning graceful men and women into crawling things of horror.
"Now! For God's sake stop them if you can!"
The air blurred.
It shook to the quiver of wings, the passage of bodies spined and with serrated fins, creatures of chitin and bone.
Living darts, pointed, barbed, coming from nowhere and striking without warning.
The officer screamed and fell, holes where his eyes had been, blood gushing to stream down his face and join the
fountain pulsing at his throat.
His men spun, some running, others beating at the air with hands too slow to hit the living missiles. They died,
falling with blood marking their bodies, clothing ripped, flesh torn from bone, bone shattered by the bullet-like
impact.
A shift and other men, more death, more destruction of the invading force. And more. And more. Until, finally, it
was over.
From the raft the ground was a mottled patchwork of rocks and boulders lined with crevasses and dotted with
patches of scrub. A hard place to find anything still less the relatively small figure of a man. Sighing Gartok lowered
his binoculars and palmed his aching eyes.
For two days now he had been searching without success but stubbornly refused to give up. Dumarest was alive,
he was sure of it, and if he was alive, then somehow, he would return to the surface.
The Sungari would help him.
"Sir?" The driver of the raft was young and proud at having being chosen by the tough mercenary to handle the
vehicle. "Shall I continue in this direction?"
One way was as good as another but ahead reared the bulk of the Iron Mountains with the attendant dangers of
turbulence and varying densities of air. Even an experienced driver could lose a raft in such conditions.
"No." Gartok made his decision. "Swing to the left and follow the foothills. Ride low and keep even."
Again he lifted the binoculars. They were fitted with an infrared detector and could reveal the presence of any
living thing by its own body-heat, but the lenses remained clear.
"To the right," ordered Gartok. "Hold it!"
Something was over there and he tightened his hands at the hint of movement. A trace augmented by the sudden
flicker of the detector. A living creature—Dumarest?
Gartok swore as a foal suddenly sprang from behind a rock to race down a crevasse then, as the detector
flickered again, yelled to the driver.
"Down! Down and to the right a little. Hurry, damn you! That's Earl!"
He was sitting on a boulder, his head resting in his hands, a thin coating of some kind of slime dried on his
clothing so that he seemed to have been dusted with a frost-like powder. As Gartok approached he looked up.
"God!" The mercenary came to a halt. "Earl, your face!"
It was tense, drawn, the eyes sunken, the hair also coated with the lace-like patina. More rested on his cheeks,
paling his lips, webbed on his eyebrows. It gave him the appearance of having aged a century; an illusion broken only
when he spoke.
"Kars."
"Here!" Gartok had come prepared. He lifted a bottle and jerked out the cork. "Drink some of this." He restrained
his impatience as Dumarest obeyed. "You found them, didn't you?"
"The Sungari? Yes."
"It had to be you. I told those weak bastards who came demanding that you should be handed over that. Told
them and ordered them from Belamosk. By God, I'd have killed them had they lingered. Then I came looking for you."
He added, simply, "I've been looking for a long time."
With others, scouring the skies with rafts, searching, always searching. But he, at least, had found.
"Earl?"
"It's over, isn't it? The war?"
"Over. Every last mercenary is dead. Tomir too, they found him in a cellar."
"I know."
"You know?" Gartok frowned, then changed the subject. "What are they like, Earl? Did they feed you? Give you
water? How did you manage to persuade them?"
Questions followed by more and all stemming from a natural curiosity. Some impossible to answer while others
could only be guessed at. The extent of the underground domain. The means by which access was gained to the
surface. The method of breeding the selective strains which formed the extensions of the main intelligence—or had
there only been one.
Was Zakym the home of a tremendous, alien brain?
One thing was certain, the Sungari owned this world despite what men may have thought. They, it, were the
masters. Men were tolerated as a harmless insect would have been tolerated by a magnanimous gardener. But should
that insect bite it would be crushed as men would be exterminated should they grow too fast and become too greedy.
Plague could do it. The destruction of all surface life, the crops and herds, would force them to withdraw. And
there could be other ways based on the mind. Terrors which he could only imagine. Horrors without a name.
Dumarest rose and drank more of the brandy and felt the warmth of it spread from his stomach and restore some
of his humanity. He had wandered too long in the dark, relied on the alien life-form too greatly, had suffered its
probing too long. He needed to face those of his own kind, to hear voices, to take a long, hot bath and feel clean and
wholesome again.
He needed to hold Lavinia in his arms and feel the soft comfort of her, the assurance of her need. But when they
returned to Belamosk she was gone.

Chapter Fourteen
Roland came running to meet them as the raft landed in the courtyard. "Earl, how good to see you! And Kars! But
where is Lavinia?" He looked from one to the other. "Haven't you seen her?"
"No."
"But, Earl, you sent word for her to come and join you!" Roland looked baffled. "I don't understand this. The
messenger was explicit. He said that you'd been found and was hurt and wanted to see her. She insisted on leaving
immediately. I wanted to accompany her but she refused to allow it. We'd had a small argument, nothing serious, but
you know how determined she can be at times. I didn't want to upset her further so didn't press the point. But if you
didn't send for her then who did?"
Dumarest said, "What did the man look like? Describe him."
"A big man, broad with a broken nose and scars around his eyes. He had a patch on the back of his left hand as if
it had been burned at one time. I thought he might have been a herdsman."
"Flying a raft? Was he alone?"
"Yes. Of course, I should have noticed about the raft. It was stupid of me. One other thing, he had lost the little
finger of his left hand."
"Louchon!" Gartok scowled as he rubbed the edge of his jaw. "He was with Tomir but I thought he was dead. The
scars are the result of a cheap regraft and his hand once bore a tattoo. Someone didn't like the design and burned it
away with acid. A year later that same man was found hanging head down over a fire. No one could prove who had
cooked his brains but Louchon got the credit A hard man, Earl."
One the Sungari had missed and he had served Tomir as had the cyber. If one was alive then so could be the
other and it was obvious why the woman had been taken.
"Did the man say where I was supposed to be?"
"He mentioned a stop-over on the edge of Suchong's estate. The one near Eibrens Rise. I know it and could guide
you." Roland was anxious. "Earl, what is wrong? Why should anyone have tricked Lavinia?"
"They wanted a hostage."
"But why? What value could she be? The war is over."
One war, but another continued and was just as fierce in its way. As yet he had been the victor but how much
longer could his luck hold out?
As Dumarest turned to enter the castle Roland said, "Earl, aren't you going after her?"
"Later perhaps."
"Later? And you aren't sure? But man, she is carrying your child!"
"What?"
Roland gasped as Dumarest turned, catching him by the shoulder, the fingers digging deep.
"It's the truth, Earl, I swear it! That was why we quarreled. I said you'd leave her and she was certain you
wouldn't. Please! My shoulder!" He fell back, face drawn in pain, a hand rubbing his bruises. "You must go after her!
You must!"
For a moment Dumarest stared at the man then, without a word, turned and entered the castle. Gartok caught
Roland by the arm as he made to follow.
"Leave him."
"But he doesn't understand! Neither of you understand! Lavinia is being held at the stop-over. Tortured, perhaps,
beaten, mistreated, put to shame. Doesn't he care?"
"He cares," said Gartok then added, impatiently, "Are you blind? Can't you see he's in no fit condition to look for
the woman? He needs time to recover."
Time to swallow some wine and eat a plate of cold viands served by a smiling, bold-eyed girl. Time to strip and
sink into a steaming bath, to lean back and try to relax, to ease the ache of muscle and bone. To remember the
strange world of the Sungari.
To think over what Roland had said.
Lavinia with child? Her womb filled with his growing seed? Had it been a lie told to tease the man or the naked
truth revealed in a moment of stress?
If so it was added bait for the trap he was certain had been set.
"My lord?" The girl returned with towels and vials of lotion. "Do you want me to attend you?"
"No." He softened the sharp refusal. "Did you see your mistress leave?"
"No, my lord. Are you sure I cannot attend you? A good strong rub with this will make you feel fresh and tingling
all over."
"What is it?"
"A friction-mat, my lord." She held it up for his inspection. "We make them of woven strips of leather and special
fibers from the south. Odd isn't it? It always reminds me of a handful of worms."
Worms!
Silkworms!
Yet Roland had mentioned Eibrens Rise.
Later, when dressed and rested, he sent for the man. Roland was adamant.
 "I heard the name, Earl. I swear it. Eibrens Rise."
"I see." Dumarest looked past him to where Gartok was waiting. "Ready, Kars?"
"We can leave when you give the word."
"Then we leave now." Dumarest looked at Roland. "Will you come with us?"
"Of course. You need me to guide you to Eibrens Rise."
"No," said Dumarest. "To Taiyuah."
The place was full of creaks and smells, small sounds echoing in an oppressive atmosphere, the scent of
vegetation mingling with the reek of something else which stirred and rustled and which lifted the fine hairs on the
back of her neck with primitive distaste.
The worms, of course, she had never liked worms. Not since when, as a child, she had visited Khaya and had
wandered off on a personal exploration and had got lost and found herself in a strange place fitted with tables and
instruments and cages filled with moths and other things. Reaching for one she had knocked it over and showered her
hair with wriggling creatures. Later someone had told her they had been silkworms but it made no difference. The
name alone had been enough.
A long time ago and she had changed but Taiyuah seemed timeless. He had stood before her wringing his hands
his voice carrying his shame.
"I'm sorry, Lavinia, but I had no choice. You must understand that."
She had been cynical.
"No choice, Khaya? Again?"
"My worms! They threaten my worms—how can you understand?"
A weakness which made him vulnerable. As her love for Dumarest made her vulnerable. As his love for her—but
no, he was a different breed. He wouldn't come running to her even if still alive.
The doubt annoyed her. He lived! He had to live! To believe him dead was to help him into his grave.
And he had to be alive else she would have seen him in delusia. Nothing would have kept him away.
Stirring in her chair, dazed by the drugs she had been given, barely awake she murmured, "Earl, my darling. Earl,
come to me, my love. Come to me."
And he would, Ardoch was as certain of it as he could be about anything.
Standing tall in his scarlet robe he looked at the woman, wondering at the madness of emotion, the insanity
which defied all logic and flew in the face of all reason. A word and she had come running to fall into his hands. A
prize which would gain another, more valuable, yet still reacting with the blindness of glandular impetuosity.
It was only a matter of time and he could wait. As the woman, recovering from the sedative, waited, saying
nothing, listening to the drip of water, the rustle of things crawling on leaves. The cellar was chill and dank, a fit place
to end the war she thought had been finished. Here would be fought the final battle. The hue of the cyber's robe was
symbolic of blood.
Then she heard it, the slam of the door, a man's voice raised in alarm, the pad of booted foot. Quietly Ardoch
moved close to her, his hand lifting to rest against her throat.
"Earl!" She cried out as he entered the chamber, "Earl!"
He saw her, turning, his hand dropping to the knife in his boot, freezing as he spotted the cyber, the position of
his hand.
"Kars! Roland! Do nothing!"
Tension filled the room, giving birth to little sparkles which danced in the air, tiny motes of transient brilliance
which glinted in a pattern of elaborate complexity. Flickers in the eyes registering the shift of electrons in the brain,
the random motion of ions in the atmosphere. A hypersensitivity he had known before.
The Sungari? Here?
Dumarest looked at the walls, noting the cracks and fissures they held, each of which could contain alien eyes
and ears. The chamber was below the surface and so within their domain. Did every room hold their spies?
Things which could adopt many forms.
Worms, for example—or men.
"Drop your weapons," said Ardoch. "Dumarest, you will permit yourself to be bound. Refuse and the woman will
die."
Dumarest said, coldly, "What has that to do with me?"
"Earl!" Roland lunged forward to be caught and held by the mercenary. "Are you mad? Do as he says or Lavinia
will die!"
"Then let her die." Dumarest didn't look at the struggling man. "I didn't come here to save her. She means nothing
to me."
"Earl! For God's sake! She carries your child!"
 "Keep him quiet, Kars." As the mercenary clamped his hand over Roland's mouth Dumarest said to Ardoch, "Is
Louchon waiting at Eibrens Rise with men and gas to stun all who arrive? Did you think me fool enough to swallow
such a story?"
"The prediction was high in order of probability. But if you are not interested in the woman why are you here?"
"For you," said Dumarest. "For money. Chart Embris will pay a high reward to the man who delivers to him the
murderer of his son."
A bluff ? Ardoch stood, assessing the situation. How could he have been so greatly at fault? Every factor had been
calculated and an extrapolation drawn from viable premises. Yet, as he had so often reminded his clients, always
there was the unknown. And had he been so much in error? Dumarest had come as predicted—only the motivations
driving him seemed to be at variance. Greed instead of love. But had the act been witnessed or was it nothing but a
wild guess?
Dumarest, watching, saw the almost imperceptible movement of the hand resting against Lavinia's throat.
Dryly he said, "I trust you remembered to reload the needle buried beneath the nail."
Proof if any was needed. Weight to add to the logic of Dumarest's actions, his apparent unconcern for the
woman. Why should any man sacrifice himself for another? Why should any rational being be so insane?
And why did the room keep flickering?
Ardoch blinked, aware of a peculiar tension in the base of his skull, a stirring as if the grafted Homochon
elements were rising from quiescence. Colors glowed with a new brightness, hues merging, shifting, altering the tone
of skin and hair, touching the chamber with alien configurations.
But he was unprepared… the Samatchazi formula… the relaxation… the defenses against invasion…
His mind expanded, bursting with an overwhelming flood of sharpened impressions, opening like a flower to the
rays of alien suns.
Burning… burning… dying in a flash of unbearable revelation… a sac overfilled… the filament of an overloaded
bulb… searing… torn with mental corrosion…
Ardoch reared, rising to stand on the tips of his toes, head thrown back, mouth open, arms extended, the sinews
of his neck standing like ropes against the skin. His eyes were glazed, blind, and the pupils uprolled so that only the
glisten of white showed between the lashes. From his open mouth came an animal-like panting. A mewing. A
wordless, mindless drone.
And, standing, he burned.
Smoke rose from the skull-like head, streamed in oily tendrils from the sleeves of the scarlet robe; hung in a
noxious cloud so that his figure became blurred and sagged as if made of wax, flesh falling from bone, the bone
charring, turning black, becoming ash.
Falling.
Falling to lie in a small heap on the moldering floor.
To rest in a silence broken only by Lavinia's hysterical screams.
Three ships waited on the field and Dumarest had already made his choice; a compact vessel which would take
him beyond the Rift and on to Izhma. A world where he would find computers and a society free of traditions, a
planet on which the dead stayed that way and delusia was unknown.
Gartok said, "Well, Earl, I guess this is goodbye. But who knows? Someday we may meet again."
"When you get tired of the fleshpots, Kars?"
"Things are easy here," admitted the mercenary. "And a strong man can make his way if he is willing to abide by
the rules. But, one day, it'll get that I want to see the stars. That'll be the time for me to leave."
As it was time for Dumarest to leave but he had more reason than a need to see the stars. A cyber had died and
the Cyclan would know it. As they must know he was on Zakym. Others would be sent to find the trail and, again, the
dogs would be on the chase.
"They'll learn nothing from me," said Gartok, quietly. "Nor from anyone else on this world. How many really knew
you? How can they tell more than is already known?"
And how much did he know?
Dumarest looked at the man, seeing the scarred face, the flat, impassive features, but seeing more than lay on the
surface. Like Zakym the man held an inner life; one that was shrewd and more complex than the one he displayed. An
arrangement with the Church, he had said. Monks did not advocate violence and abhorred killing but justice was dear
to them. Even poetic justice.
"The Sungari," said Gartok, abruptly, as if wanting to end the scrutiny. "They took care of the cyber, yes?"
Driving him insane with the stimulation of his brain, showing him vistas beyond imagining, using him, probing,
discovering. Investigating the unusual specimen.
Testing him to destruction.
 "Burning him." Gartok shook his head. "I'll never forget that. Turning a living man into ash while we watched.
Maybe he deserved it, but, God, what an end! But why, Earl? Why?"
"They are curious," said Dumarest. "I appealed to that curiosity, And they could have wanted to show just how
powerful they are. Remember that, Kars, if ever you are tempted to cheat them."
"I will."
"I think they wanted to complete the bargain they had made with me. We found Louchon dead later—he and the
cyber were all that was left of the invading force." Dumarest added, casually, "You're staying at the castle?"
"Where you should have been, Earl. Lavinia—"
"No." He hadn't seen her since the time the cyber had burned.
"She could be made to understand. You had to reject her. I knew that and even Roland came to see it was all you
could have done."
"But he hasn't said so?"
"No." Gartok rubbed the edge of his jaw. "I didn't trust that man. I thought he was working with Tomir—but it was
Taiyuah who did that. Him and his damned worms! Well, he's old and will be dead soon."
Dead and forgotten and his petty intrigues ended. But others would live, Roland for one.
"He loves the woman," said Gartok. "You were right, Earl, the man is sick with longing for her. And I think that
now she knows it. He was the only one who showed concern. And yet—how can anyone change so soon?"
They didn't. She hadn't. But time would work its magic. She would forget or, if not forgetting, cease to
consciously remember. New life would come to fill her days and Roland would be there to provide the father and
comforter she and the child would need.
His child.
Born on this strange and alien world. To grow in comfort and security as all children should. To be happy as was
their right. The son or daughter he would never see.
A siren wailed from the field and Dumarest held out his hands. Gartok touched them with his own, palm to palm,
the mercenary salute of friendship showing the lack of weapons.
"Good luck, Earl."
"Goodbye."
Gartok watched as Dumarest headed toward the gate, passed through it, moved across the field to the waiting
ship. A man escaping from a world which had become a trap—but one still locked in the prison of his dream.

INCIDENT ON ATH

Chapter One
The figure was becoming far too bizarre in its depiction of pain. Thoughtfully Cornelius studied it, unsatisfied; no
one locked in a personal hell of torment should present the likeness of a clown. The jaw was disproportionate and he
altered it with a touch of the brush. The eyes, deeply sunken beneath flaring brows, held what could be taken for a
glint of ironic amusement and the mouth, gaping, seemed to bear the ghostly vestige of a smile. Only the body gave
him satisfaction; thin, gaunt, the ribs stark, the stomach a taut concavity, the musculature harshly delineated. The
toes, like the fingers, were indrawn in the semblance of avian claws.
A man suspended by lashings holding his wrists to a beam. One left to die in isolation. A simple theme—what
had gone wrong?
Irritably Cornelius set down his brush and examined the painting with minute care. The background, a coiling
mass of amorphous vapor, was deliberately neutral as was the foreground, a raw expanse of sand and stone. The
cross-beam, like those supporting it at either end, was of rough wood depicted with the same lack of fine detail in
order to throw the suspended figure into greater prominence.
A man hanging, naked, lost in a universe of pain. One alone and beyond even the concept of hope. A human
creature in the last stages of terminal agony. A victim. A sacrifice.
And yet, somehow, he had missed capturing the essential ingredient. To simply depict pain was not enough; there
had to be an affinity between the viewer and the subject. A delicate communication which would be marred by the
slightest inconsistency. Surely he had the details right?
Cornelius leaned back in his chair, thinking, blinking to sigh with vexation. No, he had not been wrong about the
anatomical details. A man so suspended would have the entire weight of his body thrown in a constriction against the
lungs which would require a constant effort to ensure an intake of air. Death would come by asphyxiation but before
that would be the struggle to survive, muscles tensing to ease the constriction, those muscles turning into areas of
screaming torment when assailed by cramps. And even when they failed to support the weight and so ease the
constriction death would not come swiftly. A man could hang in such a position for days and, if provided with a block
on which to support his weight, even longer.
A thought, and for a moment he considered it, then shook his head. To add a block, while enhancing the
symbolism, would ruin the composition. A second cross-beam would have to be added lower down and would
provide a distraction to the eye. An upright surmounted by a cross-piece would serve, but that would eliminate the
frame in which the suspended man was centered. No—man was trapped in a prison and the beams were symbols of
that. A cage grounded in dirt in which he could find nothing but death and pain. A limited universe which held only
anguish.
But how to convey the message?
How to eliminate the distracting hints of amusement in eyes and mouth? The touch of the bizarre? The glint and
twist, the subtle but damning suggestion that everything was a joke and death itself the final comedy?
"Cornelius!" The voice came from beyond the arched doorway causing little tinklings to murmur from the crystal
chimes hanging beside the portal. Ursula, of course. Who else could create music from shaped and suspended
fragments of glass? "Cornelius?"
She entered heralded by the whispering chimes, tall, slim, graceful as she crossed the tessellated floor to stand
beside his chair. She was all in blue, a variety of shades which included her eyes, her lips, the sheen of her hair. Deep
colors rising from the sandals which hugged her feet, to her cinctured waist, the swell of high and prominent breasts,
paling as they rose to frame her softly rounded shoulders with azure, deepening again at her lips, her brows, the
crested mane of jewel-set tresses.
"Cornelius." Her hand fell to rest on his shoulder, long fingers tipped with richly blue nails, tinted skin a
background to the gleam of gems set in wide bands of silver. Looking at the painting she said, "Another composition.
It's superb!"
"No."
"You are too critical. That man—I can feel his pain."
"And?" He shrugged as she frowned. "Is that all you see? A man in pain—nothing else?"
Her hesitation was answer enough. He had failed and by working on now he would only accentuate the failure.
Later, when less tired, he would again examine the painting.
Rising, he applied solvent to his hands, ridding them of traces of pigments. As he worked he said, casually, "Did
you enjoy your swim?"
"It was exercise."
"And Achiab? Was he also exercise?"
"When you are hungry, Cornelius, you eat." She turned to look at an unfinished statuette. "You were busy and I
was restless. Achiab was a means of passing the time. We enjoyed an interlude, together, though, I must admit, I was
disappointed. He was not as I remembered."
"Perhaps he, too, was merely hungry?"
"Perhaps."
"Or," he said dryly, "maybe he was simply bored."
She turned, stung, meeting his eyes as he finished cleaning his hands, her own eyes hard beneath the finely drawn
arch of her brows. For a long moment she stared at him and then, shrugging, turned away. A whisper came from the
chimes as she headed toward the door.
"Ursula—I'm sorry!"
She paused and turned, the suspended chimes catching the vibrations of her voice, providing a muted
accompaniment to her accusation.
"You checked—why?"
"An accident."
"What I do, where I go, whom I see—what are they to you?"
"It was an accident, Ursula, you must believe me." He gestured toward the painting. "I was studying this. The
figure seemed wrong and I was checking anatomical detail. And then, I suppose—"
"You checked." Her voice cut short his words, caused tinkles to stream like liquid notes from the chimes. "You
asked and pried. You had to know where I was and what I was doing. Why?" And then, before he could answer, she
added, softly, "Is it because you are in love with me, Cornelius? Is that it?"
A way out and to accept it would be to save his dignity. And there could be truth in it—why else had he wanted to
know where she had been and with whom she had spent her time? A subconscious urge? An association of ideas? He
glanced at the painting—no, that was ridiculous. And yet love could be considered to be a prison and the victim of
the sweet madness as firmly trapped as any prisoner.
The sweet madness—why had he called it that?
"Cornelius!" She had moved to close the gap between them and now stood so close that her perfume was thick in
his nostrils. A heavy, slightly acrid scent, but one which went well with the full sensuality of her lips, the sexuality of
her breasts. "Why be so diffident? If you love me then why not simply say so?"
And if he wanted her the same. He had enjoyed her in the past and could again—the appetite she had spoken of
was obviously still unappeased. But it was her appetite, not his. As always after working he felt drained.
"Ursula—"
"Don't say it!" Her hand rose to touch his lips. "I understand. We have been close too long for me to take offense.
You were concerned about me and the question slipped out and how could you avoid the answer? And I?" She
shrugged and turned from him to pace the floor, her sandals making small, firm noises, the echoes from the chimes
turning into explosive chords. "I'm bored," she said, coming to a halt. "Bored."
"You could find diversion."
"What?" She waited as he thought, spoke as he blinked. "Well? What do you suggest? Gorion's project for
landscaping the southern slopes? Sagittinia and her mobiles? Mitgang's hunt? Belzdek's drums? Debayo and his hopes
of contacting the dead?"
"There's—"
"Don't bother. I know them all as well as you do." The chimes caught the pad of her sandals and turned them into
melodious tinklings. "And don't suggest I take up painting. Or building. Or manufacturing perfumes. Or—" She broke
off, looking at her clenched hands, the knuckles a pale azure beneath the tinted skin like a child she said, "Cornelius,
what shall I do?"
"Have patience."
"Wait! Is that all you can suggest? And while waiting?" She answered her own question. "Where is your tekoa?"
Silently he gestured to where an ornate box rested on a small table set against a wall. The lid opened to reveal
swollen pods brilliant yellow against the scarlet interior. Taking one she bit into it and felt its released pungency fill
her mouth with tingling sweetness.
"Your first, Ursula?"
"Does it matter?" She selected another pod and slipped it into her mouth, biting, chewing it and the other to a
pulp. "You will make love to me?"
"No."
"You're a fool." Chewing she moved toward the window and stood before the high, arched opening which framed
the vista beyond. A third pod followed the others to fill her mouth and to muffle her voice. "A fool," she said again.
"Why refuse when it means so little?"
But already the refusal was a thing of the past and the rejection of no importance. Nothing, now, was of
importance. Not her irritation, her boredom, her lack of diversion, the cramped routine of monotonous days. All were
lost in the soft mantle of the euphoria which enveloped her with memories of sweet pungency.
She felt nothing as Cornelius guided her to a chair, saw nothing as he turned it to save her eyes from the glare of
the setting sun, heard nothing as he left the room and gave her over to darkness and dreams.
From the shadows the voice was a plaintive wail, "Mister, please help me. For the love of God give me food. I
starve!"
Dumarest walked on, keeping to the roadside edge of the sidewalk, giving the shrouded mouth of the alley no
more than a single glance. Someone lurked inside and he saw a lifted hand, a pale, strained face, eyes which held
desperation. A girl barely more than a child, dressed in rags, cheeks sunken, hair a mess, naked feet crusted with
sores. An object of pity but on Juba things were not always what they seemed. The girl need not be alone. A pimp
could be crouching behind her in the shadows poised to rise, to strike, willing to kill in order to rob. The girl herself
could be a predator offering herself as bait or she need not be a girl at all but a youth acting the part.
"Mister, please! Food for my baby! My body for a crust!"
The voice grew ugly and snarled an obscene curse as Dumarest moved on. He ignored it as he had the plea; to
yield to anger and seek revenge would be to run into a trap if the beggar were other than what she seemed.
"Mister!" A harlot this time, tall, thin, her face masked with paint, perfume enveloping her like a cloud. The figure
hugged by glistening plastic was lush and firm but her mouth matched the hardness of her eyes. "You lost? Lonely,
maybe?"
"Lost."
"Looking for something?" Her voice was suggestive. "A game? A girl?"
 "The field."
"You won't find it in the Maze." Her voice held mockery. "Drugs, yes, debauchery and degenerates if that's what
you want, drink and all manner of dubious delights. But the field, no." She blinked at the coin he slipped into her
hand. "What's this for?"
"An entertainer should be paid."
"An entertainer? But I'm a—" She broke off, laughing. "So I'm an entertainer."
"And one with a way with words." He smiled as she searched his face with her eyes. "And I could use a guide." He
added a second coin to the first. "Which way to the field?"
"Straight ahead, third right, bear left, aim for the pylon and turn sharp left when you reach the fountain." She
hefted the coins in her palm. "For as much again you could have me for what's left of the night."
"Thank you, no."
"I'm safe, mister. No hidden pimp or spiked drinks at my place. No?" Her sigh of regret was genuine. "A pity. Well,
good luck—and watch yourself."
A warning which applied to all worlds but which had special meaning on Juba. A planet circling a sullen red giant
hugging the fringe of the Rift. One exploited by entrepreneurs for the minerals they ripped from the soil. The
dumping ground of criminals, the culture a seething mess of opposed interests. The rich lived in safe, strong houses
set high on the hills surrounding the field. The merchants and traders used hotels and areas patrolled by armed and
watchful guards. The poor rotted in hovels, working, starving, dying to be flung into the mud. The Maze was a vicious
playground in which there was no law other than that of the jungle. A festering sore in which only the strong could
hope to survive. "No!"
Dumarest heard the cry as he neared the fountain and he halted, listening, eyes searching the area. Light came
from scattered lanterns; floods of lambent color cast by bulbs set behind tinted panes the swaths of brightness edged
with somber shadows. The fountain itself depicted three intertwined figures locked in a suggestive embrace, the
water rising from their juxtaposition spraying into an umbrella which fell with muted tinklings. "No! Please, no!"
The voice again, strained, echoing its fear and terror. A high voice accompanied by the sudden pad of running
feet. A quick, hard tattoo which came from beyond the fountain. "Feld!"
A deeper voice which snapped a name and more footsteps, wider spaced and yet as hurried, which carried a man
around the bulk of the fountain toward where Dumarest stood. Light rested between them, a patch of emerald which
showed a peaked face with sunken eyes and a mouth which gaped above a ruff of beard. The hands, lifted, held a net
and the belt hugging the waist supported a club.
A man hurrying to cut off another's escape. A woman, from the sound of the voice and the rapidity of the
footsteps. Another, at least, would be following her and there could be more. Hunters after easy prey. Vultures avid to
peck flesh and bone, to strip, to use, perhaps to kill and certain to maim.
"Feld!"
The running man checked as Dumarest called his name, halting to turn, frowning, the net lifting high as Dumarest
lunged forward, his right hand weighed with the knife he had lifted from his boot. Nine inches of honed and pointed
steel which flashed green in the light as it lifted to slash at the net the man threw at him, to drop, to lift again as the
bearded mouth opened to yell. Before the alarm could be given the point had driven up beneath the jaw, pinning it to
the palate, driving higher to crash through the sinus cavities and come to rest in the brain.
"Feld!" The deep voice, urgent now. "Hurry, damn you! Get her!"
Dumarest turned, tearing free the knife as the rapid tattoo of footsteps came to a sudden halt. Backed as she was
by an umber glow he could see nothing but a shape haloed with a fuzz of hair, a hand lifted as if in mute appeal, a
body which cringed as he moved toward it.
"No! Dear God, no!"
"Feld?" The deep voice snarled its impatience. "What the hell are you waiting for?"
He came from behind the woman, tall, massive, a round head set like a ball on a thickly columnar neck. The skull
was coated with bristle and the ears flared in a fashion which would have been comical had he not radiated an aura
of primeval savagery. He was not alone. Beside him, gliding on padded feet, was a creature almost as tall as a man,
furred, high-pointed ears cocked over a sloping skull. The mouth, gaping, held pointed incisors. A mutant, the product
of wild radiations which had twisted normal genes and resulted in something from nightmare. A freak but a
dangerous one; Dumarest caught the gleam of retractable claws as the thing lifted its hands.
To the woman, not looking at her, Dumarest said, "There is a dead man behind me. He has a net and a club. Get
to him and use them against the mutant Move?"
If she obeyed, the furred thing would follow her, eager to prevent her escape. If she had spirit and was not totally
numbed by fear she could engage its attention for long enough to give Trim time to settle the giant But, in any case,
the big man had to come first.
 He leaned forward as Dumarest approached, scowling, one hand lifting to his waist.
"Feld? Is that you? What the hell are you playing at?"
Unless he was blind he would have recognized Dumarest for a stranger so the words were to provide a
distraction. Dumarest moved as the hand lifted from the belt, closing the distance between them before the weapon it
held could be brought into play. Air whined as his knife slashed upward, the edge meeting the hand at the joint of the
wrist, dragging, slicing through skin and fat and tendon, releasing a shower of blood, moving on as it grated against
bone.
A cut which did no more than maim, but the laser fell from the numbed fingers as the giant yelled and drew back
the fist of his other arm.
And yelled again as the knife, moving upward, changed direction to slash at his eyes.
Dumarest felt the tip hit the cheek, scrape over the bone and miss the eyeball by a fraction before slicing the
nose. A cut which released blood but failed to blind as he'd intended. As the knife whined on its way the cocked fist
slammed forward.
As he fell Dumarest heard the woman scream.
He rolled as he landed on the cobbles, rising to dodge the vicious kick the giant aimed at his face, dodging
another as he regained his feet. The blow had numbed his right shoulder and would have smashed his skull had he
not risen to block it and rode the punch as it landed. A chance the big man had missed and the only one Dumarest
intended he should get.
"You bastard!" The man panted as he lifted his injured wrist. "You dirty bastard!"
The hand moved as he spoke, a carmine rain spraying over Dumarest's head as he ducked and lunged, the knife a
stinging extension of his arm. The giant was huge, solidly packed with muscle, resistant flesh it would be difficult to
penetrate with a stab. Also he could be wearing protective clothing similar to Dumarest's own, metal mesh buried in
shielding plastic and proof against point or edge.
Where was the mutant?
Had the woman screamed because it had reached her? Was it even now tearing at her throat or had she
screamed to warn him of its approach?
Dumarest lunged, cut, backed as blood spurted from the inside of one of the thick thighs. Moving to one side he
saw the woman, the furred shape at her side, the gleam of the claws resting against her throat. Saw, too, the laser
where it lay in the street where it had fallen from the gashed hand.
He sprang, the knife lifting, moving forward as he landed, umber and emerald flashing from the blade as it left his
hand. Immediately he stooped, snatched up the laser and, turning, lifted it, his finger tightening on the release as he
aimed. The ruby guide beam illuminated the scarred face, added a deeper hue to the blood seeping from cheek and
nose, found the eye and ruined it as the projected heat burned its way into the brain.
As the giant fell Dumarest spun, laser lifted, finger poised on the release. His arm fell as he saw the huddled shape
at the woman's feet.
"You killed it," she said blankly. "You threw something and it fell."
"A knife." He recovered it, drawing it from the throat, wiping it clean on the matted fur before thrusting it back
into his boot. Are you hurt?"
"So fast," she whispered. "You moved so fast. One second you were facing that man and then, the next, you'd
turned and thrown and—" She looked at her hand, at the smears on her fingers. "Blood! It tore at my throat!"
"Scratched it," corrected Dumarest. "The skin is barely broken. Why didn't you use the net and the club?"
"I tried but I couldn't seem to move fast enough. I guess I'm a coward," she admitted. "And perhaps a fool. I was
warned but—" She broke off, looking at the dead. "Why did they want to hurt me?"
"For what you are and what you carry. For fun. Even, perhaps, for food. Was this yours?"
She looked at the laser he held out to her.
"Yes. I drew it when they frightened me but one knocked it from my hand. Then I ran but they followed. If it
hadn't been for you I would have been helpless." She shivered then said, "Please, will you take me home?"

Chapter Two
Her name was Sardia del Naeem and she lived in a small and luxurious apartment set on the slope of a hill in an
area graced with flowering trees. A safe and protected place but not her home. That was on Tonge and she had come
to Juba on business. Things she told Dumarest when preparing him a drink. Vanishing into the bathroom when he
took it not so much, he guessed to remove the grime of the day as to lave away the recent contact with vileness.
"Earl!" Her voice rose above the gush of the shower. "When you said those men could have been after food—did
you mean it?"
"Yes."
"Literally?" The roar of water died, her voice loud and strained in the contrasting silence. "To hunt and kill their
own kind as if they hunted an animal?"
He said dryly, "Have you no slums on Tonge?"
"Slums, yes, but—"
"No desperate? No starving?"
"Perhaps, but nothing like the Maze. Surely it is unique."
"No." Dumarest sipped at his drink and tasted ice and astringent bitterness. "Take a world like this and you have a
place like the Maze. One with the same or a different name but one holding the same dangers. Fools go into them for
amusement. The wise stay well away."
"As I should have done?"
"Yes."
"And you, Earl?"
"I was on my way to the field."
"And so saved my life." There was a click as the shower door opened. "And now, Earl, please pour me a drink."
She stepped from the bathroom as he turned, the tall glass in his hand, and they stood facing each other in the
warm intimacy of the chamber. She had changed, the fuzz of hair tamed now to rest in a thick, glistening tress of
shimmering jet over one rounded shoulder, the strands held by a coil of gem-set gold. Her face was oval, the eyes
pools of limpid brown fringed with a fan of lashes, her skin the hue of sun-kissed olives, a brownness which held the
depth of chocolate, of creamed coffee, of leaves turning from russet to umber.
Her nostrils were flared a little, matching the fullness of the lips in betraying sensuality, the eyes enigmatic
beneath their upswept brows. Her ears were small, the chin smoothly rounded, the neck a column of grace.
Beneath a simple gown of multicolored silk her figure held the ripeness of maturity.
A woman no longer young but one who moved with the grace of a trained dancer. One who smiled as she took
the proffered glass then sobered as she stared with frank appraisal at her guest.
Taller than she was by almost a head, his body hard and firm beneath the long-sleeved, high-collared tunic he
wore, the smooth gray plastic marred now by minute stains. His face was hard, lines and planes presenting a mask of
iron determination, the mouth alone touched with sensitivity yet one which could easily become cruel. A man who
had long since learned to live alone, to rely on no one but himself.
Would he, if starving, eat what came to hand?
"My lady, is the drink not to your liking?"
"Of course." She blinked and sipped aware of the path her thoughts had taken. One guided by his presence, the
aura of masculinity he radiated and to which she felt herself respond. "Help yourself to another drink if you want."
She watched as he crossed to the table and added ice and water to the glass in his hand. It was hard to remember
that only a short while ago he had killed; that the stains on his tunic and matching pants were dried blood, that the
knife riding in one of the knee-high boots had cut and slashed and hurtled through the air to sink into yielding flesh. A
knife fighter, she decided, such men knew better than to stab, and yet such men did not throw their blades. To do so
would be to disarm themselves and, should the throw miss, death would be inevitable.
She said, as their eyes met, "You said you were on your way to the field. To join your ship?"
"To find one."
"To book passage?" Then, as he nodded, she added, "But why go through the Maze?"
"A shortcut." A lie, but it would serve and there was no need to explain that, in the winding streets, anyone
following could be thrown off his trail. If anyone had been following. "And you?" He frowned as she told him. "To
look for a man? In the Maze? At night?"
"I was stupid," she admitted. "But I was impatient to see him and I was armed and thought I could take care of
myself."
"And?"
"I got lost in the alleys. I asked a man for directions—the small one called Feld. He said something obscene and
touched me." Her free hand rose to her breasts. "I stepped back and drew the laser but he laughed and came toward
me. I dodged and someone knocked the gun from my hand. The big man, I think. Then I ran."
And would have died had Dumarest not saved her.
He said, "You made a mistake. Once you drew the laser you should have used it."
"Killed without warning?"
"Why warn if you intend to kill? Why draw a weapon if you don't intend to use it?"
Simple rules and ones which, perhaps, governed his life, but she was used to a more gentle environment. Like a
tamed dog she had bared her teeth hoping the sight would protect her, unwilling and unable to do more. A pathetic
defense and useless against the predators she had met.
The things they could have done to her.
Ice tinkled in the glass as she emptied it with convulsive swallows, searching for the anodyne the alcohol would
provide, meeting Dumarest's eyes as she lowered the container.
"It's over," he said quietly. "All over. Now you can forget it."
Men dead, blood spraying, the touch of claws at her throat. The thought of what could have happened—forget it?
Numbing she took the refilled glass Dumarest handed to her and drank and lowered it half-empty and then took a
deep, shuddering breath. Was she a girl to be so afraid? A young and silly creature finding refuge in hysteria? Amil
had died in her arms after his greatest performance, his heart bursting beneath the strain, blood seeping from
between his lips, marring their last kiss. And Verecunda, after the leap, when she had fallen so badly and all had heard
the ghastly splinter of bone—no, she was not a child!
Dumarest said, "Better now?"
"You think I am weak?"
"No, a woman who is human."
"A fool?"
"A person." He set down his own glass. "Is there anything I can do for you before I leave."
"Leave?"
He said, patiently, "You are home now. Safe. Take something if you must but don't dwell on the past. It's over.
Finished. Just forget it."
"You keep saying that. Do you think it so easy?"
"No," he admitted. "But sometimes it needs to be done." Then, as she made no comment, he added, "Do you need
medical assistance? The shock—"
"Is one I can handle. She inhaled, inflating her chest, automatically throwing back her shoulders and tightening
her stomach. Rising on her points she spun in a graceful pirouette then crossed the floor to where a cube glowed in
kaleidoscopic shimmers. As she touched it the shifting rainbows stilled and music softly filled the air.
"Poisanard's Suite," she said. "You know it?"
"No."
"It's quite recent, the last thing he ever did. He composed it a month before he died. Some say that it holds the
sum total of his life, but I disagree. He was too boisterous for that. He lived and, having lived, moved on. The music
holds what is to come not what has gone. Listen and you will appreciate what I mean."
Listen for how long? And, while listening, what would he lose? From the window Dumarest could see the distant
field, the ring of lights around the perimeter fence bright against the clouded sky. Even as he watched a ship lifted,
seeming to hang poised for a moment, a shimmering bubble which darted upward wreathed in its Erhaft field, to
dwindle, to vanish as it drove into space.
A ship he had missed because a woman had chosen to walk into danger.
A passage lost because of a coincidental meeting.
It had to be that. There had been no way of telling which route he would take or the time he would take it. The
woman, as far as he could tell, was genuine and there had been nothing contrived about the way those who had
accosted her had died.
His eyes shifted focus, looked at her reflection on the pane, the smooth, olive features, the eyes which looked into
distance and not at his back. An intelligent woman—too intelligent to risk walking the Maze at night unless driven by
a desperate need. Or perhaps she was simply ignorant—Tonge was not Juba and those accustomed to gentle worlds
found it hard to accept the savagery normal on harsher planets.
Without turning he said, "What are you?"
"A dancer."
"A what?"
"A dancer. Ballet. On Tonge I was the prima ballerina of the Corps Mantage. You have seen ballet? You know
something of it? A harsh discipline, Earl, and endless exercise. It takes skill and stamina and suppleness. It takes time
and dedication. And then—" She shrugged and gestured, hands fluttering like pale moths against the pane. "I grew
old. It is as simple as that."
"And came to Juba." He turned and stared into her eyes. "To dance?"
"To deal. When you are old in ballet, Earl, you are finished. Continue too long and bones grow brittle, sinews lose
their elasticity and applause turns into derision. Now I deal in works of art. With luck fortunes can be made."
"How?"
"Not by finding rare and costly treasures, Earl, though that, too, at times. No, the thing is to find an artist who has
yet to be appreciated. To buy his work cheap and then to sell it dear. To hold it, build his reputation, to display it, have
it enhanced by select critical praise, then to cash in on the created demand."
"To rob," said Dumarest. "To pay the artist a pittance and then to make a pile. And you call the Maze a jungle?"
"It isn't the same," she protested. "A work of art is valueless until it has found a buyer. And once the artist is
known he will get his reward. Once he is known," she added bitterly. "Once he is found. That's why I was in the Maze.
To find a man who might know a man who—but why go on? It's hopeless."
"The prima ballerina of the Corps Mantage," said Dumarest softly. "Yet once you were a small girl leaning on a
barre and trying to stand on your points. Did you think it was hopeless then? A waste of time even to try?"
"This is different. Have you ever looked for a needle in a haystack?"
Looked and was looking, but he said nothing of his search for the world of his birth.
"You must have clues, Sardia. The artist, for instance, you must have samples of his work. It is a man?"
"I don't know, Earl. It could be a man or a woman but I think it likely to be a man. A matter of instinct, I'll admit,
and I could be wrong." Rising from where she sat she stilled the music and poured them both fresh drinks. Handing a
glass to Dumarest she continued, "I'm following a rainbow and hoping for a pot of gold. Some paintings were offered
to a gallery on Tonge and I was fortunate enough to be the one approached. I was an associate, but never mind that,
the thing is I recognized the genius of their creator. Naturally I wanted to know more but the vendor could only tell
me he'd bought them from a man on Juba. Someone here, in this city, who owns a shop close to the field. I saw him
and he claimed ignorance of the origin of the paintings. I tried a little bribery and gained the address of a man who
worked for the dealer at times. He lives in the Maze. I went to find him—the rest you know."
"How long have you been on Juba?"
"A couple of weeks. This place is rented. Why?"
"Two weeks. Did it take you that long to find the local dealer?"
"He was away and it took time to check him out. I had to scour the galleries and find out what I could before I
approached him."
"And?"
"He admitted nothing, but that's normal, he'd want to retain his source of supply. Naturally I was casual in my
approach. I acted the part of a tourist looking for an interesting souvenir. Luckily he had two parts of a triptych and I
asked for the address of the artist so as to obtain the third. He wouldn't give it to me. The artist, naturally, wasn't the
one I am looking for but it shows the man's caution. I'd hoped to learn more from his assistant."
And had failed and had almost lost her life and lacked the courage to try again. But Dumarest?
She said thoughtfully, "You could help me, Earl."
"No."
"Please." His refusal increased her desire to gain his aid. "I need you to help me. All it will take is a little time. You
are accustomed to dealing with men like the dealer. He will respect you. And once we find the artist I promise you
will not regret it. A share of what I make. A third of the clear profit."
"No."
"How much then? A half ? A half of all we make, Earl. Equal partnership. I'll advance all expenses which will later
be deducted." Hesitating, she added, "This agreement to be for the first items obtained. I—why do you smile?"
"As a dancer, Sardia, you make a good dealer."
"I am a dealer, and when you work for the Corps Mantage you learn to keep your wits about you. A deal, Earl?"
"No."
"But why not? Can't you spare the time? Don't you trust me?" Her voice hardened a little. "Is that it? Do you think
I've been feeding you a pack of lies."
"Not lies, Sardia. But perhaps a dream."
"The coordinates of the world of solid treasure. The clue to a fabulous fortune. The whereabouts of Bonanza,
maybe, or El Dorado, or Jackpot, Avalon or even Earth. I've heard them ail before. Men who try to cash in on
ignorance or greed or who try to buy favors with a list of figures. Fools for trying it and bigger fools for thinking
others can be so gullible. But I'm not trying to sell you a legend, Earl. Not the location of some mythical planet. My
artist is real and I can prove it!" She vanished into a room which held a bed, reappeared holding a canvas which she
thrust toward him. "Here!"
The painting was that of a child crying, and the artist had caught all the pain and torment of the universe in the
young and innocent face.
"It's good," said Dumarest.
"Good? It's superb! Look at it, damn you! Look at it!"
A thing of ten by twenty inches, the background dark, the central figure illuminated by a glowing, mottled ball.
The child dressed in a nondescript gown so that it could have been of either sex. The face round, the eyes luminous,
liquid with tears which fell over the cheeks, the little hands clenched, one holding a thorned rose, the other a tattered
thing of rag and buttons. A doll which had given pleasure as the flower had given pain. On the hand gripping it,
touches of red showed where blood had seeped from wounds caused by the thorns. Pleasure and pain—the
summation of existence.
"Look at the detail," whispered the woman. "Study it. You can see every thread, every stitch, every grain of the
sand on which the child is sitting. You can almost smell the scent of the rose. You can almost feel the pain of the
thorns. Look at it, sink into it, feel it—Earl, feel it, man! Feel it!"
And, suddenly, he was a child again sitting on a harsh and barren slope with the bitter wind stinging his eyes and
filling them with tears, while, in his hand, the small creature he had caught squirmed and wriggled and fought for its
life as he was fighting for his. The lizard he would shortly eat, biting it, chewing, swallowing it raw. Life dying to
maintain life. Savagery beneath the moon.
The moon?
"Earl!" The woman touched his hand. "Earl?"
He ignored her, eyes focused on the mottled ball illuminating the crying child. A rough, pitted, scarred and
cratered orb depicted with the same painstaking detail as the garment, the sand, the doll, the rose and the thorn. A
ball which bore the semblance of a skull. One he had seen before.
"Earl?" Sardia's fingers were warm against his own. "Earl, is anything wrong?"
Again he ignored her, lifting the painting, tilting it, his eyes hungry as they examined the silvery ball. A full moon.
A familiar sight.
The moon he had seen when a child on earth.
There was money on Juba. The minerals torn from far below the surface, shipped, provided a steady stream of
wealth reflected in the luxurious appointments of the houses set high on the hills but those who owned the most
displayed it the' least. On Juba only the children were close to the Cyclan.
Cyber Hine studied them as he stood behind the door leading to the classroom. The one-way glass gave him a
clear view and he watched with calm detachment as Necho turned in his seat to whisper to Baaras behind, to Ceram
at one side. A restless boy and yet one who showed promise. A useful addition if his questing nature could be brought
under control and, in any case, a future supporter of the institution which now gave him food, accommodation and
education. A debt which, later, he would repay.
"Master!" The acolyte was looking at him and Hine examined the smooth face for any sign of disrespect. A man
older than himself, one who had failed to reach the required degree as yet, but one who would continue to try and
continue to serve. "It is time, Master," he said. "The pupils are waiting."
And could wait and would wait should he so decide, but Hine was aware of his recently enhanced status and the
fact that, in a sense, he was on probation. How he acted, how he conducted himself, all were of importance to future
advancement and the acolyte, as was proper, would report as to his attitude.
A nod and the door was opened, the whispers dying as the tall figure in the scarlet robe swept into the room to
take his place on the podium. From his elevated position Hine stared at the class, his face impassive, his shaven head
adding to his skull-like appearance. A cyber was never fat; excess tissue was wasteful in terms of energy consumption
and proof that the diet was ill-balanced in relation to need. Food was fuel, the body a mechanism to house the brain,
the brain itself the seat of the all-important intelligence. What impaired the efficiency of the mind was bad, what
aided it was good—a dictum which determined how a cyber was dressed, how he lived, even the very temperature of
his environment.
"You will pay attention," said Hine. "During this session we shall be concerned with logical extrapolation of
sequences. On the screen before you will be flashed a picture consisting of twenty-three shapes. From the others
shown at the foot of the panel you must select the one which belongs to the set of twenty-four. Commence."
A simple exercise but one designed both to stimulate the mind and to signal potential material for higher and
more selective training. It was followed by others, each a little harder than those previously given, the inbuilt desk
computer keeping the scores. It was low and Hine pressed a button on the master panel to scramble and repeat the
sequence on the same basic level as before but with different images.
"A warning," said Hine, his voice maintaining its even modulation: a tone devoid of any irritant factors.
"If you fail this time then an electric shock will be given. The intensity will increase in ratio to continued failure."
A whip to drive them to better effort and the reward of food later for those who passed a determined level. Hine
sat, light reflecting from the design on the breast of his scarlet robe, the Seal of the Cyclan which, in time, some of
those now studying could wear. Would wear if previous experience was of any value. Must wear if the Cyclan was to
expand and survive.
Sitting, watching, his face impassive Hine remembered his own past and training. The sons of the wealthy and
influential, while educated, were rarely selected to wear the scarlet robe. There was no need; conditioned, they would
serve the aims of the Cyclan when it came to them to adopt the trappings of power. Others, those with ambitious
parents, had their minds sharpened and their sympathies directed so that they, too, became invisible extensions of the
vast organization. From the poor, the desperate, the hungry, came those who sought to rule the entire galaxy. The
cybers who wore the scarlet robe. The living machines of flesh and blood dedicated to the pursuit of total and
absolute domination of all living things in the universe.
Servants of the Cyclan of which Hine was one. He had been starving, covered with sores, rotten with a wasting
disease and willing to do anything for a bowl of soup or a crust of bread. Insanity had driven him to attempt to steal
from a cyber, careless of the dire penalties which all knew befell those caught. And he had been caught—even now
he could remember the terror which had engulfed him at the thought of being turned into a living horror, his limbs
distorted, amputated, grafted into new positions on his body so that he would walk backward and upside down—
fears born of whispers which peopled the unknown with nightmare. Instead he had been washed and fed and tested.
And healed and taught and tested. And watched and probed and tested again and again by those for whom such work
was a specialty. Food had become something to be taken without enjoyment and without thought as to its source.
Emotions were to be controlled, diminished, negated. The mind was paramount at all times at any cost. The body
was a machine.
Of his class some vanished without explanation. Others were punished with merciless application. A few reached
a desired proficiency.
At puberty he was operated on; an adjustment to the cortex which took from him the ability to feel emotion.
Never would he know hate or love, hope or fear, joy or despair. Freed of the hampering effect of such disturbing
afflictions he could concentrate solely on the expansion of his mind and the trained talent he possessed. One which
gave the Cyclan its awesome power.
"Necho, come here." The boy had scored high. Now Hine gestured to the shapes lying before him. "One is
different from the others. Which?"
A boy, awed, would spend long minutes looking for the difference which he couldn't see, too timid to accuse his
master of deception. Another would find a difference where none existed; doubting his own judgment.
Necho said, "Master, they are the same."
Silently Hine reached out and turned the pieces over. One held an indentation.
"Master, I thought—"
"You assumed," corrected Hine. "You did not listen or, listening, you failed to understand. Twelve strokes of the
birch will impress the lesson on your memory. That and going foodless to bed."
A harsh punishment, but a good tool needed to be tempered. One day, perhaps, the boy would become an acolyte
and even be elevated to a cyber. Once accepted, there was no limit as to how high he could rise. Given time he could
become the Cyber Prime himself and certainly, if proven worthy, he would end as a unit of Central Intelligence.
As would all who wore the Seal.
The reward of a lifetime of service when, the body failing, the brain would be removed from the skull and
immersed in a vat of nutrient fluids. There, in series with countless others, it would live on, aware, conscious, working
to solve problem after problem until the smallest secret and the largest had been made clear. Until all things were
united into a common whole.
The aim and object of the Cyclan.
Higher in the building Cyber Buis sat neither brooding nor permitting himself the indulgence of memory. Such
things were the natural irritations of youth, and between himself and Hine stretched half a century of dedicated
effort. Time enough for him to have climbed to the summit of the Cyclan on Juba and more than time for him to have
sharpened his talent to the fine point of keenness which gave its own reward in terms of mental achievement. The
only true pleasure any cyber could know aside from the heady intoxication of communication with Central
Intelligence.
A time when the engrafted Homochon elements would be stimulated by the Samatachazi formula and mental
contact achieved with the tremendous complex lying at the heart of the headquarters of the Cyclan. A form of near-
instantaneous mental transmission which bridged the gulf between the stars and made all cybers basically one.
But such communication was used only as a necessity aside from the regular schedules and there was other work
to be done. Buis glanced at the sheaf of reports lying on his desk, flipping papers as each was scanned, its content
assessed, correlated, intermeshed, with the whole. Others would have filtered the data but still the sheaf was thick,
for who could ever be certain that some minor detail, some apparent trifle might not hold the key to a far more
complex situation.
A button sank beneath his finger as Buis spoke into a recorder.
"Action on report 354782. Manufacture of synthetic drug HXT 239Z to be discontinued. Hints to be spread of
mutations discovered in Jelman's Sickness. New drug HXT 5Y to be introduced as a substitute for that withdrawn."
 At double the price and the bankruptcy of the plant packaging the discontinued compound. Another would get
the contract and the Cyclan would gain not only wealth but a grateful client. And, as a bonus, a lesson would have
been taught to those who opposed accepting the services of the Cyclan and the advice the cybers gave.
A small victory, perhaps, but battles were won because of small victories and, with the battles, the war.
Another sheet, a decision, another, a momentary hesitation as Buis assimilated the information it contained. Data
apparently unrelated to another problem but facts which filled a gap. Mentally he reviewed the situation, building
from a known base, extrapolating the logical sequence of events, selecting those of the highest order of probability
and arriving at a prediction which was as certain as anything could be in a universe afflicted by unknown factors.
His talent, the ability of every cyber, the skill of being able to take a handful of facts and, from them, extrapolate
what most likely would take place. The service offered to those in high places where decisions needed to be made. To
those in industry who had to gain knowledge of market trends. To politicians and rulers and those who aspired to
power. The subtle, unseen, hidden power which guided the destiny of worlds as if they had been puppets on a string.
More sheets, scanned, put by; situations which could wait, others developing as planned, items of no relevant
interest Then one which caught his attention.
Into a communicator Buis said, "Mharle, with reference to report 382534. A client requesting computer time at
the Cha'Nang Institute. One concerned with spectroscopic determination."
A moment then, "I have it. In view of the general directive I judged it best to refer the matter to you."
"As you should. The report gives no name."
"None was given."
"Elaborate."
"It was a simple inquiry as to available computer time as appertaining to a stellar search to match an existing
spectrogram. The information given was, of necessity, of a general nature such as cost per minute of use of
installation and the probability of narrowing the search by eliminating obviously unsuitable stars. The usual fee for
such initial inquiries was paid. The inquiry was not unusual in the light of the commerce attached to Juba. Only the
general directive made it significant."
"No name? No address?"
"No."
"And, of course, no description? As I expected." Buis's voice carried no hint of irritation but mentally he made a
note to reassess Mharle's standing. The man had overlooked the obvious. While it was true that a port with heavy
traffic could expect such inquiries yet they would originate from shipping companies or from captains owning their
own vessels. Neither would make idle investigations. And neither would fail to have registered their names so as to
offset the initial fee against the cost of any later search.
A civilian then, one cautiously feeling his way, content to pay for limited information.
One caught by the general directive which had been designed to do just that.
No, not caught, not yet. One isolated and centered in aroused interest. A target. Quarry to be hunted down.
"Master?" Mharle was waiting.
"Have men wait at the Cha'Nang Institute. Continuous surveillance. If anyone makes similar inquiries have them
followed and, if they attempt to leave the city, apprehended. Use any force necessary but, under no circumstances is
the life of the subject to be endangered. Set a similar watch at the field. Description as on directive ED 201. Orders as
above. Apprehend but do not endanger. And, Mharle—do not fail."
Buis looked at his hand as it fell from the button of the communicator. It was thin, thickly veined, the skin
mottled, the fingers claw-like with age. A long life and a busy one in which he had served the Cyclan with every cell
of his being. And now, at the end—he watched as his hand closed as if gripping something of inestimable value.
Dumarest on Juba!
It had to be Dumarest. A man, making such an inquiry, taking such precautions—who else could it be?
One who had, somehow, slipped through the net set to catch him after his whereabouts had been determined on
a distant world. The attempt made there to gain information as to the whereabouts of a certain star repeated here.
The same interest in the spectrum of a forgotten sun. The man the Cyclan searched for. The man they needed to find.
The secret they had to regain.
Leaning back Buis closed his eyes, reliving the time when, in communication with Central Intelligence, all had
been made clear to him. A discovery stolen from a secret laboratory of the Cyclan and passed on to Dumarest. The
affinity twin which could give one mind the power to enter the body of a prepared host and dominate it. To become
that actual person. To feel and see and walk and talk and live in a new body. A means to dominate the rich and
powerful, to use them with cyber minds controlling their bodies, to extend the rule and power of the Cyclan to every
inhabited star.
A universe held in a molecular chain of fifteen bio-chemical units, one of which, reversed, determined the
subjective or dominant characteristics. The biochemical units were known. What the affinity twin could do had been
demonstrated.
But the correct order in which the fifteen units had to be assembled was the secret Dumarest carried in his brain.
One which would be rediscovered given time—but the possible combinations ran into millions. If a chain could
be formed and tested every second, still it would take millennia to test them all. Endless years which the capture of
one man could save.
Dumarest!
Buis opened his eyes and looked at his hand now closed tighter than before. Dumarest was on Juba—he was
certain of it. It was only a matter of time before he was found.

Chapter Three
She was soft and warm and moistly engulfing. A creature of passion and demanding heat with skin like silk and
curves which united into a symphony of delight. Her odor was enticing; that of rain-drenched loam, of sun-kissed
grain, of an opening bud, the scent rising from the milk-dappled lips of a child. And, even when sprawled in satiated
abandon, she held a lithe and lovely grace.
A dancer and now a dealer she had told him—but what else?
Lifting himself on one elbow Dumarest looked down at the woman in the pale light of a breaking dawn. Asleep
she was more beautiful than awake, small tensions eased, muscles relaxed, the hand of time lifted from brow and
cheek and the corners of the eyes. The mane of her loosened hair lay like a serpent over the pillow, the naked
roundness of a shoulder, the proud mound of a breast. In her throat, beneath the rich olive of her skin, a small pulse
beat like a tiny drum. Below it lay the carotid artery—a pressure and she would fall from sleep into unconsciousness
and if the pressure were maintained, into soft and easy death.
"Earl!" Turning she muttered his name, head moving to present her lips, her eyes, the lashes which lay like
nighted moths on her cheeks. "Earl!"
A dream in which, perhaps, she was again lost in passionate abandon.
Gently he rose and moved into the kitchen, heating coffee and taking it into the living room where, again, he
searched the furnishings with his eyes. The apartment was what she had claimed it to be, a place rented for a limited
stay, the appointments a standard necessity. Only the music cube was hers. That and a delicate vase of striated
crystal, a framed portrait of an elderly man—her father perhaps—a scrap of embroidered silk, her clothes, her
cosmetics, the painting of a crying child.
The painting which depicted a moon bearing the semblance of a skull.
Again Dumarest studied it, holding it to the window, using a glass to magnify detail. Was it what he hoped or had
memory played tricks? A combination of light and shadow, a silver hue, a desperate yearning—a combination loaded
with potential danger. As was the woman herself.
Logic told him that she had to be what she claimed but the instinct which had saved him so often before refused
to permit him to lower his guard. The attack could, despite his previous conviction, have been the prelude to a trap.
One baited with warm and yielding flesh. With the painting of the child. A snare which could snap shut at any
moment.
"Earl?" Sardia was awake, calling sleepily from the bed. "Earl, where are you?"
"Here."
"Why are you up?" Her voice grew sharper. "Is anything wrong?"
"No. I wanted some coffee. A moment and I'll bring you some."
"I felt you missing," she said, her voice regaining its first softness. "Even though asleep I sensed you had left me."
Like an animal sensing danger. As if he had woken during the night to lie listening to her movements as she
searched his garments, saying nothing, doing nothing, acting the part of a man lost in dreams. Now he checked his
clothes, finding all intact, his fingers lingering on the belt and the hilt of the knife.
"Earl?"
"Coming." He returned to the kitchen, poured coffee, entered the bedroom with steaming cups in his hands.
Offering her one he looked down at the beauty revealed as she sat upright. "You slept well?"
"Like a child, Earl. Like a woman in love who lies with her lover. And you?"
"The same."
A lie to match her own and one given for the same reason perhaps. Only a fool would take a stranger on trust and
in the sanity following the idiocy of passion native caution could have prevailed. An attribute he could respect.
"Earl?"
 "It's time to get to work." He set down his cup and stepped into the shower, washing, drying himself, dressing as
she finished the last of her coffee. "You're sure as to the address?"
"It was the one given me. You think it false?"
"It's there."
"But the man isn't." She set aside her cup with sudden irritation. "A day now and no progress. Earl, is there
nothing I can do?"
"You sit here and you wait," he said flatly. "As you did yesterday. At times I may have to call you."
Again as he had done yesterday, finding her home each time, inventing some reason for the call. At least it pinned
her down and, if she tried to call out, she would find the phone useless—a thing Dumarest had arranged.
Now she said, "Earl, how long?"
"Days perhaps. A month, even." He was deliberately pessimistic. "Does it matter?"
"It matters. I—" She broke off and shrugged. "Forget it. Just do your best but, please, Earl, waste no time. Others
could be on the hunt and we may arrive late if at all. I'd hate to hear the artist has been spirited away or all his future
work placed under contract." She slipped from the bed, a living statue of femininity darkly enticing against the snowy
expanse of the sheets. "Good luck, darling." Her arms closed around his neck and pulled his lips to hers. "And don't
keep me waiting too long."
At night the Maze held a glamour, a dangerous one, perhaps, but one which gilded with a tinsel sheen the dirt and
neglect of moldering buildings, the filth accumulated in the streets which only the rains washed away. By day it held
the appearance of an aging harlot, waking, her paint cracked, the raddled features showing through. And, like such a
creature, the place had a smell.
To Dumarest it was familiar; the odor of rancid grease, of must, of rot, of damp and sickness, the whole overlaid
by the indefinable but unmistakable stench of poverty. A smell prevalent in all Lowtowns where the abandoned and
desperate huddled in a common misery and one which had found a place in this man-made jungle.
"Brother! Of your charity!"
The monk was a brave man but all who had dedicated their lives to the Universal Church had courage. Dumarest
looked at the empty bowl of chipped plastic the man held before him, his eyes lifting to study the brown homespun
robe, the seamed face shadowed by the cowl. Beneath the hem of the rough garment the feet were bare in crude
sandals.
"You are out early, Brother."
"Misery does not sleep." The bowl lifted a little. "And starvation does not wait." The voice cracked a little as
Dumarest poured coins into the bowl. "Brother, you are generous!"
"You have a church in the Maze?"
"Not in the Maze. At the field."
A small place fashioned of poles and plastic sheeting holding little more than a chair for the monk, a place for the
suppliant, the Benediction light which stood between them. The light at which the suppliant would stare as he
confessed his sins and asked forgiveness. Absolution would be granted after which the worshiper, after subjective
penance, would be hypnotically conditioned against the ability to kill.
A fair exchange for the wafer of concentrates which was given as the bread of forgiveness and which many only
came to the church to obtain. But, if with it they could absorb the basic credo of the Universal Brotherhood, the
monks were content.
There, but for the grace of God, go I!
Once all men could look at their fellows and remember that the millennium would have arrived.
"Brother, you are cold." Dumarest had seen the shiver which had gripped the old man. "Here." He added more
coins to those in the bowl. "This is for you. Get something hot to eat and drink."
"I collect for charity."
"Charity begins at home. If you fall ill who will take your place?" An empty question; another would follow and
after him yet more. Humble men trying in their own way to lift the burden of misery afflicting the majority. But,
though humble, they possessed an iron resolution. As the monk looked at his bowl Dumarest said, "You could help
me, Brother. Have you noticed strangers hanging about this vicinity? Men who do not belong yet who wait?"
The old eyes moved in their sockets as they studied Dumarest's face.
"You intend harm to another?"
"No, but there are those who are not my friends. I would prefer not to meet them."
"And you think they are close?" The monk pursed his lips as Dumarest nodded, his eyes veiled, thoughtful.
Abruptly he said, "Here you have nothing to fear. No strangers lurk in the Maze. But there are men at the field who do
nothing but watch and others wait at the premises of the Cha'Nang."
Men poised and ready to strike. Dumarest's face hardened as he walked on down the narrow street. His instinct
had not lied—the trap he had sensed was real and was closing. A snare he could have eluded had he taken ship when
he'd first intended. A passage he would have gained and he would now be far into the void if it hadn't been for Sardia
and her painting. Time wasted in pursuit of a dream.
More time wasted as he hammered at a sagging door set with a thickly barred Judas grill.
Yesterday it had remained closed; now ,it opened with a grate of rusty hinges to reveal a scowling, bearded face.
"You want something?"
"Eprius Emecheta—that you?"
"And if it is?"
"We have business." Dumarest smiled and winked. "Open up, man. It's worth five durinne to listen."
"Five? Make it ten."
"Five." Dumarest showed the coins. "Just for a little talk and maybe a drink. You've something in the house?"
"This ain't no tavern, mister. You want something to drink then you pay for it. Make it ten and I'll open up."
Money changed hands as Dumarest stepped through the opened portal into a passage reeking of staleness. The
room opening from it held a sagging bed, a table littered with stained crockery, scraps of food, odorous cartons. A rat
scuttled as they entered to stare warily from beneath the bed. Stains crawled on the walls: vermin seeking shadowed
safety.
A nest—its occupant as much vermin as the things crawling on the walls.
"Wine." Emecheta tilted a dusty bottle. "Here."
The glass was cracked, chipped, slimed with grease and the wine matched the container. Dumarest sipped and
tasted a sour roughness then, conscious of the other's suspicious stare, swallowed and held out the empty glass.
"More?"
"I've paid for it." His tone was deliberately hostile; a man like Emecheta would take common politeness for
weakness. "Give!"
Again he sipped and watched as his host gulped at his own glass. A squat, hairy man, his chest a mat of greasy
darkness, the backs of his hands bearing a curly growth. Beneath bristling brows his eyes were the watchful orbs of
an animal.
"Well?"
"Word has it that you're a man who likes to make a little easy money," said Dumarest. "That gives us something in
common. I move around and at times pick up a few things of value. The trouble is selling them. People ask questions,
you know?" His wink was expressive. "Now if I had a partner who had an outlet…?" He fell silent then said harshly,
"Do I have to spell it out?"
"I'm no fence."
"Did I say you were?" Dumarest finished his wine and reached for the bottle topping up both glasses. "And did I
say I was a thief ? I'm talking about stuff sneaked from the field. Hell, man, are you dumb? They told me you were
smart."
"Who told you that?"
"People who figured to do me a favor. You, too. There's a hundred durinne in it, maybe. Easy pickings, but it
seems I'm wasting my time." Dumarest picked up his wine, sipped, spat in disgust. "Let me out of here!"
"Whats the hurry?" Emecheta didn't move from where he sat, but one hand had vanished from view. "Sit down
and I'll open a new bottle. Decent stuff. Now just what did you have in mind?"
"First the hand," said Dumarest coldly. "I want to see it and it had better be empty." He nodded as it came into
view. Now stand up and move away from the table." His hand dropped to his knee, the hilt of the knife. "Do it!"
Grunting, Emecheta obeyed, heaving up his bulk and standing against a wall, away from the wine, the table, the
weapon Dumarest guessed he had concealed beneath it.
"Well?"
"We talk," said Dumarest. "About you, the people you work for, the outlets you have. And about money—but first
we have some decent wine."
She answered on the second attempt. "Earl! I was getting worried. It's been so long."
"Where were you?"
"When?" She answered her own question. "Did you call earlier? I was in the shower."
A reasonable excuse but Dumarest was edgy and some of it showed. "I told you to stand by the phone. How
much money can you raise?"
"Why?"
"To use, to spend, to buy things." He smoothed his tone. "You'd better meet me. Bring that music cube of yours
and jewelry if you have it. I'll wait for you in the restaurant at the corner of Spacehaven and Drell. Get a cab and
hurry."
 He took his time joining her, watching for men who had no apparent excuse to linger, taking the chair beside her
only when he was sure she hadn't come with companions.
"Earl!" Her hand closed over his, the brown fingers holding a surprising strength. "How was he?"
"Emecheta?"
"Yes. Could I have handled him?"
"You would have been raped," said Dumarest flatly. "Then you'd have been robbed. You could even have been
killed."
"He's that bad?"
"He's filth." Dumarest poured himself a glass of water. "Order some food. You brought what I asked?"
"Yes. Why do you want it, Earl?"
"Later. First let us eat."
She ordered wisely, dishes high in protein and low in bulk, foods giving high energy and among the most
expensive the place offered. Dumarest refused the offer of wine and finished the meal with fruit.
"Emecheta is scum," he said as they sat over coffee. "But you weren't robbed when you gained his name. The
dealer you mentioned, Pude Ahdram?"
"Yes. I could have told you that, Earl, but I—"
"Couldn't trust me and didn't want me cutting in." He was brusque with his interruption. "But let's waste no more
time. He deals with anyone who has items of value and does a brisk trade with those from the field. Contraband and
anything which shows a profit or so Emecheta claimed. He could be lying but I don't think so. We can use him."
"How?" She blinked as he told her. "Give him my music cube and jewelry? Earl, are you serious?"
"I'll tell him I've stolen them. He'll take them to Ahdram for sale. If what he told me is true, the dealer will buy if
the price is right. Then you go into his shop, quest around, ask for something unusual and keep looking until he
produces the cube. Then create a fuss, tell him the cube is yours, that it was stolen with other things, talk about
summoning the authorities. There's no law in the Maze but there's plenty at the field and elsewhere in town. He'll
want to avoid an investigation."
"And I press him," she said slowly. "And keep on pressing until he tells me what I want to know. The name and
whereabouts of the artist Earl—"
"Do you know a better way?"
"No," she admitted. "But I'm not sure if I can handle it. I'm not strong enough. I lack aggression. How can I, a
woman, force information from a man like that?"
"You're an actress."
"No, Earl, a dancer."
"And when dancing you acted a part, right?" He lifted her hand and flexed her fingers. "And never think of
yourself as weak. I've seen you, remember? Felt your strength."
Muscles like coiled springs beneath the silken olive of her skin; tissue teamed and developed to meet the needs
of a demanding art. The strength which had gripped him as the lissome thighs had closed, joining the restraint of her
arms, her hands. A strength born of physical passion but anger could provide as good a stimulus and determination
even a greater.
"We must try," he said gently. "You must try."
"And if I fail? You will help me, Earl?"
To join in the argument, to make himself conspicuous and to advertise his presence to those who watched the
field and its environs. A stupidity he intended to avoid.
"If you fail well try something else," he promised. "Just do your best and if he doesn't play along summon the
authorities and accuse him of receiving stolen goods. You can prove ownership?"
"Yes. The cube holds a thousand recordings many of which I can name in sequence. And I insured the jewelry on
arrival."
"Good. Then there should be no trouble." Dumarest glanced through the windows; already it was close to noon.
"We'd best hurry."
"I'll go to the shop," she decided. "Linger as if I'm a tourist killing time. When Emecheta enters I'll follow him."
Remembering she added, "How will I know him? We've never met."
"Squat, hairy, repulsive." Dumarest finished his coffee. "You'll know him by his smell if nothing else, but enter
before he does if you can. Ahdram will be unwilling to leave you alone for long and so will be quick to settle the deal.
And it might help if you primed him."
"With talk of a music cube? Leave it to me, Earl." Then, anticipating his doubt she added, smiling, "I'm a dealer,
too, remember. You can't trade in items of value without learning the art of misdirection. Where shall I meet you?"
"Here." He rose to his feet. "Give me an hour to meet Emecheta and pass on the goods."
 "You'll be close?"
"Yes," he promised. "I'll be close."
Close enough to see the squat man waddle to the shop of Pude Ahdram eager to make an easy profit and already,
no doubt, figuring out ways to cheat his mysterious partner, dose enough to have seen the woman enter shortly
before, to have seen her casual approach and to have admired her skill at appearing other than what she was. Close
enough to have spotted the men who stood and watched and moved only to take up fresh positions so as to watch
again.
Watch and move in when their quarry had been spotted and Dumarest had no doubt as to who that was.
He turned, glancing into windows, hesitating, moving on with a calculated speed. A man who was not in a hurry,
who watched no particular point, who was just an aimless traveler killing time. Yet, always, he watched the shop.
Sardia was taking her time. Twice he caught glimpses of her through the barred windows, talking, gesticulating,
presenting a show of enthusiasm over some trifle, shaking her head over another. A skilled practitioner of a difficult
art, that of deluding another that what was wanted was of no interest and of little worth.
A dancer turned dealer—where had she learned to lie so well?
There was time to think about it as there was time to think of other things. Of the men in scarlet who even now
were predicting just where and when he would be, what he would do, what path he would take. Plotting his course
with growing accuracy as his movements left traces which could be garnered and included into the common whole.
Cybers who, given the data, could pinpoint his presence at a particular place at a particular time.
Unless he could defeat them as he had so often before.
Unless the luck which had saved him should suddenly run out.
But luck, as he never ceased to remember, came in two kinds—the bad and the good.
And now it seemed time for the bad.
It was on Sardia's face as, finally, she stepped from the shop, hands empty of her possessions. Dumarest moved
quickly to remain out of sight, following her as she headed toward the rendezvous, catching her up when he was
certain she had not been followed.
"Earl!" She looked up as he caught her arm. "I thought we were to meet in the restaurant."
"I changed my mind." A cab halted at his signal. "We'll go to Dekart Heights."
It was a place of scented shrubs and flowering trees, of emerald sward dotted with the fallen stars of golden
blooms. A lake stretched beyond a park set with miniature pavilions graced with fretted pennants and hung with
chiming bells. A place for lovers wishing to be alone. For conspirators afraid of being overheard.
"Earl!" she said as he guided her to a seat. "Oh, Earl!"
"You failed—it is written on your face."
"No, that is, I—" She calmed beneath the touch of his hand. "Luck, my darling, a coincidence, but they happen
and when they do so many problems can be solved."
And so many created, but he didn't mention that.
"What happened?"
He listened as she told him, the chime of bells a delicate accompaniment to her voice. She had entered the shop
as planned and, as expected, Ahdram had remembered her from her previous visit. But the man had not been alone.
Another was with him with paintings for sale.
"I recognized them, Earl. The technique is unmistakable. The work of the artist I need to find."
Need? A subconscious betrayal which Dumarest noted.
"So everything was simple. You asked the man who the artist was and where to find him."
"No. As I told you things aren't done that way in the field of art. Even to admit to an interest is to arouse
suspicion that the work is of higher value than previously thought."
"So?"
"I kept to our original plan. It worked up to a point but I had to wait until the stranger had left Ahdram and me
alone. His greed made him show me the cube and I accused him of theft. He was distraught and offered restitution
and recompense—the cunning bastard!"
Dumarest said dryly, "He found out what you wanted and offered to help—and demanded a price for his aid."
"You know?"
"I guessed. Dealers are much the same and Ahdram had to be shrewd in order to survive." An expert in a field in
which she was an amateur. "The cube?"
"And the jewelry." A bracelet of ornate workmanship set with brilliant gems. "He demanded them both in return
for information and I had no choice but to agree." Her hands clenched, the knuckles taut beneath the skin, the nails
making small crescents in the flesh of her palms. "The swine!"
"He cheated you? He lied?"
 "No," she said bitterly. "He didn't lie. The paintings were genuine and he told me how he got them. But he was
playing with me—they don't come from Juba at all!"

Chapter Four
From outside the pavilion in which they sat, rising above the susurration of tinkling bells, came the sound of
childish laughter and a woman's voice calling a warning. A small boy, chasing a brilliantly colored ball, had edged too
close to the rim of the lake. His mother, a smoothly rounded woman with crested hair and tapering legs which flashed
through the slitted skirt, ran after him, lifted him and carried him, gurgling, to safety.
Dumarest watched them, then looked at the man who sauntered close behind. Not the father or he would have
run toward the child. Not even a friend who would have been concerned. And even a stranger would have made
some move to avert a possible disaster—unless that stranger had other things on his mind.
"Earl?"
"Sardia was engrossed with her own problems. "What are we going to do?"
Dumarest remembered their agreement; the partnership she had proposed.
"The stranger," he said. "The one who sold the paintings. A spacer doing a little private trading?"
"A captain," she corrected. "One plying the Rift. He'd gone into a back room and Ahdram called him out to meet
me. I think it amused him to introduce us." She added bitterly, "Captain Lon Tuvey chose to be difficult."
"He wouldn't tell you from where he got the paintings?" Dumarest restrained his impatience, the woman would
tell it in her own way. "Is that it?"
"Oh, he told me," she admitted. "But it doesn't help. The paintings come from a world in the Rift but he wouldn't
tell me the name of the artist. Instead he offered to take me to him and introduce me—for a price." She saw his
expression, the shift of his eyes. "No, Earl, not that. He made a point of making it clear he had no use for my body.
We wants money. A lot of it."
"For an introduction?"
"That and passage, Earl. A high passage to a world called Ath."
Ath?
Arth?
Earth?
It was incredible, such a coincidence was against all probability, but names could change when affected by time
and distance. A shortening, a blurring, a growing carelessness in speech and writing—and one could become the
other.
Ath! It was possible, and he couldn't forget the painted moon.
"Earth?" Sardia was staring at him, her eyes widely luminous in the shadowed gloom of the pavilion. "Earl, is
something wrong?"
"No." He drew a deep breath. "Are you certain as to the name?"
He saw her nod and fought the sudden blaze of hope within him. Earth, he was certain, could not lie in the Rift. It
had to be in a place where stars were few and scattered thin across the sky. The Rift was a swarm of suns burning
within a cleft formed by some cosmic disturbance in a cloud of interstellar dust. And yet that very dust would have
thinned the stars and created the illusion of remoteness.
Could Ath be the planet for which he had searched for so long?
Could it be Earth?
"Earl!" Sardia was impatient. "We have to decide what to do. We must ride with Tuvey. Even though we know the
name of the world we still have to be introduced to the artist so it won't help us to take another ship. And if Tuvey is
willing to sell the information to me then he'd sell it to another. He knows the information is valuable now. He could
hawk it around—anyone who knows good art will spot the value of those paintings at once and spare no cost to find
who produced them."
"He could have lied."
"Yes," she admitted. "But unless we go with him we'll never know. And those paintings he had were genuine. It's a
chance we daren't miss. We've got to find the money and arrange the passage. And we have to do it soon. He leaves
tomorrow at sunset."
Dumarest glanced at the sky, already the sun was well past the zenith and lowering toward the horizon. Little
more than a day to raise how much?
He frowned as she told him. "So much?"
"He's charging high, Earl, but what can we do about it? And we'll need money to arrange a return passage as well
as to pay the artist. You have money?"
"A little. And you?"
"My clothes, an open return passage booked to Tonge on the Cheedha Line. I could cancel it and get a refund."
"No." To do that would be to attract possible attention, a fact from which associations could be drawn—never did
Dumarest underestimate the power of the Cyclan. "Anything else? You surely didn't give me all of your jewelry? And
cash? If you find the artist on Juba you must be able to pay."
"With credit arranged through a commercial house," she explained. "Earl, I'm doing this on my own and I've gone
into debt already. Either I find the artist and get his works or I go broke. On Tonge that is serious."
As it was on most commercial worlds with debtors placed under restraint, their labor sold under contract and
harsh penalties extracted for non-cooperation. On other worlds, more rigorous, there were no debtors. A man paid for
what he got when he got it and if he couldn't pay, then he went without.
"Earl!" She touched his hand and now her voice held pleading. "Please, tell me what to do?"
"Cut your losses and go back home." Advice she didn't want and which he had been stupid to give. His own
problems were more serious than hers and to escape the trap closing around him he would need her aid. "But if you
want to go ahead then turn everything you've got into money. Your clothes, jewels, everything."
"I have little, Earl. It won't be enough."
"We'll make it grow." Dumarest stared through the lattice-work of the pavilion. At the far edge of the sward a man
stood studying the lake, apparently lost in contemplation of the birds which drifted across the surface. "Get moving
now. Walk straight ahead and don't look back but when you reach the edge of the grass start running as if you'd seen
someone you know."
"Why, Earl?"
"Just do it. Go straight home and sell everything you can. Make sure it's done by sunset After that wait by your
phone."
"And you, Earl?" She shrugged as he didn't answer. "All right, I'll do as you say. But remember—we only have a
day to raise the money."
Money—with it the universe was a place of enticing delights, without it a living hell. Money could buy food and
comfort, luxury and safety and to get it men were willing to kill and risk being killed, to murder and to die.
Experience?" The man was plump, sweating, his thin hair plastered over a domed skull. The fabric of his blouse
was stained, his belt tightly drawn over a sagging gut. As he spoke he chewed and, at times, spat. "Well?"
"A little," said Dumarest, then quickly corrected himself. "I mean a lot. I'm good and can take care of myself. Just
give me a chance, mister, and you won't regret it."
Dowton spat. He'd seen too many like this one before; men with an inflated sense of their own skill and eager to
step into the ring and collect the fame and rewards a knife could bring. The game needed them and they could bleed
as well as the next, but the crowd was impatient and it was past the time when they would be satisfied with innocents
led to the slaughter.
"You've fought in a ring before?"
"Often."
"Where?"
"Back home we had a—" Dumarest shook his head. "On Tonge," he said. "And on Embirha. I've fought often and
I'm good." His laugh was strained. "I'm alive to prove it."
Dowton said, "Strip and let's take a look."
He sucked in his breath as he saw the naked torso, the thin lines of old scars which laced the flesh. At least this
one would look good and it would do no harm to face the champ with someone who, at least, must have learned how
to dodge.
"Here!" Knives lay on a table, murderous ten-inch blades. Picking up one he threw it, frowned as Dumarest
missed the catch. "Slow, eh?"
"I speed up when warm." Dumarest hefted the blade with deliberate awkwardness, accentuating the picture he
had drawn, that of a hopeful, not totally inexperienced but of no real danger to any fighter who knew his trade. He
said earnestly, "I can put on a show and I need the money."
"It's to the death—you realize that?"
"Mister, if I don't get some money soon I'll be dead anyway. What's the fee?" He blinked. "A hundred? That all?"
"Back it on yourself and you could collect five." A safe bet, this fool would never live to collect. Dowton added,
"If you're smart you'll take my advice. Yhma is getting past it. Once he's down you'll be the new champ. Well?"
"I'll take it," said Dumarest. "Five hundred when I win. Right? When do I fight?"
"Later. You'll be called. Just sit around and wait."
Wait as the roar from the seats surrounding the ring grew louder as contenders met and fought to leave blood and
life in the arena. Savage, vicious combats which played to the blood lust of those watching; the decadents and
degenerates who emerged like nocturnal vermin to enter the Maze at night.
A sound as familiar to Dumarest as was the smell, the compound of oil and sweat, of blood and antiseptics, the
whole dominated by the acrid taint of fear.
He sat on a bench he'd found in a dressing room, leaning back against the wall, eyes half-closed as he reviewed
recent events. The field was sealed as he'd suspected, men at the gates and on patrol, all entering checked and
interrogated. On a more primitive world there would have been ways to dodge the guards but here on Juba the fence
was ninety feet high, set with tiers of lights, fitted with alarms and surrounded by a fifty-foot ditch edged with metal
spikes.
Even so, with enough money something could have been arranged given time, but he had no money and time
was running out.
The trap he was in was set to close.
And, when it did, he would be a prisoner of the Cyclan.
Dumarest had no illusions as to what would happen then. He would be probed, interrogated, questioned with a
penetrating skill, the very cells of his brain torn apart so as to win his secret. And then, when that was done, he would
be disposed of as so much rubbish.
"You all right?" A man stared through the open door. He was old, grinning, the scar on his cheek a livid weal.
"Scared? Want a nip to warm you up?"
Dumarest took the proffered bottle, lifted it to his lips, his throat working as he pretended to drink. If the man was
attached to Yhma the stuff would be spiked with some insidious drug—an elementary precaution.
"Good, eh?" The grin widened. "Take some more if you want. It'll give you an edge. Say, if you've got some
money I could lay it for you. Odds are four to one."
Dumarest shook his head. Sardia held his money and should now be in the stands. When the time was ripe she
would place her bets, using everything they had between them, risking poverty on his skill.
Risking poverty as he was risking his life.
He wondered what she would do if he were to die.
It would come one day and that day could be now. A slip, a momentary inattention, an accident and he could fall
with his guts slashed open, the intestines spilling like a coil of greasy rope, blood falling to drench his thighs and feet
as eternal darkness closed around him. A small thing could do it. A trifle—and yet it would cost him the universe of
his awareness.
"You ready?" A youngster this time, a boy with wide eyes bright with hero worship. "Greg told me to warn you.
He's waiting at the entry—say, you ever fought before?"
"I've got by."
"Yhma's put down two already. The first was for third blood and he drew it out; a cut to the left arm, another on
the flank then finish!" The boy made an expressive gesture. "He slid the blade right into the guts, a twist and it was
done. Blood everywhere. The crowd loved it."
And a man had died without need.
"The other?"
"He lasted longer," admitted the boy. "But only because he was scared. He just kept backing and dodging until the
champ had enough. Then he moved in, dropped to one knee, a slash and he'd hamstrung the challenger. That was
first blood."
"Then what? He take out the eyes?"
"No." The boy missed the irony. "Nothing like that. He was gentle. A couple of cuts, one across the inside of each
elbow and that was all."
Gentle! A man crippled in one leg, both arms rendered useless from severed tendons, and all without need. A
touch would have been enough. The merest sight of blood would have determined the victor.
"A nice man," said Dumarest. "I bet you've learned a lot watching him. What's his favorite trick?"
For a moment he thought the boy would answer then a veil dropped over the shining eyes. "You're fighting to the
death, right?"
"That's right."
"Watch Yhma's left hand. Sometimes he crosses the blade and when he does he moves in with a feint from the
right."
Lies, the boy would not sell out his hero, but even so the trick could work if the situation were right.
"His left hand, eh?" Dumarest looked thoughtful. "Thanks. I'll give you ten when I collect."
"Make it a score." The boy turned as someone yelled. "That's Greg. Hurry now, you're on."
The ring was a square a dozen feet on a side; too small for easy maneuver and not large enough for any fighter to
use speed to gain distance and so extend the action. A bad ring and an ugly crowd, one which yelled as Dumarest
climbed on the platform, their voices joining in an incoherent yammer. But if he couldn't make out the words he knew
their meaning. Blood! Blood! Blood and death! Wounds and pain!
The roar of the beast which showed itself in avid eyes and faces more animal than human.
Yhma took his time and, waiting, Dumarest looked around. Suspended over the ring, lights threw down a searing
cone of brilliance which left the tiers of seats in relative gloom. Only those close to the ringside were clearly visible,
their occupants all expensively dressed, both men and women heavily jeweled. A matron with raddled cheeks stared
at him and made a lewd comment to a man who tittered and passed on the snippet to a languid girl who yawned and
slowly drew her nails over his cheek.
Degenerates and typical of those who had paid high prices for their seats. Higher in the tiers would be others, less
wealthy but just as depraved, and Sardia should be among them.
Dumarest turned, staring, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the overhead lights. He couldn't spot her but the
failure meant little. All aside from those in the first few rows were little more than formless blurs in the shrouding
gloom. But if the plan was to work she must be watching and, if it was to work well, she had to have been there from
the beginning.
The clash of a gong and the champion appeared.
Yhma was tall, lithe, built with a feline grace, arms long, knotted with cords of writhing muscle, traced with the
ropes of veins. He had legs to match and his torso, above the narrow waist, was a sculptor's dream. A barrel, rigid
with clearly delineated muscle, swelling to the massive shoulders which in turn supported the surprisingly slender
neck… A man as dark as seasoned teak, glistening with oil, his hair a cropped fuzz, the blade in his hand an icicle of
destruction. His face was that of a brooding idol, the nostrils flared, the bridge hooked, the mouth soft with a
deceptive pout.
A veteran as the scars signified, thin cicatrices of healed tissue which traced a web over the oiled hide. The
penalty paid for hard-won tuition and his eyes widened as he saw the matching lines which Dumarest displayed.
"A change, my friend. You, I see, are far from a witless hunk of meat. We shall have fun, I think."
A blade slashing tendons, one slipping into the stomach, the edge used to cripple and maim—fun?
"You have nothing to say to me?" Light splintered as Yhma turned his blade. "No word of grace to give a man you
would like to kill? How would you like to do it, my friend? A clean thrust into the heart? One into the spleen? A single
blow which could make your fortune. You see those women in the front rows? Kill me and each of them will fall into
your arms. And the men—" His smile widened. "Think of it, friend. A single thrust and all could be yours."
And, if he concentrated on making that thrust, he would be dead.
Dumarest knew it as he knew the talk was to distract and so to weaken. As yet the combat hadn't begun but no
true fighter waited for the gong. If the knife couldn't be used then words also had an edge. As the ripple of muscle in
the near-naked body could spell a message. As the stance could induce despair.
Dumarest backed until he felt the rope press against his back. Like Yhma he wore brief shorts and nothing else
aside from the oil. Which numbed the flesh a little and which made it almost impossible for an opponent to retain a
grip. Leaning back he studied the man who intended to kill him.
A sadist—that he had learned from the boy. A skilled fighter—that he had learned from the way the man stood
and moved and kept himself in balance. A dangerous one—that was obvious from his victories. But how dangerous?
He straightened to the sound of the gong. When next it clashed combat would begin and a second's delay in
getting ready could mean giving the other a chance. He watched the position of Yhma's feet, the ripple of muscle in
calves and thighs. A man poised to leap in any direction, one set to twist and turn, to create a barrier of edged and
pointed steel between himself and the one who opposed him. And smooth.
Dumarest lifted his eyes, checking minor points, assessing, noting the feline grace.
Smooth and quick and neatly precise. The knife was held in the usual sword fashion, thumb to the blade, the point
slightly lifted. A normal grasp, but in Yhma's hand it looked like a scalpel in a surgeon's grip. Dumarest hefted his own
weapon, a twin of the other. It was too long for his liking, lacking the fine balance needed for an accurate throw. But,
in this ring, there would be no need of that.
"You sweat," said Yhma softly. "You betray your fear but, my friend, have no fear. We are to fight to the death but
it need not come to that. A few exchanges, a little blood, a wound and you fall to lie still and so to live and maybe
fight again. An arrangement, you understand? Life, my friend. Life. There is no need for you to die."
The promise offered, the lie which only a fool would believe. A fool or a man desperate to live no matter what the
cost. Bait offered to a man who, mentally, was already beaten. A bribe to succumb to the kiss of his blade.
How many had died when thinking they would live?
"You mean that?" asked Dumarest. Like the other he kept his voice down. "You mean you'd give me a chance?"
"To live? Yes, my friend." Teeth flashed white as Yhma smiled. We will play a little first, you understand. A sop to
the crowd. Some blood from minor wounds—you have my word they will be that. Then, when the time is right, I'll
give the word. We meet, strike, you miss and I'll give you a wound. You fall and that will be it. You agree?"
"Yes."
"Good." The smile widened. "You are wise."
Wise in the ways of the ring and a liar when it came to the promise, but the lie can gain an advantage and all was
fair when life was at stake.
A lesson Dumarest had learned when a novice. He had believed a man and had almost died because of it, only
his speed saving him from a blow which would have gutted a normal man. The speed which would have to save him
now.
He was moving before the clash of the gong had died, not toward Yhma but to one side, turning as the other
lunged, steel clashing as the blades touched, rasping as they slid one over the other, ringing as they parted. An
exchange which won a gasp from the crowd.
"Yhma get him!" A woman screamed the command. "A hundred if you hit him first!"
"Two hundred if you spike an eye!"
"Fifty if you make him hop!"
Offers born of the side bets and invitations to cruelty. Dumarest ignored them as he concentrated on his
opponent. Yhma shifted like a cat, poised on the balls of his feet, light flashing from the knife, to vanish, to appear as
the blade lanced forward, to cut, to miss and cut again.
To fetch a tide of red oozing from Dumarest's arm.
"A hit! First blood to Yhma!" The woman's scream echoed from the upper tiers. "Shout for the champion!"
Sardia? It could have been anyone. The voice had been disguised by echoes and passion. Dumarest backed,
feeling the sting of the cut. A shallow wound which looked far worse than it really was. One he had invited and
deliberately taken in order to increase the odds against him.
But Yhma looked puzzled and Dumarest knew why. The man hadn't intended to hit. His blade should have
missed by a fraction and would have had not Dumarest moved into its path. A calculated maneuver—a wound
chosen was better than one taken by chance.
Yet an ordinary fighter wouldn't have worried about it, imagining himself to be better than he'd thought. The
victory would have been enough. Winning a hit would have made him a little more confident. A little less careful.
But Yhma?
Dumarest tensed as the man came in, twisting, blocking, the knives clashing as they touched to part to touch
again in a metallic music which held the prelude to a dirge. A flurry of attack, parry, thrust and riposte, engage and
counter-engage. Air whined as edges slicked toward flesh, to miss, to sweep back in protective glitters. Between them
the naked steel flashed like mirrors and rang like hostile bells.
Yhma was fast. Faster than any normal man. Faster even than himself.
Looking at him Dumarest saw death.

Chapter Five
First it had been vile, bearable only because of the Job which had to be done, then, oddly and shamefully, interest
had grown and with it an appreciation of the skills involved and now something else had been added, an emotion
which threatened to overwhelm her with an intoxicating intensity.
The euphoria of blood! Where had she heard that? The aphrodisiac of pain!
Someone else's blood, of course, and another's pain, but the euphoria was real and also the sexual stimulation.
She felt it, recognized the fever in her blood, the heat suffusing her loins. Touching her breasts she found the nipples
hard, prominent against the thin fabric of her gown. If Dumarest had been at her side she would have clutched him
with thoughtless abandon as other women clutched at their men.
Dumarest was not beside her but in the ring below fighting for the money they needed.
Fighting for his life.
"A hit!" The yell rose from the lower tiers. "Third blood!"
Two wounds to add to the first and more blood to dapple the hard whiteness of his skin. And, as yet, Yhma was
unmarked. A feral machine of corded muscle which moved like a flickering illusion. Fast. So very fast. Too fast,
perhaps, and if Dumarest should die?
"Seven to one on the champion!" yelled a gambler. "One gets you seven if Dumarest wins!"
"A fool's bet," snapped a man. "I'll take seven hundred on Yhma."
And would win a hundred if the champion should win. Easy money and certain from the look of it. And yet…
 Sardia trembled in indecision. To risk everything on what seemed to be a lost hope or to do as Dumarest had
ordered despite appearances? To gamble on an apparent certainty or to remain loyal?
But if Dumarest should fall?
"Seven to one," yelled the gambler. Then, as the crowd roared as Dumarest stumbled, missing the thrust of
Yhma's blade by a seeming miracle, "Eight! Eight to one! Who wants to take it?"
"I do!"
The words were out, the decision made, all she had was now riding on the blood-stained figure in the ring. With
others she rose to her feet as again Dumarest stumbled, to regain his balance with an effort, to move, knife flashing,
to dodge and turn, to throw a quick glance toward where she stood.
"Earl!" Her voice was a cry which cut through the noise with pulsing clarity. "Win, Earl! Win!"
He hadn't seen her, of that she was certain, but he; might have heard her. To be sure she shouted again.
"Win, Earl! Win!"
A cry taken up by others swaying to the whim of the moment. One which spread as ripples from a stone thrown
into water. A roar of encouragement from those who, illogically, hastened to bet on a forlorn cause.
The madness of the arena and its attraction.
It gripped her as it gripped others, accentuating her physical reaction so that she felt herself being lifted high into
vibrating life. Colors became sharper, the air clearer, senses more acute. As if it had been a potent drug, she
responded to the atmosphere, the sight of blood, the spectacle of men fighting to kill.
"Win, Earl! Win!"
Cut and stab and send your knife deep into living flesh. Show us his blood. Give us his pain. Let us see you kill
and let us watch him die.
Vileness!
And yet still she could not look away.
The ring was a stage and the crowd a muted orchestra, the pulse of drums echoing from the roof above as,
centered in the spotlights, the dancers weaved in an elaborate saraband. Outrousky had composed such a ballet and
she had danced in it playing the part of the woman for whom men had fought. She remembered the slow
commencement, the maintained tempo, the sudden, frightening burst of frenzied activity, the slow, solemn
movements of the finale. Now she moved to the rhythm again, body rippling beneath her gown, feeling the rising of
tension as, below her, men moved in the most significant dance ever created.
One which only a single person would survive.
"Bastard!" Yhma was gripped by the rage of fear. "You bastard!"
Dumarest smiled.
An act; he had no cause for amusement, but it helped to increase Yhma's anger and a fighter blinded with temper
was that much less a threat. And the main cause for his anger: the one who had seemed an easy victim had lied, had
made him appear a fool, had survived too long despite his quickness. And, worse, had a speed of his own.
A darting, gliding, flashing quickness which had extended the bout and made him, finally, begin to have fears for
his own safety.
Dumarest was wounded, but the second cut on the thigh was minor as was the first. Only the third, a deep gash
on the side, would weaken with a steady loss of blood. A fact Dumarest knew as well as the man he faced.
Yhma was clever, using his blade as a fighter should, cutting to sever tendons, open veins, slashing at muscles.
Crippling with an accumulation of wounds before delivering the final blow. A spectacle which pleased the crowd and
satisfied his sadistic nature. Dumarest too used the edge but had been forced to extend the combat, to miss when he
could have hit, to take chances at first and then, when recognizing his danger, to nurse his strength.
He had not wanted the wounds received after the first. He had not wanted the continual play of blades and
ceaseless movements—for the plan made with Sardia to work, time was needed to instill his inadequacy in the crowd.
The original plan abandoned when he realized his opponent's full potential.
Now the need wasn't for high odds but simply to stay alive.
"Bastard!" said Yhma again. "You stinking, dirty bastard!"
An old trick and Dumarest wondered why the man had tried it. Surely he must know by now that taunts would
serve no purpose? Better he should wait, conserve his breath, let his superior conditioning win him the greater edge.
An edge Dumarest was doing his best to eliminate.
Yhma was skilled, fast, a conditioned fighter in the peak of training. Younger, fitter and with a speed to match
Dumarest's own, he should have won without trouble. But that very speed now told against him. Too often it had
gained him victory without the added ingredient of skill; the skill Dumarest had hard-won over the years.
Yhma was an animal, slowing a little now, baffled by his failure to drive home his blade, angry and letting anger
affect his judgment. Steel rang as the knives met, rang again, thin, clear notes which rose above the tense hush which
gripped the crowd. No one was shouting now. Standing, eyes focused on the brilliance of the ring, every man and
woman was conscious of the extra dimension the struggle had taken.
Muscle and hate matched against muscle and brain.
A drama of life and death which filled the place as would the tension generated by an electrical storm.
"Now!" gasped a woman in the front row. "Now!"
A flurry of blades, a feint, a parry, a feint followed by a disengage and then another feint, light flashing from
honed steel, winking, catching the eye.
And, suddenly, Dumarest had the edge.
He knew it, could feel it and was acting even as the knowledge registered. Again his blade flashed, moved,
holding Yhma's eyes, distracting his attention as his free hand scraped a palmful of blood from his oozing wound.
Blood which he flung into the champion's eyes as he dropped, reaching out, edged steel hitting, biting, dragging deep
as he drew it back across the rear of the naked knee.
He rolled as the crowd roared, rising to his feet to block a downward cut, moving again to one side, moving again
as Yhma spun and staggered as his hamstrung leg yielded beneath his weight.
"You—!"
Rage and fear left him open and his own inclinations had betrayed him. In such a case after giving such a wound
he would have taken time to gloat, to play to the crowd, to anticipate the next hit and to enjoy the other's terror and
pain.
The weakness of a skilled amateur as was the curse he had tried to utter. An obscenity which died as Dumarest
closed the space between them, flashing splinters darting from the blade in his hand. The knife which slashed at the
tendons on Yhma's wrist. The steel which cut again as the blade fell from the injured hand.
To touch the side of the throat, to open the skin, the fat, the flesh beneath. To reach the throbbing carotid artery
and to release the champion's life in a jetting fountain of smoking blood.
The officer at the gate was tall, young, darkly handsome and with an appreciative eye for feminine beauty. He
watched as the cab drew to a halt, stooping to look inside, smiling at the woman the passenger compartment
contained.
"Madam?"
Sardia del Naeem said, "I've passage booked on the Sivas. Captain Lon Tuvey. May I pass through?"
Regretfully the officer shook his head. "Not in that vehicle, I'm afraid. You'll have to step out and be checked. You
have luggage?"
"Yes." She gestured at the small suitcase beside her. "Do you mean I'll have to walk to the vessel?"
"We can supply a jitney. Is this all the luggage you have?"
"Of course not. There is more in the trunk."
The cab had a large carrying capacity now almost wholly utilized by the long, squared cabin trunk it contained,
the two large suitcases. The officer pursed his lips as he looked at them. The woman, obviously, was not the male
fugitive whom he had been ordered to watch for and detain if found and he knew females too well to be deluded by a
man wearing their garb. Perhaps, just to make certain, he should order her to be searched? Then, as she smiled at him
and casually moved so as to throw into prominence the swell of her breasts and the rounded curves of hips and
buttocks, he decided against it.
But the luggage was a different matter.
"The Sivas, you say?"
"Yes. Captain Lon Tuvey. You know him? I found him a most charming man but a little on the eccentric side if
you know what I mean. He simply refused to tell me just when he was leaving. I had to be on board at sunset, he said,
but when is that? After the sun has lowered beneath the horizon or when it grows dark or what?" Alarm edged her
voice, making it shrill, unmistakably feminine. "The ship is still here? I'm not too late?"
"No," he said and smiled to reassure her. "You're in good time."
"And the jitney will take me and my luggage out to the vessel?"
A nervous type, he decided, and one not accustomed to traveling alone. No woman with her face and figure need
do that; always there would be someone willing to foot the bills and take care of the details. A quarrel with some
lover, perhaps? If so the man had been a fool to allow her to escape.
He signaled to the jitney and looked again at the luggage as it drew to a halt beside the cab. The small suitcase
stood beside the woman where she had placed it on leaving the vehicle. The cabin trunk and the two large suitcases
remained to be unloaded.
"Rud!"
The driver of the jitney joined him as the officer reached for the cabin trunk. He grunted as he grabbed a handle
and strained.
 "Heavy!" The driver spat on his hands. "Together now!"
A heave and it was done, the box set on the loading bed of the jitney. Turning, the officer saw Sardia, one of the
large suitcases at her feet. She was straining at the other and looked appealingly at him.
"Could you? Please!"
It lifted in his grip and he swung it and set it down beside the box. As he straightened, Sardia set the other beside
it, turning away, stooping to reach for the small case which remained.
The driver said, "What about the box, sir?"
A reminder, but the officer hadn't forgotten. It was large enough to hold a man and heavy enough to arouse
suspicion. The woman, despite her attraction, could be involved and, if the box did hold the wanted man, the reward
would be high.
"The box, madam," he said. "Please open it."
"Must I?" Her eyes betrayed her reluctance. "I mean, is it normal? I've often traveled before and I've never yet
been searched like this. Have you the right to demand such a thing?"
"I've the right." And the power too if he wanted to exercise it. Without further argument he tested the lid and
found it locked. "The key if you please." Her hand shook a little as she gave it to him. "Thank you."
Lifting the lid he saw a cloth and, throwing it to one side, stared blankly at what the box contained.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think I was doing anything wrong. I was only trying to help a friend."
"Figures!" Rud, the driver, snorted his disappointment. "A mess of carvings!"
"Works of art," explained Sardia. "That's my business. I deal in works of art, buying, selling, trading, when I have
to. I've found the most interesting pieces and I'm sure the museum back home will be glad to put them on display
with a little card crediting them to me. A way of advertising you understand. The curator and I have an
understanding." Hesitating, she added, "There's no law against my having them, is there? I mean, on some worlds you
have to get permission to export rare and valuable items. That's why I didn't want to open the box. I mean, that is—
well, I'm sorry."
She made a small gesture with her hands and stood, blushing, a woman confessing her guilt.
"Junk!" muttered the driver. "A lot of rubbish!"
"Get to your seat." The man was right but who was he to deflate the woman's ego? Smiling, the officer said,
"You've nothing to worry about, madam. Juba has no prohibition on the export of such items." Locking the box he
handed her the keys and then, on impulse, said, "But I'd like to take a look into one of your cases."
"Which?" Her hand rested on the one she had lifted. "This?"
"The other one." She had made hard work of it though he had lifted it without strain. Then the illogic of it struck
him as a siren echoed over the field. The case, though large, was still too small to contain a man and certainly didn't
have the weight. "Never mind. That siren was from the Sivas. Take her over to the ship, Rud. Have a pleasant journey,
madam."
Her smile answered his salute. At the vessel the handler grunted at the weight of the box then heaved it on the
loading ramp. One of the suitcases followed and he caught Sardia as, after setting down the other, she staggered.
"You all right, my lady?"
"Yes. They will stay in the hold?"
"Until we lift and then I'll get them to your cabin if you want." The handler glanced at the sky. "Ten minutes and
we'll be on our way."
Ten minutes—she had timed it well. And another thirty before the handler came puffing to the door of her cabin,
his eyes reproachful as he heaved at the suitcases. Locking the door behind him she busied herself with her keys. The
lid of one of the cases lifted.
Dumarest was huddled inside.
He was wasted, gaunt, fat and watery tissue burned away during the time he had waited in the woman's
apartment after the fight. Hours spent beneath the influence of slow-time, the drug which had increased his
metabolism and turned ordinary hours into subjective days. Time for his wounds to heal. Time for his weight and bulk
to diminish—but even so it had been close.
He was naked, the weight of his clothing, boots and knife carried in the other suitcase, the garments mixed with
others of a similar nature which were hers. Things bought as the carvings had been to aid the deception.
"Earl!" Gently she eased him from the cramped confines. "Earl?"
He gasped with the pain of returning circulation. He had been in the case little more than an hour but it had
seemed an eternity and, to fit into it at all, muscles had to be strained and joints distorted so as to take advantage of
every scrap of room.
A trick learned when he'd worked in a carnival from a girl who had been kind. She'd been able to cram her body
into a cube little more than a foot on a side and had taken pleasure in teaching him how the body could be bent,
turned, the head lowered, the legs folded, the arms wrapped so as to form a compact bundle.
"Earl?"
"I'm all right." He straightened, conscious of her anxiety, breath hissing from between his teeth as he massaged
various points. "How long?"
"We left almost an hour ago. You're safe now."
Safe from what she didn't know and hadn't asked. It had been a matter of mutual need. He had won the money
and she'd helped him elude the trap. A gamble on her loyalty and the strength gained in the execution of her art. One
almost lost when, at the ramp, that strength had almost failed her.
Now she closed the distance between them, touching his body, her fingers tracing the points of recent wounds.
Scars now faded and blending with the rest.
But he was thin! So thin!
Gently he moved away from her touch and, guessing his need, she opened the other case and produced his
clothing. Dressed he looked more like his normal self but his face held the taut hardness of a skull.
"Earl, you need food."
"Later," said Dumarest. "First we must see the captain."
He joined them where they waited in the salon, a short man with broad shoulders and a face seamed and lined
like a dried fruit. His eyes were splinters of amber glass set beneath bushy brows. His hair was a grizzled cap hugging
a peaked skull. His uniform was of fine material, bright with carefully tended insignia. On his left shoulder rode a
thing from a nightmare.
A creature like a crab, spined, claws serrated with vicious indentations, an extension like a segmented tail over
the rounded shoulders, smaller appendages like miniature hands which served to carry food to the snapping
mandibles. The eyes were like jewels set on hornlike promontories.
Captain Lon Tuvey was an unusual man.
"So." He paused in the doorway looking at Sardia then at Dumarest who had helped himself to a cup of basic. "It
appears we have a stowaway."
"A passenger," corrected the woman. "Earl is a passenger."
"Earl?" His eyes narrowed as she gave the rest of the name. "Earl Dumarest. No such person is listed on my
records. No such person was seen to board the Sivas. No such person has the right to be on my ship." His voice was a
drone of mechanical precision. "As far as I'm concerned he is nothing but a stowaway. Need I tell you the penalty for
riding a vessel without permission?"
"I know the penalty," said Dumarest. "But you won't have to evict me. I can pay."
"And if I refuse to carry you?" The amber eyes flickered as Dumarest set down the cup. "You recognize my
authority?"
"Not if it means going meekly through a port."
"No," said Tuvey. "I didn't think you would. Well, we have no cause to argue, if you have money all is well." He
glanced at the woman. "You travel together? As I thought. The price will be double that arranged."
Dumarest said coldly, "I'm not interested in meeting an artist."
"Then you shouldn't be on my ship." Lifting a hand Tuvey drummed his fingernails on the carapace of his pet.
"And if you want to argue the matter both the steward and the handler are, at this moment, covering you with lasers."
And somewhere would be the navigator and the engineer with, perhaps, an assistant or two.
"No," said Dumarest. "I don't want to argue."
"A wise man and your wisdom has bought you a bonus. I shall not return to Juba to discover if you are the man
the guards are looking for. The cost and inconvenience wouldn't cover the reward—not when you consider the lost
passage money." Again his fingers made small drumming sounds as they impacted the shell. Watching, Dumarest saw
the segmented tail lift and the spined legs stiffen as if the creature enjoyed the tapping. "It does." Tuvey had guessed
the curiosity. Borol appreciates the rhythm. I call him that because he reminds me of an officer I once knew. He fell
into a vat of petrifying liquids and he, too, had a hard shell."
Dumarest said dryly, "But not for long."
"No." Tuvey set down the creature which scuttled into a corner to turn and freeze and watch with unblinking
eyes. "You've been riding Low?"
"Yes." A lie but it would serve.
"And so need building up. Take all the basic you need—it is included in the price." As would be the quick-time
they would be given later, the magic of the drug slowing down metabolism as slow-time quickened it. A convenience
which shortened the tedium of long journeys. "How did you get aboard?"
"In the trunk." Dumarest met the shrewd amber of the eyes. If Tuvey thought he was lying he gave no sign. "How
long will it take us to reach Ath?"
 "Does it matter?" The captain smiled as he glanced at Sardia. "With such a companion what importance has
time? Rest, eat, relax and enjoy yourselves. How many have such an opportunity?"
A chance to do as he suggested—but even with normal hours shrunken to apparent seconds, time needed filling.
Talk did it, whispers in the darkness as they lay close, memories recounted as they sat in gentle illumination with the
pleasure of wine adding to their intimacy.
Sardia spoke of her youth, of the harsh discipline of the Corps Mantage, of artists she had known and now would
never see again.
"Amil was the best, Earl. A dancer infused with the flame of genius. A man dedicated to the art. When he was on
stage not a whisper could be heard from the audience. On Chrachery, when a man coughed, he was almost killed for
what the others chose to regard as an insult. And, when he finally died, the queue to see him lying in state stretched
for miles. It took days for them all to pay their last homage and each day fresh blooms are placed on his monument."
"You knew him?"
"He died in my arms." She fell silent, brooding, and he knew better than to break into her mood. Instead he
sipped more basic; the fluid sickly with glucose, laced with vitamins, thick with protein. A cupful was the normal
ration for a day.
Thoughtfully he studied the woman.
Amil had died in her arms and the man had been the hero of a world if what she said was true. Which meant that
she, herself, must have achieved a high degree of fame. And, while she lacked the boyishness of a young girl, she was
far from old.
"Even so I'm too old," she said when he put the question. "Nothing is more pathetic than a dancer who clings too
long to a fading reputation. I could have used drugs but such things are crutches and being at the top makes you a
target for those eager to climb. Then Amil died and Verecunda hurt herself and I decided it was time to make a
graceful exit and take up something else." She shook her head, dismissing ghosts. "And you, Earl? What about you?"
"I travel."
"And?" She shook him, her hand warm against his bare shoulder. They had loved and were resting and it was a
time for reminiscences. "Your childhood, what about that? And what made you leave home?"
She frowned as he told her, knowing he was skipping, leaving much unsaid and conscious of the gaps. A bleak
and harsh childhood, a time of savage necessity with hunger as a constant companion. The need which had set him
wandering to find a ship on which he had stowed away. A captain who had been more than kind.
"He could have evicted me," said Dumarest. "Instead, he let me work my passage and took care of me as best he
could."
A surrogate father who had died to leave the youngster to wander alone. Moving ever deeper into the heart of the
galaxy where worlds were close and ships plentiful. To regions where even the name of Earth had been forgotten.
"And now you want to find it," she said. "You want to get back home. But, Earl, are you sure?"
"About the name?" He had recognized her tone. "I'm sure."
"A world of legend," she murmured. "A myth—even the name makes it unreal. Earth! Why not call it dirt or soil
or sand? And you have been searching for it how long?"
Too long, riding High when he could and Low when he couldn't; locked in a casket designed for the
transportation of beasts, doped, frozen, ninety percent dead and risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of
cheap transportation. A bad way to ride, one which robbed the body of fat and excess tissue—no wonder Tuvey had
jumped to that conclusion.
"Earl!" Her hand caressed his naked flesh. Already he was filling out, the basic he took together with added
ingestors replacing the starved tissues. "Such a hard life."
Had there been no comfort in it at all? No beauty?
Beauty enough, she decided; the vistas of new worlds, the panorama of space itself, the planetary spectacles
which tourists paid highly to see. And there would have been comfort in the form of women if nothing else. His
masculinity would have attracted them as a flame attracted moths and they would have flocked to him after his fight
in the ring.
She remembered again how he had looked when facing Yhma, the hard savagery of his face, the cruel mouth, the
deathly eyes. Eyes matched by the cold flicker of naked steel, the body a symphony of quick and graceful movement.
And then the bursting effort of the finale when, as graceful as a dancer, he had cut and cut again to disarm and
release the jetting fountain of a human life. A gushing stream which had lifted the crowd to its feet screaming
approbation.
A screaming in which she had joined as her body had trembled and jerked to the fury of orgasmic release.
 Chapter Six
They landed at sunset when the sky was a vista of entrancing color; swaths of red and orange, blue and umber,
green, yellow, azure tinted with shimmers of gold, somber browns illuminated with flecks of puffy whiteness. A
splendor due to airborne dusts and aerial microorganisms which caught and reflected the rays of the dying orb.
The town beyond the field matched the beauty of the sky.
Broad terraces surrounded a lake of flowered water, a central fountain casting a perpetual rain. Others set at the
edges giving birth to a rainbowed mist. On the terraces, set like jewels on a string, houses merged with greenery and
the gentle mask of trees. Spired, turreted, some with cathedral-like soaring arches, others a compact blend of curve
and line having the strength and functional beauty of a clenched fist. A multitude of architectural styles married into
a common harmony.
"Ath," said Tuvey. His hand lifted to rap the shell of the pet riding his shoulder. "You like it?"
"It's lovely!" Sardia clutched Dumarest's arm. "So clean! So neat! So much like a… a…"
A child's toy. Dumarest fitted the words to the uncompleted sentence as he stood looking at the city. It was too
neat, too precise. A normal, living city was never that. It held noise and bustle and a certain untidiness and always a
little dirt. A place in which people moved and worked and had their being. This was more like a calculated design;
one planned down to the last detail and all offensive or obtrusive intrusions carefully removed. A construct made by
detached planners who cared more for the aesthetic appearance than for the comfort of those who had to reside in it.
And yet even that was not wholly true.
"It's like a house," whispered Sardia. "One over which generations have labored so as to get it just right. Or a
room furnished and decorated to the exact liking of its owner. It's perfect, Earl. Perfect!"
As a cut and faceted gem, a carving, a mosaic. A thing complete and set for all to admire. An artistic achievement
as a single house could be, a single room. But no living city could ever be that.
"Listen," he said and then, as Sardia, obeying, frowned, he added, "no children. You can't hear any children."
There were green spaces and walks and little copses and shelters which childish imagination could turn into
jungles and forests and eerie castles. Places which were ripe for mental conversion into haunts of mystery—and yet
no shrill voices rose above the susurration of the fountains and nowhere on the terraces could children be seen.
Tuvey shrugged as Sardia questioned him as to their absence.
"Don't ask me. I land, I trade, I leave and what goes on behind city walls is none of my concern. You paid for
passage and you got it. The journey is all your money bought."
A long journey, too long in the Rift where worlds were close and Dumarest suspected the man of deliberate
detours so as to lengthen the time. To make sure he wasn't being followed? Traders such as the captain often hugged
the secret of profitable ports to themselves.
He said dryly, "A correction, Captain. We bought a little more than passage."
"An introduction also, I haven't forgotten." Tuvey's fingers rasped over the carapace of his pet. "But that was for
the woman. You, Earl, will find other guesting."
"Guesting?"
"You'll see." The captain gestured toward the city. "Here they come."
They were like fireflies, or, no, like clowns, but that was wrong also and Dumarest blinked to clear his mind and
eyes of first impressions. Perspective had done it and the neat array of bizarre dwellings. Their owners were the
same. Like the buildings, they verged on the edge of fantasy and yet nothing about them was other than decorative or
functional. Clothing, oddly cut, oddly draped, still served a purpose. Colors, brilliantly applied, still held a form of
logical usage. Lips tinted ocher were still lips clearly delineated. Hair rippling with shimmering hues was still hair
clean and adorning rather than disguising the faces beneath.
"The stage," said Sardia blankly. "They look as if they're all taking part in a play of some kind. A fantasy such as
Synthe's Transpadane. I danced in it when young. Earl, this is wonderful!"
For her, yes, because for her it was normal, the life she had once known and had perhaps known better than the
later, wasting years. The world of make-believe of which she had been a part when everything was other than what it
seemed and all was possible at the touch of imagination's wand. But his universe was of harsher fabric and in it the
strange was also the potentially dangerous, and things which were not genuine were always worse than what they
appeared.
"Sardia!"
He was too late, already she had gone, running to meet the brilliant cluster coming to greet the new arrivals.
At his side Tuvey said, "Let her go. Later I'll see she meets her artist." Then, oddly, he added, "I wonder what
you'll fetch?"
Fetch? A question quickly answered as a dozen bright figures crowded around. One, dressed in dull green slashed
with flaming scarlet, feathers on rump and ankles, a crest riding high on his skull, stamped close. With him came the
tintinnabulation of tiny bells.
"Captain! Again you honor us. One thousand for the Captain!"
"And a half !" A woman, smooth flesh gleaming naked beneath the slashed vents in her gown, her hair silvered,
her lips and nails colored to match, her eyes the color of minted gold, topped the bid.
"Two!" The third voice was deeper, older. "You had him the last time, Myrna."
"True." The silvered woman shrugged. "Then two for the other."
"Three!"
"Five!"
"And a half !"
"It's too much! And it's my turn. "Six!"
Dumarest frowned as he listened, seeing Tuvey smile, the person who had won him now standing close to his
side. An older woman with a lined face deliberately accentuated so as to present the appearance of a crone. One
belied by the firm curvature of her body.
"Is this a game, Captain?"
"No game, Earl, but no harm in it either. A local custom and it's best to play along. There are no taverns here and
no hotels. To find accommodation you have to be a guest and this is the guesting. You stay with the one who wins
you. Stay long enough and you could be passed on. Entertain well enough and you could gain the original bidder a
profit."
A custom rooted in boredom but one which the residents took seriously. The voices rose higher, became sharper,
the bids joined now with argument.
"Ten and I should have him. Always I have to wait."
"Eleven and stop crying, Verrania. Be nice to me and, maybe, I'll let you talk to him."
"Bitch!"
"Cow!"
"You filthy harlot! I'll teach you a lesson in good manners!"
A flurry quickly smoothed, the two women meeting to be parted with no more damage than a ripped garment.
Dumarest looked up and away from the crowd, looking at title rim of a terrace, seeing a silent, watchful figure
standing in the shadows of a flowering tree. One different from those who stood before him in both manner and
dress. A woman with close-cropped hair of reddish gold, a square, determined face, a figure which even beneath the
dark pants and blouse she wore he could tell was firm and muscular. A moment and then she was gone and a new
voice rose amid the others.
"Fifteen! I bid fifteen."
"Ursula—"
"And I'll take it as a personal insult if any should bid against me." Her voice held the sweet venom of honeyed
poison. "Myrna? No, I thought not. Glissa? You, too, are wise. "Cheryl?" A moment as the silence lengthened, then,
casually, she said, "Well, Earl Dumarest, it seems you are to be my guest."
There was a magic about her, an atmosphere of mystery and enchantment born in whispered tales heard when a
boy in which creatures of grace would come to end all hardship and restore the comforts of forgotten eons. Promises
and hopes now stirred to life by the strangeness of the city, the cerulean figure he followed along a path winding
between scented bushes.
"My lady?"
Halting, she turned and looked down at him from where she stood high on the sloping path. Soft shadows
deepened the blue of her lips and hair, turned the tint of her skin into misty smoke.
Dumarest said, "Where are you taking me?"
"To my house—where else?"
"And?"
"And then, Earl, you will entertain me."
A word which held several connotations but he said nothing as, turning, she continued to climb. A journey which
carried them high, the path running between clumps, of trees and flowering shrubs, vague figures half seen in the
shadows. Figures which vanished when he tried to distinguish them, blending with the deepening gloom as darkness
came to grip the painted sky.
The house was like the woman.
There was blue in it and silver and arches which spanned chambers and made opposing colonnades of smoothed
and polished stone. There were tables which bore enigmas; vases of disquieting proportions, bowls of odd
configurations, blocks of crystal in which elusive creatures were held in a deceptive immobility. The floor held
elaborate patterns in geometrical mosaics. Lights shimmered from hidden sources and shadows moved in unrelated
ways.
Dumarest paused as they crossed a room, halting before a bench littered with various tools. A mass of clay-like
material rested beside a potter's wheel.
"Your hobby, my lady?"
"My name is Ursula, Earl. You will please me by using it. A guest should not be formal." The tips of her fingers
rested on the wheel. "Yes, a hobby. One which bored me."
And so had been left to gather dust. But there was no dust and even the clay-like material looked as if ready for
immediate use. Dumarest touched it, kneaded it, smoothed it again before following his hostess. How many other
hobbies had she tried and abandoned and yet were kept in a condition of immediate readiness?
And where were the servants?
There had to be servants in a house like this. The windows were wide, winds blew and dust was inevitable. Dirt
would gather and would be removed. Yet he had seen no sign of neglect and, aside from the half-glimpsed figures in
the bushes outside, no sign of those who could be retainers.
"You swim, Earl?"
"Yes."
"And dance?" She smiled as he shook his head. "Fight then? You can fight?"
"Is that the duty of a guest?"
"A guest has no duty on this world, Earl. Only an obligation to entertain. Once I had a musician who played to me
and once there was a woman who talked for hours of the men she had known. Both were boring. I need to hear
things which are novel. But I am remiss! First you must be shown your room and, naturally, you would like to bathe."
The room was too large, too cold in its furnishings of blue and silver, the ceiling high and flecked with small but
elaborate designs. The bathroom, in contrast, was warm and cozy with glinting mirrors and a deep, sunken tub which
quickly filled with steaming water when he operated the taps.
Stripped, he soaked and thought of the house and his strange hostess.
An enigma, the house apparently had no servants and the woman apparently had no man. Neither made sense.
She would have both even if only as a matter of comfort and yet seemed to prefer to live alone. Why pay so high for
his presence? Why so desperate a need to be entertained?
Hot air blasted him dry and, dressed, Dumarest returned to the room with the wide, double bed. It was soft, the
covers of fine weave, the sheets and pillows tinted the familiar blue. To either side of the bed, panels had been set
into the walls, glowing at a touch, the light brightening and dying to the wave of a hand. A blue light. A blue-tinted
woman. Blue sheets.
Why blue?
Dumarest turned to the window. It was a narrow arch, high, the panes small and set in thick bars which barely
allowed the passage of his head and shoulders. Below he saw a sheer wall crusted with a vine thick with fretted
leaves. To either side the wall was set with tinted bricks closely mortared. Above, the night had come into its own.
As yet it was not wholly dark but still it was dark enough for stars to have appeared and to be reflected in the
waters of the lake below. Stars which burned like distant furnaces, hot, close, brighter than they would have been if
this world had been Earth.
"Earl?" He heard the slight movement of the door, the rustle of garments as she crossed the room toward him on
silent feet. Earl?"
He said, "I was thinking."
"Of the woman? Of Sardia del Naeem? You see, I know her name."
"No, not the woman."
"Of what then?" Impatience sharpened her tone. "Of the city? Of what is expected of you? Must I tell you again
you have nothing to fear?"
"Nothing to fear but fear itself," he murmured. "Yet fear itself can kill."
"Earl?"
"A fragment of poetry I heard once," he explained. "I forget the rest. It was chanted by a wandering entertainer.
He had a drum and with him was a boy who played a flute."
And there had been a fire with a dancing flame which had painted the scene with a ruby light. The smell of sweat
had hung in the air together with that of dust and leather, oil and the warm, natural stink of animals and their ordure.
A moment spent on a distant world and remembered for the scrap of poetry and the food which had warmed his
belly. How long ago now?
He felt the touch of her fingers on his arm. "Hasel Ingram," she said. "He is usually credited with the poem
though there is reason to believe it stems from a much older source. If you are interested I could quote you the
accepted text."
"No, thank you." The past was dead and it was best to let it lie. "Is poetry another hobby of yours?"
"No." Her fingers closed on his arm. "Talk to me, Earl. We have time before dinner. Entertain me."
"Dinner?"
"Of course. On Ath we are not savages. Later we shall dine and I shall display you and there will be others you
know. The woman, the captain, his navigator perhaps." Her shoulders lifted in the gloom. "Or perhaps not. We have
seen too much of him and he can tell nothing that is new."
"And Tuvey?"
Again the shrug. "The captain is special. Now, Earl, why did you come to Ath?"
"I was looking for something," he said flatly. "A world with a similar name. One called Earth."
"Earth?" He saw the frown and tensed himself for the expected reply, the usual disappointment but, incredibly,
this time it didn't come. "Earth," she said again. "How odd that you should know it. How so very odd."
He felt the tension of his stomach, the sudden hope which blazed through him to dampen his palms with sweat.
With an effort he controlled his voice.
"You know it?"
"Earth?" In the shadows, the gloom of the night, her teeth shone with a pale luminescence between her parted
lips. "Perhaps."
"Do you?"
She smiled at his insistence then looked thoughtful.
"Earth," she mused. "Its astronomical sign is that of a cross set within a circle. It is the third planet of its sun. The
length of its equator is 24,901.55 miles. The equatorial diameter is 7,926.41 miles. The atmosphere is composed of
several gases, the principal ones being nitrogen, oxygen and argon in amounts of about 78, 21 and 1 percent by
volume." She blinked. "That is enough. Figures bore me. But yes, Earl, I know of Earth."
The room held the scent of oil and spirit, of paint and pigment, of bases and primers, of wooden stretchers and
new canvas. A chamber which held all the evidence of long hours spent in painstaking creation. An artist who
betrayed those even longer hours spent in the contemplation of despair.
"It's hard," said Cornelius. "So very hard. You get an idea, a concept, and you work on it until, within your mind, it
is there in its final accomplishment. A work complete in every detail. Then comes the need to communicate and so
the necessity of taking that image from the mind and setting it down on canvas. Of holding it with oils and colors. Of
giving life to dead, unfeeling matter."
"I know," said Sardia. "I know."
"Do you?" His glance from the eyes deep-set beneath heavy brows was that of a mistrustful animal. His need for
reassurance was the hunger of a child. "So few can really understand. They think that creation is simply a matter of
application—as if constructing a work of art were a ditch which could be dug at any spare moment. They can't
understand the importance of mood. The need for concentration."
The seeking and the soul-tearing exercise of what to put in and what to leave out. How well she understood. No
dance could be given a personal interpretation without confronting the same devils which tormented every creative
artist. The compromise. The limitations of the medium involved. The hopes and aspirations and, always, the
sickening knowledge of failure.
Chathelgan had known it and had died by his own hand because of it. The ballet he had composed was
acclaimed on a score of worlds but only he had known how far it had fallen short of its original conception. Far
enough at least for him to have made an end. And Elmire who had gone insane when confronted with the limitations
of the human frame when attempting a new interpretation of that most difficult of pieces, Myada's Rhapsody of
Dariroth. She had seen him just before they had taken him away and even now shuddered when she remembered the
ghastly emptiness of his eyes.
"I know," she said again. "I know."
"Yes," said Cornelius quietly. "I think that you do. Only an artist can appreciate the difficulties of another. To
realize that to give birth to a child is no easier than to produce a new work. As a woman you should know that."
"No," she said. "I can only guess. I have never borne a child."
"But the principle is valid—all creation is an act of birth." His hand gestured at the walls of the studio in which
they stood. "As this room is, in a sense, a womb. A concept Captain Tuvey found difficult to grasp when I spoke to
him about it. But I forgive him. At least he introduced us."
And now she was his guest.
He found the thought strangely pleasing as he watched her study his work. The stack of canvases leaning against
one wall seemed to attract her though many were unfinished and some little more than exploratory sketches. She
lifted the one of the suspended man, still waiting for those few, final touches, her eyes traveling from the painting to
his face then back to the canvas.
He said casually, "You like it?"
"It's superb!"
"But unfinished."
"You're joking, surely. This is magnificent!"
He smiled at the praise, childishly pleased to have won her approbation, entranced by the novelty of having
knowledgeable criticism. Twice now she had mentioned business but each time he had dismissed the subject altering
the trend the conversation was taking. Later would be time enough for such matters; now he was eager to enjoy
himself, to revel in her praise. It was odd how he had needed it, how little he had felt the necessity, now he sank into it
as if it were a warm bath and he cold and tired and stiff from exertion.
"It isn't finished," he insisted. "The face requires a few touches. When I know what they are I shall apply them.
Until then—" He broke off with a smile.
The smile made him appear younger than he was and at the same time frighteningly vulnerable. And yet he could
be no younger than herself as the heavy lines running from nose to mouth testified. As the crinkles at the corners of
the eyes. As the thinning hair and the slight sag of flesh beneath the chin. No child, this, no young and eager boy, but
not old either. Just a man growing old and, perhaps, looking older than his years.
A thing she had seen before; often physical strength was the price which had to be paid for the flame of artistic
genius, yet the face held a certain resolve. A determination to pursue the demon which plagued him; the creative
madness which cursed all true artists. A thing they carried as a burden and a dread, hating it, fearing it, owned by it
and totally possessed by it.
As Dumarest was possessed by his determination to find Earth.
Was there a difference? The pursuit of any objective was, in essence, the same. To attempt to convert a mental
speculation into a tangible form in which it could be communicated to others and to chase the figments of a legend
so as to gain proof that the legend was true—were they not the same? But while one could be seen and evaluated in
terms of the objective attempted and success achieved, the other, until resolved, must always portray doubt. Yet a
quest was a search and both men sought, in their own way, to find the same thing. The truth. The crystallizing of an
inner turmoil. The creation of something neither could wholly understand.
A personal challenge, perhaps. An idea taken and set so that others could see. A painting finished—a world
found.
She remembered Amil and what he had told her before he died.
"A man must try. Always he must try. If he does not he is nothing but a stone."
And, if in trying, he found only death?
"Sardia?"
Cornelius was staring at her and it was no time to be lost in introspection. She forced herself to smile as she
crossed the floor and stared at what rested on the easel. A handful of flowers their stems spiked with thorns. Blooms
which radiated an aura so that, suddenly, she could smell their scent as she had smelled the scent of bright blossoms
when she had been a child and had yet to learn that no beauty is unaccompanied by pain.
"Sardia!" Cornelius's hand was on her shoulder, his face anxious as he looked into her own. "Sardia, what is it?"
"Nothing." She blinked her eyes free of tears. "Nothing at all."
She had found the source of a fortune—why should she cry?

Chapter Seven
Dinner was at midnight when the sun had long since died and the sky was ebon velvet dusted with gems. Stars
which glittered with cold disinterest, curtains and sheets of luminescence occluded by the blotches of dust clouds, a
haze which stretched like a coiled rope low on the horizon. A sky too bright to be that of Earth and one distorted by
the electronic stresses found within the rift.
Not Earth but a world holding the knowledge of where it could be found. A woman who must surely know the
secret.
Dumarest looked at her as they stood on a balcony prior to joining the assembly. Tall, lithe, her body displaying
her innate femininity, touches of reflected light turning her eyes into stars. Below them the city rested like a scatter of
jewels cupped in a protective palm. Dull gleams ringed the lake and others shone from houses shielded by shrubbery,
masked by trees. The air held the rich, warm scent of natural perfume.
A paradise and Dumarest said so. Ursula shrugged.
"You are easily impressed, Earl."
 "I've learned to evaluate what I see," he corrected. "This could match the pleasure gardens on a score of worlds
and has something even the Tyrant of Meld couldn't achieve with a fortune spent over a dozen years. His landscape
lacks what you have here, a softness, a snugness—it isn't easy to put into words."
"A work of art," she said. "Can any two artists produce exactitude? Always there must be the minor difference of
personal temperament. The subtle distinction which spells the difference between competence and genius."
"So the city was made," he said. "Built as a whole?"
"No. It grew and then was planned. There was much alteration and true harmony was not achieved until the
Ohrm were removed. As for the rest, well, perhaps it holds a certain charm."
Her tone held condescension, her attitude was one of boredom, things which Dumarest recognized and he was
quick to change the subject. Only a little could be learned at a time and to press too hard would risk losing all. The
woman knew of Earth. She had knowledge he must obtain. The trick was to make her want to give it to him.
Now he leaned forward, hands resting on the parapet of the balcony, head tilted a little as he looked at the sky.
"Odd how the stars look in the Rift. I'd guessed they would be less plentiful and there could have been the glow
of opposed energies. Have you ever seen them? Certain areas seem to trap and enhance natural radiation and, if
there should be a fluorescent dust in the vicinity a spectacle can be obtained which holds true majesty. There is one
close to Zekiah and another, better, which can be seen from Schwitz. You should make the effort to visit it."
"No." Her voice held impatience. "We do not travel from Ath."
"Never?"
"No."
A thing which she had hinted at before when, eager for entertainment, she had pressed him for details of the
worlds he had seen, the adventures he had known. Stories for children, tales to pass the time. Always he was
conscious of the similarity—a city built as to a whim, stories garnered from passing strangers, hobbies tried and
discarded, projects started and abandoned. And no sight of any servants as if the things which were done were best
done in secret loneliness.
And yet she was not a child but a woman vibrant with a woman's need. A thing he sensed as she moved closer to
him, to rest her hand on his own, to tighten her fingers and dig tiny crescents with the blue-stained nails.
"Earl, on these worlds you have known, have you met many women?"
"A few."
"And have they loved you?" She smiled as he made no answer. "You are discreet but the answer is plain. Tell me,
were any of them like me?"
"No." He turned to face her, his hand falling from beneath her own. "You are unique."
As every woman was unique, every person ever born, for no two could be exactly alike and every individual was
a thing alone. A fact disguised as flattery by the tone of his voice, the direction of his eyes. And, even when a boy,
Dumarest had known that to lie was stupid when the truth would serve better.
"Unique, Earl? You mean that?"
"As far as I can tell, Ursula, you are the most unusual woman I have ever met." And then, for fear she might
mistake his words for irony, he added, "And one of the most beautiful. On any of a dozen worlds you would be a
queen. On any of a hundred you would be known and loved and hated in equal measure."
"By other women?"
"Of course." He lifted the hand which had rested on his own and touched it to his lips. The fingers were cool,
scented, smooth to his caress. "And, perhaps, by some men."
Her laughter was rich, throaty, the peal of bells. A breaking of the momentary tension as she sought refuge in an
appreciation of the incongruous.
"Earl! You are priceless!"
"Not quite, Ursula. It was fifteen thousand you paid?"
"Put into the common fund to be shared." The gesture she made diminished the sum. "A device invented by
Garnar to add spice to certain moments. He is dead now but his work lingers on."
And would continue to do so as long as it provided entertainment. Dumarest said casually, "What are the Ohrm?"
"What!"
"You mentioned them." He gestured at the city. "When you spoke of achieving true harmony."
"The Ohrm," she said. "They are the ones who—the people who serve."
"A different race?"
"No. They are human. I—" She threw back her head, eyes misted. "The name is derived from Francis Ohrm who
was elected spokesman for the passengers who traveled to Ath in the Choudhury. We are the Choud. The Ohrm are
those who work and serve so that we can direct and control."
Servants or slaves?
 "They serve," said Ursula. "They have always served. They tend the soil and grow the crops and do all things
needing to be done under the direction of the Choud."
"For how long?"
"For always. No. Since the Choudhury landed on Ath. There was dissension and Francis Ohrm became more than
just a spokesman. Punished, he died but his name lived on. Those who followed him became the Ohrm. They serve
the Choud."
"Who do not travel?"
"No." Ursula blinked. "At least not to other worlds." Then, as a chime rose to hang quivering in the air,
"There is the dinner gong. It's time we joined the others."
They stood in a small cluster in a room graced with pendants of ice-like crystal all touched with an azure haze
from lights shielded from direct view. A cold room with a floor of tessellated slabs all blue and silver. High arched
windows framed the night, scalloped rims forming a surround for the stars. Natural pictures which would change as
the hours passed to become flushed with the roseate light of dawn, the yellow blaze of day.
"Earl!" Sardia was among the assembly and came forward to greet him. "Earl, this is Cornelius. The artist we
came to meet. Cornelius, this is Earl Dumarest. A friend."
If he noticed the slight hesitation he gave no sign but smiled and extended his hand and touched that which
Dumarest had lifted. An old gesture and one common on worlds which had known strife; the empty palms visible
proof of the lack of weapons. But when could Ath have known war?
"Earl. Sardia has told me about you. I hope that we, too, can be friends. Captain, I must thank you for my guest."
Tuvey had come to join them, his shoulder bare of his pet.
"Borol doesn't like too much company," he explained. "And festivities unsettle him."
"And that thing unsettles me." The woman Dumarest had seen before was at the captain's side and, while still
revealing accumulated years, she no longer resembled a crone. Instead, metallic glints shone from lips and eyelids
and darkness had hollowed her cheeks. Beneath her cunningly draped gown flesh swelled in enticing formations. "I'm
willing to buy the man but not the beast. One day, perhaps, he'll agree to be bought for keeps."
"Maybe." Tuvey screwed up his eyes. "Who can tell, Etallia? If the price is right, who can tell?"
"Money!" The woman snorted her contempt. "That's all you think about. What is money against happiness? Stay
with me and I'll give you more than you could hope to earn in the remainder of your life."
"And give me also what it could buy?" The captain smiled like a wrinkled gnome. "That, too, my sweet?"
"Greed! You lack blood, Lon Tuvey. In your veins is only money!"
"She's right," said Sardia as the couple moved away. "And the bastard isn't only greedy but cunning with it. I had a
chance to speak with him about return passage. It's there if we can pay for it, Earl, but that's all. When I asked for the
coordinates of Ath he laughed."
"Then ask your friend."
"Cornelius? He's an artist not a navigator."
"Someone must know." Dumarest stared at the woman, at her eyes. "There's something you've discovered. What
is it?"
"I've found out how that cunning bastard tricked us, Earl. The passage and introduction, remember? Not one
without the other. The long journey. The lack of coordinates. And Cornelius tells me that the Sivas is about the only
ship that calls here. There's another, the Mbotia, but that hasn't called for months now. So it seems we travel with
Tuvey or we don't travel at all." Her laugh was brittle. "He has us both ways. We get the paintings and pay through the
nose to get them out Then we pay again to return to Ath for more."
"No." Why hadn't she seen the flaw in her argument? Then he remembered. "I see—Cornelius refuses to travel.
We can't take him with us."
"No, Earl, we can't."
"But why not? Damn it, all he has to do is to get on the ship."
"He won't." She shook her head at his expression. "Don't ask me why. An artist is a delicate creature and, like a
flower, needs a certain combination of associations in order to produce his best. Maybe he feels safe here. Maybe it's
something else. But I'm trying to change his mind, Earl. I'm trying."
And might succeed, given time; using her charm, her femininity, spinning a web with the lure of her body as
women had done since the beginning of time. The old, age-old magic which so rarely failed. The love which, once
instilled, made a man helpless to refuse.
Perhaps, as yet, she hadn't thought of that, but it would come if Cornelius continued to be stubborn. No one who
had not learned how to apply the charm of her sex could have risen so high and she had been at the top of her
profession. And no one who lacked determination could have gained such fame. That same determination had
brought her to Ath and it would not be denied. She would win the artist; one way or another she would win, and if she
did, would he mind?
Dumarest looked at her, sensing her nearness, her warmth, remembering the times of close proximity on Juba
and in the ship. The times of passion. The words which had been spoken. The promises she had made.
And yet did anything ever last forever? And how could he blame her when he was doing the same?
"Earl?" She frowned, conscious that something had come between them, a chill not born of the cold decor of the
room, the blue and silver so symbolic of ice and snow. "Is something wrong?"
"No. I was thinking of how to handle Tuvey." Of the need for passage and the greater need to learn more from
Ursula as to the whereabouts of Earth. But he didn't mention that. Instead, he said, "Don't worry about it now. Just
concentrate on Cornelius. Will he cooperate?"
"He'll let me handle his work, Earl. I'm certain as to that. As for the rest—" She shrugged. "Well, I've met stubborn
men before. But we're up against time. If we aren't ready when Tuvey decides to leave then we'll be stuck until he
returns. Months at least."
Time in which enemies could smell out his trail. Time for the Cyclan to set a trap from which, this time, it would
be impossible to escape.
Dinner was served in an adjacent room, one lit with diffused lighting, shadows thick against the carved panels of
the ceiling, bright glows of warm color cast in patches over the central area. The table formed the three sides of an
open square with the guests all sitting to face the space so formed. In it, a swirling mass of tinged mist, writhed a
cloud of scented vapor which adopted new and peculiar shapes without end. A kaleidoscope of form and color,
enticing, hypnotic.
"Debayo constructed it," said Ursula. "Before he grew interested in contacting the dead. Now he does little but
squat before Hury waiting for revelations. Do you believe the dead can walk and talk as they did when alive, Earl?"
"On some worlds, perhaps."
"Do you know of one?" She shrugged, not waiting for him to answer. "The thing is ridiculous. Once dead, life is
ended. All that can possibly remain is the residue of the electrical energy of the brain. A fragment of decaying energy
spreading like the ripples on a pool into which a stone has been thrown."
"And yet, Ursula, if that energy could be isolated, trapped and amplified, what then?" A man sitting farther down
the table twisted so as to face her. "Debayo has cause for his belief but I am certain he is trying the wrong approach.
The method of using paraphysical energy was denounced in… in…" His eyes went blank. "In the fifty-eighth year
after First Landing when Wendis Cormagh demonstrated by impeccable logic that it is impossible to utilize a form of
energy we can neither sense nor devise instruments to measure. To us, that energy, even if it exists, must be and
forever remain nonexistent. His analogy was that of a blind man searching a darkened room for a black animal which
was not present." He blinked.
"Karg's Ultimate, Corbey." A man called from where he sat at another leg of the table. "Sometimes known as the
ultimate in absurdity and old before Wendis was born."
"But if Debayo should succeed?" Corbey paused and looked at the assembled guests. "Remember, contacting the
dead would be only the beginning. Once that secret is learned then the dead will no longer be divorced from us. They
will, in a sense, continue to exist. And that which does not die is immortal. That is what Debayo is after. Not words
spoken to ghosts but the secret which, will banish death forever."
An ambitious project but one in which Dumarest had no immediate interest. As talk flowed around and across the
central mass of swirling vapor he leaned back and looked around. The guests were more soberly dressed now but still
bizarre to one who had known the strict formality of High Families and ruling courts. No two gowns were alike and
even the men wore clothing strictly to their personal taste. Blouses in a variety of colors, slashed, puffed, bound,
ornamented, graced with fine tassels, decorated with intricate piping. Hair was streaked and blotched in rainbow
hues, faces painted, eyes tinted, enlarged, enhanced with shaven brows and applied cosmetics. Among them he
looked a drab fowl among peacocks. Even Sardia in her best gown of shimmering silk touched with ruffs of
contrasting brilliance looked dull.
She looked at him and smiled then turned as a servant poured wine into her glass.
They had made an appearance for the first time and Dumarest watched them with interest. Small, delicately
made, dressed in somber blue the color of lead, they drifted like wraiths, emotionless, soundless, unobtrusive.
Girls, he decided, or young boys, it was impossible to tell which. But they were nothing like the woman he had
seen in the shadows on the path. Nor did they resemble the shapes he had seen lurking in the greenery. A different
breed? The result of genetic selection which aimed at smallness and lack of sexual characteristics? A deliberate
policy which ensured a supply of tamed and timid servitors?
One touched his arm as he moved and he felt thinness and fragile bone and saw wide, empty eyes which glanced
at him once then lowered as if confused. A girl, he was sure. It had to be a girl, the contact had been female and the
structure of the facial bone, the manner of walking due to a widening of the pelvis—it had to be a girl.
 Or something which had been surgically achieved and which now had no sexual definition at all in the accepted
sense.
Would they have done that?
He glanced at Ursula, leaning back in her chair, breasts prominent, mouth open to reveal the flash of teeth as she
smiled. A lovely woman—but never had beauty been a guarantee of gentle behavior. Cornelius? No, he was too much
an artist to subject flesh to such distortion, and yet cities had been burned in the name of art and men and babies set
to die screaming for a musical accompaniment. How to tell? How ever to be sure?
"Your wine, Earl." Ursula was looking at him. "Is it to your taste?"
He hadn't touched it and she had noticed. A breach of etiquette in any such gathering. Now, lifting the goblet, he
tasted sweetness and a cloying something which stung his tongue with acrid prickles. It vanished when he ate a cake
containing tart fruits and a savory paste.
Meats followed, a variety of vegetables, compotes of fruit and nuts, wafers of spiced bread, cakes containing
savory delights, sweets which stung and pastes which tantalized.
Then, the tables cleared of dishes, came the entertainment.
It was new to Dumarest's experience.
No performers made their entry and no musicians provided accompaniment. Instead, a man rose from where he
sat, stepped into the writhing mist and began to sing in a cracked voice. Another followed him and jumped and
twisted in a series of involved acrobatics, hands and feet vanishing into the mist which now had lowered to spread
like an insubstantial carpet over the floor. A woman shrilled like a captive bird, another played an instrument like a
guitar and harp combined.
Two men played at war.
Sardia laughed as they faced each other with blades carefully blunted. Knives which would have required an effort
to cut butter and lacked the edge even to sever string. Mock blades used for practice, clashing as they met, ringing,
cutting through the air as the men crouched and emulated fighters.
No, not emulated. Dumarest stared at them, his eyes narrowed, watching, evaluating. The feet moved as they
should, the hands were correctly poised, the movements were those lauded by the classical school which was not
necessarily the best. That title was reserved for the teaching which a man followed and won by following. But for the
dilettantes the men provided a spectacle which they could appreciate.
Only Sardia mocked.
"Look at them, Earl! Ten to one you could take them both with only one arm. Twenty, you would gut the pair
within five minutes!"
She had indulged herself with wine and was, while not drunk, not so sober as she thought. Her voice rose again
over the clash of steel.
"They want entertainment, Earl! Give it to them!
Give them real blood and real pain! Give them something to think about!"
"Sardia!"
"Shut up!" She threw off Cornelius's hand. "Don't try to stop my talking. I've had enough of that. Talk is for fools.
Words to entertain the passengers you've bought and carried home like toys. Well, I'm not a toy. And I don't entertain
for nothing. You want real entertainment? Ask Earl to give it to you. That man can fight He can fight as well as I can
dance."
"Dance?" Ursula reared up in her chair. "You claim to be able to dance?"
"I make no claims." Sardia shook her head, suddenly aware of what she had done. "And I mean no offense. It was
just that I was—"
"Bored?" Ursula's smile was devoid of humor. "You, bored? My dear, you don't know the meaning of the word.
But you mentioned dancing."
"She's drunk too much," said Cornelius. "You have potent wine, Ursula. And the children were over-generous."
Children? Dumarest looked for the servants but they had gone. Had they been children? It was possible as most
things were. Or was that just a euphemism?
"They do as they are ordered," said Elittia from where she sat at the captain's side. "But I am intrigued. A dancer,
you say?"
"No. Not now. The wine—"
"Oiled your tongue. I understand. But once, surely, you could claim to know a little of the art."
Tuvey said, "Leave it, woman."
"Orders, Captain?"
"Sense. Drink some wine and sing us a song or something. Don't throw oil on a flame."
Advice she didn't follow and Dumarest sensed why. Jealousy showed in her painted face, in the glitter of her eyes,
a flame which leaped and died but which he noticed before the bland mask was again in position.
"A dancer," she mused. "And, why not, a challenge? Now for the prize. This, perhaps?" Color glowed as she
produced something from beneath her robe. "How about this?"
"My cube!" Sardia rose to her feet "My music cube."
Bought be Tuvey from Ahdram as a gift to his hostess or as an item of trade. Used now by its present owner as
bait.
"Your cube? Not yet, my dear, but if you can dance better than Ursula it is yours. You agree?" Then, as Sardia
hesitated, her voice grew harsh. "You had enough to say before and were eager enough to boast of the prowess of
your friend. Are we to assume that it was only the wine at work? If so, an apology—"
"No!" The old woman had been clever with a cunning learned from her paramour or one he had learned from her.
Sardia fell into the trap. "I've nothing to apologize for. If it will entertain the company I will dance. And if the cube is a
prize I will try to win it."
But not too hard, thought Dumarest. Remember you are a guest. Don't try too hard.
Advice she didn't hear and, if she did, would have ignored.

Chapter Eight
The cube itself provided the music, a susurrating rhythm which held the sensuous beat of drums and the thin,
frenzied wail of pipes. A tempo gauged to the beating of a heart so that, as it accelerated, so did the organ with the
consequent release of adrenaline, the heightening of emotional fervor until pleasantry verged into hysteria.
Exciting music in a theater where space separated the audience from the stage and those performing. Insane to
use a tavern where the dancer could be touched and men carried weapons and had the will to use them. Unwise even
in this house before such people when it was played in the spirit of challenge.
Ursula said, "Will you dance first, Sardia, or shall I?"
"As you wish."
"Music repeated could be boring to those having to listen and if we dance one after the other the second will
have the benefit of learning the other's interpretation. You have no objection to our both performing at the same
time?"
"None."
"It won't detract from your concentration?"
Sardia almost laughed her contempt. How little this decorated and decadent fool really knew. She remembered
the old days when she'd waited for hours dressed in her leotards, moving simply to retain warmth and muscular
suppleness, running onto the stage to join a dozen others all eager to catch the producer's eye. A system which
encouraged each to give of his best regardless of what another might be doing. To concentrate, to think of nothing,
to feel nothing, to be nothing but a creature wedded to music. To become nothing but a priestess of the dance.
"No," she said. "It won't detract from my performance."
"Then let us begin."
A touch and the music died, another and it recommenced as the women took up their positions. Dumarest
watched as around him rose a tide of murmured comment. Ursula was the younger and therefore should be more
supple. Yet the other, older, could have gained the greater experience. Yet few offered to bet and those seeking
wagers all wanted to back his hostess.
A matter of diplomacy?
Dumarest doubted it, the expressions in their eyes were enough to eliminate that consideration. Some of them,
like Elittia, wanted Ursula to lose yet seemed to have no doubt of her ability to win. Others, interested more in the
excitement of the dance rather than the challenge, settled down to drink and watch and drink again as they yielded
themselves to the pulse of the music.
Listening to it, Dumarest studied the dancers.
Ursula was splendidly lithe, her gown a cerulean shimmer, darker hues accentuating the swell of breasts and the
curve of hips, feet naked in thin sandals, the nails darkly painted. Her hair was a cloud touched with silver, her arms
supple vines with extensions; fingers which flexed as did her thighs, her calves, the arches of her feet. A symphony in
blue.
Sardia wore white and flame, the rich darkness of her skin a glowing contrast, her hair oiled jet which caught and
held the light and transmuted it into ripples of flame. A goddess from the olden times when men had ventured into
woods to worship trees and perform sacrifices to ancient deities.
A woman now reflecting her pride in the turn of her shoulder and the sweep of her hair. Hair which fell in a
cascade as she freed it from its restraints. Cloth which ripped beneath her nails as she tore vents in the skirt to display
the long, lovely curve of her thighs.
And yet, still, she did not dance.
The music was still relatively quiet, a thin wailing as of pipes beneath shadowed trees, the sonorous throb of
drums in answer, the melodies building, blending, forming mental images of empty spaces and secret groves, of fires
left abandoned to flare in guttering winds. Of the sound of distant seas and the relentless beat of natural forces.
Ursula moved to the rhythm as if it were a wind which gripped her and dictated the shift of her feet, the play of
her arms, the sway of hips and shoulders, the jerk and thrust of breasts and buttocks. Sardia moved like a reed at the
edge of a pond rippled by a gentle breeze, her eyes half closed, hands hanging lax, only the shimmer of light on her
hair revealing the small movements of her body. A woman almost lost in a dream. A dancer, remembering.
An auditorium filled with waiting men and women, the air tense with expectation, the orchestra settled, the stage
dressed, everything ready to go. And she, the prima ballerina, about to dance the difficult role of Hilda in Obert's
Sacrifice to a Queen.
The part of a harlot who seduced men with the motions of her body as she danced in a tavern.
One who had to dance, finally, for life itself.
Again she remembered Obert's instructions.
"No techniques, no tricks, no pretty spinning on the points. Ballet training teaches you how to dance—now
dance. With your body, with your mind, with your emotions—dance!"
Then she had won a standing ovation, awards, fame.
Now she could only win a cube.
The music caught her as she accepted it, yielding to it, letting her body become an extension of the beat, the
rhythm. The ripple of muscle, the turn, the gesture, the sway of the hips all minor at first, all gentle, all helping to
build the atmosphere and yet all hypnotic in their fascination.
Watching her Dumarest narrowed his eyes. Her face was different from that of Ursula and he glanced from one to
the other, comparing, noting. The eyes half closed, the same but one held dreaming intent while the other had a
detached glaze. And, too, Ursula's movements held a trace of deliberation as if she were listening to an instructor. A
slight hesitation totally absent from Sardia's undulating grace.
Both interpretations of the music were basically the same—the rhythm left little choice. The beat was primeval
and the dance was the same. Crudely done it would have been nothing more than a stylized depiction of sexual
invitation; done as it was being done now it held connotations and subtleties which added layers of extra dimension
to the elemental theme.
And Sardia was going to win.
There could be no doubt of it. Dumarest could see it, feel it, hear it as others shouted their approbation. It rose
above the music now strident, dominating, driving the dancers as if it were whips. Thongs which lashed and sent
yielding flesh into gliding postures, femininity exposed, displayed, flashes of curved limbs, hips which held the
attention, gyrating, demanding, heating in wanton promise.
Ursula was accomplished but Sardia was transformed. A woman who had become a flame, dominating,
destroying. One suddenly hurtful and cruel.
She had won, the yells had told her that, but still she continued to dance and each step, each movement,
diminished Ursula's pretensions to ability. And still she continued, demeaning the other, belittling her, making her, by
contrast, seem clumsy and totally inadequate.
"Enough!" Dumarest rose to his feet. "Captain, kill that music!"
The cube fell silent beneath Tuvey's hand as Dumarest strode through the wreathing vapor. Ursula ran past him,
her face like ice, hard, cold, ugly, the tears in her eyes like glimmering pearls. Sardia turned toward him as he gripped
her arm.
"Earl!"
"You bitch!"
"Why? because I did my best?"
"Because you didn't do enough." He stared at her, meeting her eyes, seeing in them a familiar expression. One
mirrored on her face and which he had seen often when, after reaching the climax of love, she had relaxed in his
arms. "With your training you were certain to win—you knew that. So why the hell didn't you use a little charity?"
"Charity?" She almost spat the word. "That is for monks and fools! I can't afford to be charitable. Can you?"
"I try."
"You try?" Her laughter was shrill. "Were you trying when you cut Yhma's throat? Was that your charity? No, Earl,
when I fight I fight like you. I fight to win."
And, winning, looked lovelier than ever before. He felt her attraction, his response to the sensual warmth of her
flesh, the invitation of her body. She was his if he wanted her, he knew that. His for now and forever.
But Ursula knew of Earth.
She had run like a hurt and wounded animal and as such would have sought darkness and a place in which to
hide. Dumarest passed through the door she had taken, saw a wide passage pierced with windows, a door which
opened on darkness. It led to a small garden now brilliant with starlight, leaves catching the light from the windows
which added a ghostly luminescence to the pale silver from the sky. Dropping to a knee he studied the grass and saw
faint traces crossing the sward to where a clump of bushes cast a deeper gloom. Thin branches pressed against him
and his nostrils were filled with the sickly odor of nocturnal blooms as he stepped into the clump. Three steps and he
turned; dressed as she had been, Ursula would not have taken the path he was following. Back on the sward he
dropped again, frowning at the traces he now spotted.
The marks of footsteps but more than one. Some light and another much heavier. A trampled place and then a
wider swath leading toward the edge of the terrace. He moved forward, fingers questing, searching for torn grass and
ripped loam but finding only smoothness. No struggle, then, just a meeting and a departure. Rising he saw a scrap of
something hanging from a twig.
It was fabric, fine, blue, a part of the gown Ursula had worn and probably torn free when she thrust her way past
the bush. Dumarest followed and found himself on a narrow, winding path. Pale, silver starlight made an elaborate
chiaroscuro as if filtered through leaved branches. Something moved in the shadows and his hand dipped to rise
loaded with the weight of his knife.
"Ursula?"
Nothing and Dumarest moved silently to one side. If an enemy were lurking in the darkness he had given him
advantage enough. Now he edged forward, sliding from patch to patch of shadow, left hand extended, the knife in his
right poised to strike.
Something moved before him, a blur which became solid as he lunged forward, a shape which held substance and
which struggled against the grip of his left hand. It took form as he dragged it into the starlight, silver gleams
reflecting from the edged and pointed steel he aimed at the face.
"No! Please, no!"
A woman and one he had seen before. In the starlight he examined the square-cut face.
"Your name?" The knife moved closer as she made no answer.
"Pellia," she said quickly. "Please! The knife!" Dumarest lowered it from where it had rested against her cheek, a
spot of blood mute testimony to the sharpness of the point. A wound which would heal without trace but the threat
of marring her beauty had been enough.
"I've seen you before. When the ship landed you were watching from beneath some trees. During the time of
bidding. Why? What did you hope to see?"
"The bidding!" Her tone held contempt. "Why must you indulge their whims?"
"The Choud?" Dumarest eased his grip on the cropped hair. It was silken beneath his fingers, as soft as her voice,
as the body he had touched beneath the blouse. A woman's softness overlaying firm muscle and well-constructed
bone. As a child this one had never starved. "Why do you serve them? You do serve them, don't you?"
"I am one of the Ohrm, yes."
"And you serve?"
This time she made no answer but he needed no words. A servant, one who had learned to move quietly in the
shadows and to watch and listen and learn—how little those who ruled realized how much they betrayed. And yet
between her and those others he had seen in the house lay the difference between a pygmy and a giant. Were there
others of as great a difference elsewhere?
She remained silent when he asked then shuddered as he lifted the knife.
"You would cut me? A woman!"
"I want answers. I'm looking for the mistress of the house. Ursula. Have you seen her?"
"No."
"People gathered on the lawn—yours?"
"A few. They come to watch but they did no harm. That I swear."
The truth or partly so, certainly they had done no harm to the sward and, had Ursula been attacked, she would
have screamed or left traces he would have found. As it was he had only the fragment of cloth. Had she turned and
gone the other way?
"Why are you watching?"
Again the silence, maintained even when he rested the knife against her cheek. For a long moment she stood rigid
as the steel touched her flesh then, as it lowered, she released her breath in a gusting sigh.
"You didn't cut me."
 "No, why should I?" Dumarest slid the blade back into his boot. "I'm just a visitor here and what lies between you
and the Choud is your business. But take some advice, girl. When someone who threatens you asks a question give
him an answer. It needn't be a true one as long as it satisfies." Then, without change of tone, he added, "Just why
were you standing on the path?"
"Belain told me to. He—" She broke off, one hand lifting to her mouth. "You tricked me!"
"Yes. Is Belain your leader?" Her eyes gave him the answer. "Never mind. He set you to watch and to give a signal
if anyone should follow, right?" Again he watched the flicker of starlight reflected from her eyes. As a conspirator she
lacked practice. "What is going on?"
"You said you weren't interested."
"I'm not, just curious. Maybe I could help?" He waited then said, "Just as you wish. Are you sure you didn't see
Ursula?"
"No, but I heard something before you came. Someone running up the path."
"A woman?"
"It sounded like a woman, yes."
Ursula, seeking heights and brightness and not depths and darkness, in that he had been wrong. Or she could
have some private place in which she could sit alone to nurse her injured pride. To think and, perhaps, to plan her
revenge. Sardia had been a fool and to delay longer would be to accentuate her folly with his own.
He said, "Pellia, tell me, has your mistress a favorite spot on an upper level? Ursula is your mistress?"
"No."
An assumption he had made without foundation—why should she belong to the household simply because he
had discovered her close? And yet no establishment in a place like this was isolated; servants would talk, gossip
would flow and the habits of one would be the knowledge for all.
"But you would know if she had such a place," he said gently. "Somewhere she would choose to be if hurt or
upset in any way. I need your help. It is important that I find her and soon."
"Then ask another of the Choud."
"How would they know?" His hand fell to her shoulder, rose, a finger softly touching the spot of blood which
marred her cheek. "For this I apologize. If you know where Ursula is to be found tell me and I will forget I've seen you
here tonight. A bargain?"
"She is fond of heights," said the woman and her voice held bitterness. "It pleases her to look down on others. It
pleases all the Choud. But if she has been thwarted you will find her on the upper terrace. There is a turret of stone
surmounted by a crouching beast. In it she plots her revenge."
It rose like a ghostly castle in the starlight, a miniature palace set with fretted stone, dark with sprawling lichen,
the beast above it a snarling, fanged shape radiating fury. Inside it was thick with shadows but the air held the taint of
a familiar perfume and a section seemed lighter than the rest. A patch which moved and a face which caught the
starlight and reflected it in the colorless semblance of a corpse.
"Ursula?" Dumarest stepped through the opening. "Are you here, my lady?"
"Why have you followed me?"
"I was concerned." The air held more than the odor of the perfume she wore, there was an acridity which spoke
of insects and cobwebs and things which hid during the light of day. Imagination, probably, if she used this place then
servants would have kept it clean. Or did she have a perverse attraction for mold and decay? "I came to escort you
back to the house."
"So your harlot can gloat?"
"So she can apologize."
"Why?"
"She is a trained dancer, a prima ballerina. Almost her entire life has been spent in learning how to manipulate her
body. The challenge was a farce from the beginning and one she should never have taken advantage of. It was the
wine—she rarely drinks. And, too, I think she was more than a little jealous."
"Of me?"
"Can you doubt it?" Dumarest found a bench and sat down beside the woman. "Must I illustrate the obvious? You
are younger than Sardia and she resented it. Your beauty also. Always until recently she has been the center of
attraction and, in you, she saw mirrored what had been and would be no longer. Youth, charm, the ideal of men. Can
you blame her for taking the only advantage she had?"
"The dance," said Ursula. "The dance."
"All she can do and even so her art is failing." It was no time to hesitate at a lie. "I watched you both. She bested
you and you are woman enough to admit it, but in a year or two?" Dumarest shook his head. "A tree grows old and
gains beauty with age. A woman gains maturity and can add to her attraction by the depths of her mind. But a
woman who had nothing to commend her but muscular obedience—Ursula, she should be pitied, not blamed."
She said quietly, "I had planned to kill her."
And would have done and still could unless he could make amends. Sardia had been cosseted too long and had
been forgotten if she had ever learned how vicious those born to wealth and power could be. The assassin, the subtle
drug, the nerve-twisting poison, the killing bacteria—all were weapons easily at hand.
And who would mourn or revenge a lone traveler dying on a remote world?
"A guest," said Dumarest. "You would kill a guest?"
"Cornelius's, not mine."
"But still a guest of the Choud," he reminded. "At times, Ursula, we need to remember who and what we are. You
are among those who rule on this world while Sardia is only a woman who acted unwisely while under the influence
of wine. Already she regrets what she has done and wishes she could make amends."
"Such as an apology?"
An act she would detest but would do if he had to force her to her knees. Too much was at stake for him to
pander to her pride.
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Even that."
"Even that?" Ursula lifted her eyebrows. "She means something to you?"
"We traveled together."
"And?" Her eyes watched his face; orbs filled with reflected starlight, pale ovals which glinted and looked as blind
as glass. "Are you lovers?" She sighed at his nod. "So Tuvey mentioned to Ellitia. And yet you berated her for being
less than kind. And you left her at the moment of her triumph when she needed you most. Your woman, Earl."
Dumarest said, "Not my woman, Ursula. Sardia isn't property. She isn't a slave."
"All women are slaves of their passion," she snapped. "As all men are victims of their ambition. It drives them like
a goad and it can destroy them as love can destroy a woman. What is your ambition?"
"To travel."
"Why?"
"To search. To find."
"What? Happiness?" The turn of her head signaled her irritation. "What is happiness? Is it the contentment of a
well-fed beast? Is it the lack of pain? Of hunger? Of doubt? Can you buy it? Make it? Find it in some forgotten place.
Tell me, Earl, where can I find this precious thing?"
"In your heart, perhaps, Ursula. I know of nowhere else."
"Then why do you search?"
"For knowledge." He stretched and shifted so that his hand rested on his knee close to the hilt of the knife in his
boot A habit born of time spent in shadowed darkness with things which threatened from the gloom. "It pleases me
to discover odd facts associated with various legends. The mythical planets, for example. You must have heard of
them?"
"No."
"Worlds that are supposed to exist and yet which no one seems able to find." His tone was casual. "Worlds such
as Earth."
"Earth is no myth."
"So I am convinced and I came to Ath in search of it as I told you earlier. And you reaffirm my belief. The details
you gave were fantastic. Such precision. You could even know the spatial coordinates. If so then it would be possible
to locate the planet." He paused, waiting, but she made no response. "Do you know the coordinates?"
She said, "Earl, let us not concern ourselves with that now. Tell me, and be honest, do you find me more
attractive than Sardia?"
"Yes."
"Are you positive?"
"Yes." She was talking about physical beauty and he was thinking of far more than that, but even so she held an
attraction which set her high as the dancer though in a different style. Hers was the loveliness of carved perfection
while Sardia held the warmth of all humanity, the fire and the passion of seeding and harvest. "Yes, Ursula. Yes!"
She came to him like a scented cloud, her arms lifting to fold around his neck, her body shifting so as to press
against his own, the twin mounds of her breasts flattening beneath the pressure. And she was fire beneath the ice,
long muscles rippling, hips moving as her lips sought his own, teeth and tongue adding their own urgency to the
message she was sending, the need she made no attempt to hide.
It was natural to respond. To return the pressure of flesh against flesh, to lift his arms and to send his hand
caressing her hair, the fingers gliding through the silken strands to follow the curve of the skull, to feel the odd
roundness set firm beneath the scalp.
 "Earl!" Her lips left his to rise over his cheek in search of his ear. To bite as she voiced her desire. "Earl, I need
you! I need you!"
As he needed her, not for the brief satisfaction of relieved physical tension but for the knowledge he sensed she
possessed. A need greater than any she could ever have known or dreamed could exist.
"My darling! Earl, my love!"
There was blood on her mouth, dark in the starlight, and warm wetness on his face where more had run from his
bitten flesh. A harlot's trick once played on him in a tavern and rewarded then in a manner which had left its mark.
Now he could not afford to be other than gentle. Other than kind.
"Ursula!"
"You love me, Earl? You love me?"
He had traveled incredible distances, fought, killed, suffered hardship and almost died in his search for Earth. A
few pleasing words were nothing. Dalliance in this stone construction was nothing. Lies, promises, he would use them
all to gain what he needed to know.
And then, abruptly, she stiffened.
"Ursula? What—"
"Be silent!" Her head tilted as if she listened to distant sounds. "Something is wrong."
She rose, suddenly cold, stepping to one of the slits which pierced the stone. Beyond rested the city, the lake, the
field beyond. As Dumarest joined her, lights blazed from the houses and he could see running men head from the city,
more on their way to the field. From behind the fence came little flickers of winking, ruby light.
They vanished in a gush of yellow flame.
A flame which limned the Sivas in harsh detail.
From somewhere below came Sardia's voice, high, shrill with shocked disbelief.
"The ship! My God, they've blown up the ship!"

Chapter Nine
The handler was dead, lying like a discarded doll on the ground, the ripped and charred clothing covering pulped
bone and flesh. The steward had a broken arm and a cheek blackened by the blast. It had been coated with a soothing
transparent film and he nursed the arm as he watched men busy in the light of dawn.
"I don't know," he said. "I was sleeping when I heard something. I moved toward the cargo hold and then it
happened. A flash, a noise, and all the rest was confusion. I guess I was knocked out."
He had been found in an upper compartment and the negligence which left the door ajar had saved his life. The
rest of the crew were unharmed; like the captain they had been guests.
"There was noise," said Dumarest. "Some firing from lasers. Did you see anything?"
"No. If there was noise I guess that was what woke me. But I didn't see anything. Just the flash as I told you."
Dumarest nodded. "Take care of that arm." He stepped toward the vessel as the engineer appeared at the head of
the loading ramp. Like the hull in that section it was buckled but could be straightened with relatively little effort. The
internal damage was more serious.
"The generator's damaged." Sharten wiped his hands on the sides of his pants; like his face, his uniform, they
were grimed with grease and soot. "The blast originated in the hold and blew the caskets to flinders. Well, we can
manage without them, but the rest is another matter. The doors yielded and debris was blasted into the engine room.
Some of it hit the generator."
"Can you repair it?"
"Sure, given time." Sharten eased his back. "It means stripping and checking the alignment and maybe a
replacement. But it can be done."
"How long?"
"As long as it takes." The engineer scowled. "I'd like to get my hands on the bastards who did this. Eian was a
good friend of mine."
"You think it was sabotage?"
"Cargo doesn't blow on its own."
"Cargo?" Dumarest frowned. "Were we carrying explosives?" He saw the shift of the man's eyes and turned to
meet Tuvey's glare. "Well, Captain, were we?"
"That's my business." The man was blunt. "You've had the passage you paid for and now have no interest in the
Sivas. Why are you standing there, Sharten? Get on with what needs to be done."
"Alone?"
 "I'll see what help I can get. Renzi can give a hand."
Renzi was the navigator. Dumarest said quickly, "I'll find him for you, Captain. And you're wrong about my having
no interest in the ship. I need passage away from here, remember?" He added, "And maybe I could help if you need it
later."
"You worked on engines?" Tuvey grunted as Dumarest nodded. "Good. I'll bear it in mind. Now go and find that
lazy bastard and tell him to get here fast."
The man was sitting in a quiet alcove in a house set close to the lake listening to a delicate melody and beating
time with his hand. His hostess, a woman of ripe maturity, sat beside him and glared at Dumarest as he joined them.
The navigator said, "Tuvey sent you. He wants me to join him. Correct?"
"Yes."
"And you are wondering why I am not already at the ship. You see, Earl, how well I know your mind. How clear
everything is. Lathrynne, my darling, be kind and pass me that little box."
"No, Renzi, you have had enough."
He smiled at the refusal and sat, listening, still beating time with his hand. A tall, thin, cadaverous man with a
pronounced bulging of the eyes and hair he had trained to hang in a point over his forehead. One who had kept
himself secluded during the voyage. One who now seemed vague and oddly unconcerned at the damage to the Sivas.
Dumarest said abruptly, "Did you know what was going to happen?"
"No. I have clear vision but not clairvoyance. Lathrynne?"
"No." She looked at Dumarest. "The alarm was given too late. Strangers were spotted close to the vessel and the
guards were sent in with lasers. They must have startled the robbers or a shot went wild." She shrugged. "A thing to
be regretted but accidents happen."
"How many dead were found?"
"Dead?"
"The handler was killed," explained Dumarest patiently. "There must have been others involved. The laser fire
may have been poor but the blast must have caught some of those involved. How many?"
She frowned and threw back her head then said, "Three bodies were found. They are in the cold-store at the edge
of the field." She blinked, life returning to her eyes. "Is Renzi really needed at the ship?"
"Ask him."
"No," said the navigator. "My task commences when a course is to be plotted from world to world. If the ship is
inoperable then I have nothing to do and so can take my ease. So, my sweet, if you will be so kind as to pass me that
small box?"
She hesitated, looking uncertainly from one to the other.
Dumarest said, "Unless Renzi obeys his captain's orders there will be trouble. Tuvey is not a man to brook
insubordination. The Sivas is crippled and needs to be repaired and it is the custom for all the crew to help at such a
time." He added, speaking directly to the navigator, "Why argue about it? Cross the captain and he could abandon
you."
"Abandon the navigator while in the Rift?" Renzi was amused. "You know better than that, Earl. And it would be
no hardship to be stranded on Ath. All a man needs is an understanding friend and I have that, eh, Lathrynne?"
She said, "You'd better get to the ship, Renzi."
"You, too?"
"Just do as Tuvey orders. If you want to quarrel with him do it at the ship not here in my house." Her tone
hardened. "I mean it. If you hope to be guested here again then do as I say."
Her hand fell on Dumarest's arm as the navigator, scowling, obeyed. After he had gone she stared at him, her
eyes unabashed in their appraisal.
"So you're Ursula's guest. Does she please you?"
"She is an excellent hostess."
"And?" She smiled as he remained silent. "You don't have to tell me—she eats men alive. But in you, I think, she
has found something novel. I've a mind to bid for you once she gets bored. A couple of days should do it. I'll throw in
the navigator as a bonus."
Dumarest said dryly, "I'm sure he'd appreciate that."
"Oh, she wouldn't keep him, but there must be someone he could entertain." Her voice lowered a little, gained an
added meaning, "And he was right about one thing. It would be no hardship for a man like you to be stranded on this
world. I would support you for one."
Sardia called to him as Dumarest skirted the lake on his way back to the field. She came running to join him and
fell into step at his side.
"How bad is the damage?"
 "Bad. The engineer claims we need a replacement."
"Good." She smiled as he stared at her. "It gives us longer to do what we came for," she explained. "I'm going to
meet Cornelius soon and I want him to finish some of the paintings he has. To me they are perfect as they are but you
know artists, never satisfied."
"So I noticed."
"You're thinking of the dance?" She shook her head with brusque impatience. "Why bother about it? I won and
that's all there is to it. Or do you think Ursula will want her revenge?"
"And if she does?"
"I can take care of myself."
"That makes two of you," said Dumarest. "Both superhuman. Renzi thinks he is indispensable and you think
you're invulnerable. I'm hoping that neither of you learns how wrong you are."
"Renzi?"
"Is convinced the captain can't do without him. Tuvey may show him just how wrong he is. I'm hoping Ursula
doesn't decide to teach you a similar lesson. It would help if you were to apologize. Tell her that you were drunk at
the time."
"Me? Apologize to that spoiled bitch? Earl!"
"You want to make money, don't you?" He was harsh. "If you want that enough then you'll be willing to crawl if
necessary. Ursula and Cornelius are close and she could have influence. She must certainly have friends. Think about
it. Have you never seen how vicious a woman can be?"
Too often during the long climb up. Girls who had been too brazen, too confident at the wrong time, too spiteful
too soon. Little things had happened to them and some not so minor. An accident which had crushed a foot, another
which had sent acid from a bursting container into a face and eyes, stomach convulsions at a critical time which had
resulted in chances lost. And there had been fires, missed cues, broken promises.
There was no mercy in the jungle of the arts.
"I'm sorry, Earl. I just didn't think. Do you really want me to apologize?"
"Just be discreet. I've told her you weren't sober and more than a little jealous."
"You told her? When?" Her tone held anger. When you were making love to the bitch after you'd left me?"
"You think that?"
"Does it matter to you what I think?" She halted to drag at his arm, to turn him to face her. "Does it?"
"No," he said flatly. "Not when other things are more important."
"Like the feelings of that blue strumpet?" Rage accentuated her beauty with a simmering fire. "Well, to hell with
you, you bastard!"
She ran from him down the path, past the misted fountains, the early swimmers who sported in the water. One, a
lithe young girl, stared after her and laughed. Another, a man, shrugged and dived as if he had been born into the
medium. Dumarest made no effort to follow. Given time she would get over her anger but it would take much longer
for the trouble to vanish from the field. Unless the Sivas could be repaired he would be an easy target for those who
would come in search.
He passed the vessel on his way across the field. The ramp was still down with men working on it under the
navigator's direction, the sound of hammers loud on the air, fading as he reached the blank edifice of the cold-store.
The sound died altogether as he passed inside.
The place was bleakly functional, a chilled enclosure in which perishables could be kept, a part of it now
converted to a morgue. Dumarest walked toward it, little echoes murmuring from beneath his boots, a faint crunching
of broken ice which ceased as he halted at a roped enclosure. Beyond the barrier rested three trestle tables loaded
with covered bundles.
Stepping over the rope Dumarest went to the one on his left, jerked back the cover and looked down at a ruined
face.
Once it had been young and sleekly handsome but now it was a torn and ravaged travesty of a human visage.
One eye was gone, the cheekbone smashed, a mess of pulp where an ear should have been. Dried blood matted the
hair and the mouth had been ripped by splintered teeth. The body, carrying fragments of burned and torn clothing,
followed the same pattern. The hands had vanished, the forearms, the elbows converted into ugly stumps. The
intestines hung like a tangle of soiled rope. Dumarest touched the head before turning to the next.
It was a young woman and a freak of the explosion had left her almost unmarked. Only an edging of blood at the
lips, the scarlet suffusion of the eyes and the telltale signs in the ears told of the forces which had taken her life. Her
hair was of a reddish gold sheen he had seen before.
As Dumarest went to touch it a voice said, "It's soft, isn't it? And she was beautiful, wasn't she? Too beautiful to be
left alone?"
 "Too beautiful to be dead." Dumarest gently ran his fingers over the hair and moved a tress from where it hung
over the staring eyes. He tried to close them but rigor had set in. Replacing the cover he looked at the woman
standing against the wall masked by the shadows. One he had seen before on a path dappled with starlight. It was
obvious why she had been standing a lonely vigil. "Your sister?"
"Yes," Pellia stepped forward, small crunching sounds rising from beneath her sandals, ceasing as she halted at
Dumarest's side. "I was watching in case—" Breaking off she said bleakly, "A beautiful girl. She was to have been
married next month. To Heyne." Her hand made a gesture toward the remaining bundle. "At least they died together."
The boy, also, was relatively unmarked about the face but the lower portion of his body had been wrenched and
broken by the impact of the blast and a scrap of metal had almost buried itself in the chest Dumarest jerked it free,
looked at it, threw it back as he drew the cover over the body.
"Why?"
"Why was I standing here? Alline is still beautiful even though dead and the Choud are bored. Some of them
might want to—"
"Not that. Why did they do it?"
"Do what?" Pellia looked blank. "I don't understand what you mean."
"Don't give me that, girl! She was your sister and you had to be close. Why did she want to rob the ship?"
"She didn't."
"She was there with the others. Why?"
"An accident." Pellia looked from side to side, her eyes those of a trapped animal. "It must have been an accident.
She and Heyne had gone out to look at the ship and became involved in what happened."
"And the other one?" Dumarest jerked his head at the first corpse he'd examined. "What about him? Did he
accompany them? A spare lover, perhaps? Was your sister hard to satisfy?"
She said furiously, "You filth! Don't defame the dead!"
"Then don't take me for a fool. All three were close, the injuries prove that. Therefore they had to know each
other and lovers aren't usually eager for company. The first man was holding whatever it was that exploded. Heyne
was close to him and my guess is that your sister was standing behind him. His body protected her from obvious
injury but her internal organs were ruined by the shock wave. Three of them, all close, all working in harmony. No
accident, Pellia, and you know it." Then as she made no answer he added quietly, "How many were really killed? How
many were hurt?"
"Why do you ask these things? You are not of the Choud."
"No."
"Then why be so concerned?"
"My concern is with the ship." Dumarest glanced past the woman to where the doors stood shrouded in gloom
then, taking her arm, led her toward them. "But why are you so afraid? An accident, you said, and who can help an
accident? It was natural for Alline and Heyne to have wanted to see the ship. Natural also for them to have helped
unload if asked. Who could guess at what would happen? Then, after the explosion, those left unhurt ran and took
their injured with them. Their other dead, too?"
"No, only those hurt."
"And needing attention. Are they getting it? Do you have drugs?"
She said bitterly, "All drugs are dispensed by the Choud."
"And you daren't go to them for fear of being arrested and interrogated." Dumarest nodded. "I understand. Do
you trust me, Pellia?"
"I'm not sure. You kept your word the last time we met but this is different. Why should I trust you?"
"Because I'd like to make another bargain with you." They had reached the doors and Dumarest paused. "I'll get
you some drugs and do what I can to help the injured and, in return, they can do something for me. They can give me
a name. A single name."
He felt her sudden tension, the abrupt strain of aroused suspicion. "Which name? Whose?"
"The one who allowed them to unload the Sivas."
The ship looked much as he had left it but the ramp was straight now and the buckling of the hull smoothed. The
workers had gone and the immediate area around the vessel was deserted. Dumarest paused at the foot of the ramp,
looking back toward the cold-store. Pellia was nowhere to be seen but she would be watching him, hiding in the
greenery or standing immobile against a mottled patch of stone with, perhaps, her head in shadow. Good places to
hide if you knew anything about camouflage and Dumarest guessed she had long since learned that it was movement
and not shape which attracted the eye.
Within the ship the air held a peculiar taint of char and burned gases, of seared insulation and the reek of
dispersed chemicals. The hold was a mess, the floor littered with the fragments of the caskets used to carry men and
animals, coolants evaporated and leaving blotched stains, the mechanism of the apparatus itself a jumbled ruin.
Dumarest touched a bulkhead and looked at the grime on his finger. Chemical explosive would have left such a trace,
one of tremendous power and, apparently, poor stability.
He moved and touched another portion of the inner hull this time at a place close to the port. Again he examined
the grime and found it apparently identical with the other. Wiping away the dirt he crossed the hold and paused at the
door beyond. It led into the engine room and he could hear a succession of small sounds; metallic scrapings, a rustle,
a drone of muttered curses, a ringing. Glancing inside he saw the engineer where he crouched before the dismantled
bulk of the generator. The man was alone.
Another door led to the passage communicating with the cabins and leading to the salon and then on up to the
control room and the normally restricted portions of the vessel. Dumarest glanced into the cabins as he trod softly
along the passage. In one of them the steward lay on a bunk, light glistening from the transparent film on his cheek,
his arm held awkwardly away from his body. As Dumarest entered the compartment he opened his eyes.
"Earl! What are you doing here?"
"I came to see how you're getting on. How's the arm?"
"It hurts."
"How did they treat it? With Staders?"
"I think so." The fingers flexed as the steward moved; visible proof of the metal splints which had been riveted to
the bone on either side of the break to hold it firm. "I was out when they treated me but I guess that's what they must
have done. The wound is sore, though, and it aches like hell."
"Let me have a look." Dumarest pursed his lips as he examined the wound. It was a neat gash, the only evidence
of the surgery which had opened the flesh to permit the splints to be fitted, now neatly held by sutures which would
become absorbed into the body. Gently he touched it to either side, pressing, easing the pressure as the man sucked
in his breath. "That hurt?"
"Like fire. You think it's infected?"
The flesh was bruised and would have been rendered tender by the force of impact and the later treatment, but
Dumarest didn't mention that. The man had a low pain level and it was easy to enhance his fears.
"It could be. Let me check again." This time he pressed harder and caused the man to grunt. "That's bad. It
shouldn't hurt as much as that. Just once more."
"God!" The steward was sweating. "What's going to happen, Earl? I could lose the arm, become a cripple.
Regrowths cost money I haven't got."
"Take it easy, man. It isn't as bad as that. I can fix it." Dumarest held out his hand. "Just give me the keys to the
medical cabinet and I'll get what's needed and do what's to be done. Or do you keep your drugs in here?".
A chance, on small ships stewards tended to maintain their own medical supplies. The Sivas followed the custom.
"In that drawer. You'll find the key in the one below." The steward wiped his glistening forehead. "There isn't
much."
An understatement. Dumarest looked at the neat rows of packages all bearing recent dates. He selected ampules
and loaded a hypogun.
"Give me the arm." He fired local anesthetics directly through the skin and fat into the area around the wound,
the hiss of the driving air blast a sharp sibilance. "Better?"
"Yes." The steward flexed his fingers. "You think that'll do it?"
"For now. Is Renzi or the captain around?"
"Damned if I know. Renzi should be helping Sharten and I guess the Old Man's busy in the town." The steward
winced as he moved. "Are you sure you gave me enough?"
"Give it time. What's the latest on the repairs?"
"Nothing. Sharten's still not sure if he can manage without a replacement. Check with him if you want to know
more. Me, all I want is to get rid of this damned pain. You sure you've done enough?"
"This will take care of it." Dumarest fired the hypogun at the man's throat "In three seconds you'll be asleep."
A sleep which he made sure would last by trebling the dose. Pocketing the hypogun Dumarest helped himself to
various packages from the drawer, then, locking it, replaced the key where he had found it. Outside the cabin he
closed the door then turned to face it as footsteps sounded from the higher reaches of the passage.
"Earl?" Renzi came toward him, his eyes vague. "A surprise to find you here, but life seems to be filled with many
surprises of late. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, I came to see how the steward is getting on." Dumarest rapped on the door. "This is his cabin?"
"It is." The navigator pushed open the panel. "And he appears to be asleep. It would not be kind to wake him, my
friend. You were not, I trust, thinking of seeing the captain?"
"No."
 "You are wise. He is not in the best of moods. His pet has had the bad grace to destroy itself though I must admit
I am not displeased. Only the manner of its passing disturbs me." Renzi smiled and steadied himself with a hand
pressed against the bulkhead. "Did I say disturb?"
"What happened?"
"Borol is dead. The spined, horrible thing is no longer with us, but in dying it left its mark. You see, Earl, for some
unaccountable reason, the creature decided to chew and tear its way into the radio. Perhaps it needed to eat and if so
was doing well until it formed a bridge between two sources of power. Now, cremated, it is no more." Renzi smiled
again then added, "And neither is our means of communication. Earl, my friend, I would advise you to find an
amiable host—we could all be a long time on Ath."

Chapter Ten
From where she sat on the dais Sardia said, "I'm getting stiff, Cornelius. May I move now?"
"Later." He was being unfair and knew it. Setting down his brush he said, "I'm sorry, of course you may move. I've
been thoughtless but time has passed so quickly. Forgive me?"
"For what? Asking me to model for you? That is a compliment. I shall live forever immortalized by your genius."
"You exaggerate."
"No."
Deliberately she drew in her breath before rising to stand, to stretch with arms upraised, the light from the great
window adding richer tints to the smoothness of her flesh. She was nude aside from a drape around her hips, the
proud contours of her breasts now catching the glow from the painted, sunset sky, the brown of her skin accentuating
the shimmer of diverse color. Beauty personified, he thought, watching her. The loveliest creature he had ever seen.
Why was it so hard to capture her image in paint?
He looked at what he had so far accomplished and fought the inclination to tear the canvas from the easel and
destroy the mockery it contained. Were these lines and daubs the best he could do? Did those scrawls and dabs
depict the loveliness which now stood before him?
Was his talent so small that he was unable even to convey what was real to the world where he had thought
himself a master?
"No," she said quickly as his hand lifted. "No!"
"It's useless!"
"It's a beginning." She moved with her dancer's grace to stand at his side, eyes narrowed as she studied what he
had done. "A good beginning."
Nonsense and she knew it—who could tell what a good beginning was in the realm of art? A scrawl which would
not dignify the literary status of an idiot could be nursed and nurtured to form an epic when handled by a master. A
few lines, a scatter of notes, an insignificant chord and a symphony could be born. And even though the canvas held
little of apparent worth the feeling was there, the striving, the reaching out and the aspiration.
As she was the inspiration.
"It doesn't do you justice," said Cornelius. "Nothing created by human hands could ever do that. You are sublime
in what you are. The ultimate of perfection; flawless in every way."
"I am a woman, Cornelius."
"So?"
"No woman is without fault and never make the mistake of believing you have found one who is. May I dress
now?"
A request he could not refuse and it had been polite of her to ask. A subtle way in which to let him know that he
was the master as well as the host. A courtesy which he recognized and appreciated as he appreciated her willingness
to pose for him. Had he asked or had she offered? He couldn't remember and the details didn't matter. It had
happened. For the first time it had happened.
And, for the first time, he was in love.
Sardia could sense it as she dressed, recognizing the atmosphere, the slightest tension which ruled his every
movement; the little gestures quickly controlled, the words which came a little too fast and were too plentiful; masks
for their real meaning, the thoughts they covered. A familiar situation—always there had been those crowding her
dressing room entranced with the glamour which accompanied her. Love born of illusion, those experiencing it
confusing the performances for the reality. A madness which left most unharmed but which, badly handled, had
caused pain and death to others.
Would he kill her if she should refuse him?
 She said quietly, "Cornelius, don't misunderstand me, but I think it would be better if I were hosted by someone
else. Ursula, perhaps."
"That bitch? No!"
"Would she have me if I asked?"
"Why should you do that?" He imagined he guessed the reason. "Is it because of Dumarest? Are you jealous of
him?"
"No."
"No?" His eyes held her own. "I wish I could be sure of that. You traveled together and have been lovers."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No." Me blinked at the interruption. "But it's true, isn't it?"
"Does it matter?" Her shrug gave the measure of the importance she attached to the subject. "I was thinking of
your work, Cornelius. I feel I am a distraction. Don't misunderstand me, you are a genius, but with you art must
always come first. This portrait, for example, you look at me too often and for too long."
"You are beautiful!"
"As is a flower, the sunset, the flight of a bird. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But your work holds more
than beauty. There is an added dimension which must be maintained." The ingredient which set him above others
and would make his work fetch fantastic prices. The thing he must not lose and she sensed that it had its roots in
pain. She said, "Have you used live models before?"
"No."
"Because they create a conflict?" She knew the answer before he nodded. The fact at war with the impression,
eye straining against brain, the observed data clashing with the subconscious awareness of what should be.
"Cornelius, you are not alone. Many artists produce their best work in isolation. They store up impressions, ideas,
methods of treatment and then, when finally ready, they close themselves in a world of their own and become lost in
the creative process."
He said flatly, "Are you telling me that you don't want to see me again?"
"Of course not!"
"For the sake of my paintings? The markets you spoke of ? The money you said I would make?" His voice grew
bitter. "What is money to me? What can it buy that I don't already own? Happiness? Only you can give me that.
Sardia, don't leave me, please!"
He was a small boy crying in the darkness. One begging for the comfort she was too much a woman to refuse. A
step and she was close to him, her arm around his shoulders, her free hand running over his hair as, smiling, she
looked into his eyes.
"I won't leave you, Cornelius."
"You promise? You'll stay here with me?"
"Until the ship leaves, yes."
"And then?"
"I'll return, of course, often. Or better still, you could come with me."
"No."
"Why not? What is to stop you? Oh, I know, the Choud do not travel." She masked the impatience the answer had
given, one she faced again. "But all the Choud? Couldn't you, at least, be spared?"
"No. It isn't that. I—" He drew in his breath and stepped away from her and said, looking at the window, "Why
can't you stay here on Ath?"
"Business, Cornelius. I have to attend to the display of your work and achieve the recognition of your genius. I
explained all that."
"Agents could handle it. You could send the paintings to friends who would do as you direct. Dumarest could take
them. You trust him?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. I left him at the lake this morning. We had a quarrel."
"Dumarest." Cornelius threw back his head and his eyes veiled. "He is with the Ohrm." He blinked. "Why should
he be there? Ursula has been looking for him and he has neglected the obligations of a guest. Sardia, I—
"No." She sensed coming danger, a decision she would have to make. "We'll talk later. I've a slight headache and
I'd like to rest for a while. The fact is I'm not used to posing and it was a greater strain than I imagined."
Her smile absolved him from blame. "Please, Cornelius, be a darling and understand."
"Later? You promise to talk later?"
"Of course." How often in the past had she handled just such an incident? But this was one suitor she dared not
rebuff too harshly. "Later."
Alone, Cornelius looked at the easel and the work it supported. A waste; the marring of pristine canvas for no
good purpose. The outline was wrong, the pose, the position of the head and arms. A woman seated at her ease and
dreaming as she stared through a window. A lovely woman but there was more to beauty than the contours of the
skin. And, sitting there, what did she see? What was she thinking?
And where was the suffering? The pain?
It guided his hand as he reached for the brushes. It decided the pigments used, the direction and intensity of the
strokes, the fury of his application. Outside the sky darkened as the night conquered day, shadows adding their
mystery to the vista beyond the window. Lights glowed to banish the inner gloom and still he worked on, sweating,
his face taut with strain. A man obsessed. One in torment as, again, he entered his own private hell.
The path was uneven and twice Dumarest stumbled before mounting the final slope to stand on the summit of
the ridge and stare down into the bowl which held the city. Behind, hidden from view and unable to spoil the jewel-
like perfection of the terraces, the homes of the Ohrm sprawled in an untidy growth which reached toward the plains
and the mountains beyond. A collection of low-roofed dwellings, clean and functional, but set too close and lacking
the individual charm of those owned by the Choud.
"It's beautiful," said Pellia at his side. "So beautiful."
"No."
"But, Earl, how can you say that?"
"It's pretty," he corrected. "But that's all. It has no life, no warmth. Listen." He held up a hand, starlight glinting on
his fingers, his nails. "No laughter. No noise. No sounds of people at play. No quarreling, no shouting, no passion."
"And no pain." Her tone was bitter. "No burned, flesh and dying men."
Too many men—those who had used the lasers hadn't all missed. Dumarest thought of those he had tended: men
with charred holes penetrating vital organs; wounds which had been cauterized by the beams which had made them,
each wound now a repository of pain. One had been burned across the eyes, another hit in the groin, a third lacked a
lower jaw.
He had done what he could, injecting antibiotics, giving the balm of unconsciousness, easing pain and setting
bones shattered by the blast. Rough surgery when skilled attention was needed but the best he could do.
And, in return, had learned almost nothing.
"I'm sorry, Earl." Pellia tore a leaf from a shrub and shredded it between her strong, white teeth. She had stayed at
his side as he had worked and had grown, close. "Was it important to you?"
"It doesn't matter."
"All they know is that the handler allowed them to unload the ship. Then the guards arrived and the shooting
started. One of the boxes must have been hit."
Hit to explode and kill those holding it and the handler too. The blast had spread to fling debris against the
generator. Facts Dumarest was aware of but other questions remained to be answered.
He said, "Those wounded trusted you more than they did me. They could have told you something in confidence.
There was more than one box?"
"Yes, Earl."
"And most of them had been moved before the guards arrived?"
"So they say, but not all of them saw the inside of the ship. They collected the boxes from the ramp."
"And took them where?" He reached out and gripped her shoulders as she made no answer. "We made a bargain,
Pellia. I was to tend the wounded in return—"
"For a name. Well, you have it. The handler was the one who gave them permission to unload."
"And who ordered them to go to the ship?"
"No one!"
"Are you telling me that a group of men just decided to meet at a certain time and go to the ship and unload it all
without anyone having any idea as to what they were to remove or where to take it? Someone must have given the
instructions, Pellia. Who?"
"You're cheating!" She strained against his grip. "That wasn't in the bargain! Let me go!"
"Was it Balain?" For a moment longer Dumarest held her then dropped his hands. "Balain," he said thoughtfully.
"The one who set you to watch on the path. Is he your leader?"
"What is that to you? We made an agreement—your help for a name. Well, you have it. The handler ordered the
unloading of the Sivas"
A dead end. He had bought a certain amount of cooperation but now his credit was exhausted. Turning, he
moved down the path toward the city. It was narrow and twisted across the steep slope, a rarely used way and one
mostly used by the Ohrm. Bushes flanked it and cast deep patches of darkness. From one of them, lying ahead, came
a faint rustle.
Dumarest slowed, eyes searching the starlit area. The path wended, curved, passed below him at the foot of a
steep incline dotted with shrubs and toothed with boulders. Ahead lay the bushes, three clumps merging to throw the
path into darkness. From one of them came the rustle. A soft breeze could have caused it or the stirring of some
nocturnal creature but there was no wind and the animal which had caused the sound had done so for no apparent
reason.
Dumarest took two more steps, planting his boots firmly on the path, creating an impression of steady progress
then, abruptly, turned and was racing down the slope. It was too steep to maintain balance and he doubled as he fell,
turning himself into a ball as he rolled over the ground. A shrub lashed at him, a boulder scraped his shoulder, then
he had reached the path, had risen and was running down it as from behind came the pound of feet.
Two men who ran silently after him and another who stayed high and sent the cry of a bird into the night,
A signal answered from lower down the slope.
Fools, had they remained silent he might have run into the trap; alerted, he was on his guard. Dumarest slowed,
looked to one side and saw a clear expanse protected by a serrated wall. To jump over it would mean a long drop and
the risk of a broken leg. To continue would be to run into the waiting men, to be caught between them and those
closing the space at his rear. To remain still was to present a target and, already someone was shooting at him.
He heard the thrum of a released string and the spiteful hiss of an arrow. One which flashed through the air
where he'd been standing to sink quivering into the ground. Short, thick, feathered with metallic glints; a bolt from a
crossbow. A primitive weapon but as effective as a laser when used by skilled hands at close range. As effective but
not as fast; such a weapon took time to reload.
Turning, Dumarest ran back up the path, weaving as he ran, body stooped low, his hand reaching for the knife in
his boot. Three men, two close, one who could have a weapon and one more sophisticated than a crossbow. An
unknown number now behind him but they would hesitate to move and be slow to fire for fear of hitting their
companions. The ones now close would have to be the first targets. Hit them and the darkness would shield him as
well as those lying in wait.
Dumarest dodged, sprang to one side, heard the hiss of the air as a club swung at his head then dived in, the
blade extended in his hand, the point hitting, ripping, slicing across a muscular torso to open a long gash across the
ribs. A thrust converted into a cut as his momentum carried him past the man, the knife dragging behind, turning,
jerking forward, upward to hit the club-loaded arm, to cut across the inner flesh, to sever muscle and open the
arteries and release a shower of blood.
"God! I'm cut! Wilkie!"
The second man who was too slow and died, eyes startled, throat opened so as to present a grinning mouth to
the stars.
"Wilkie! Flavian!" The voice came from above, changed as the speaker saw the two sprawled bodies, the figure of
Dumarest running back up the path. "You, down there! Get him!"
He stepped into the open, one hand lifted, a ruby beam guiding the fury of the laser. Dirt smoked to one side and
a bush flared into burning life as Dumarest threw himself to one side beneath the shelter of a boulder. He heard the
pound of running feet and turned to see two men running from where they had lurked. One carried a crossbow.
"Hurry!"
The man with the laser was impatient and so was careless. He came to join the others, the weapon lifted in his
hand, overconfident of the advantage it gave him and forgetting that a gun is only as good as the man using it.
Crouched against the dirt, Dumarest heard the pound of the man's footsteps as they neared his hiding place. A stone
rested beneath his free hand and he lifted it, threw it far to one side, slipping to the other side of the boulder as it
landed. The men fired as he rose, standing awkwardly, aiming too high and trying to correct his aim. He was still
trying as Dumarest, coming from behind him, drove naked steel into his spleen.
A blow which killed as quickly as a bullet in the brain. The man slumped, soundless, the laser falling from his
hand to hit the boulder and go tumbling down the slope. Dumarest followed it, hearing the spiteful hiss of an arrow
and feeling something hard slam hard against his thigh as, catching up the laser, he rolled and turned to fire.
"Masak?" A voice from higher up the slope. "Is that you, Masak?"
Another voice, higher, younger. "Masak is dead."
"Dead?"
"Knifed." A pause and then, "Let's get out of here! Move!"
An old trick to persuade an enemy to reveal himself and Dumarest waited, immobile where he sat, only his eyes
shifting as they searched the silvered gloom. Finally he moved, diving into patches of darkness, moving as silently as
starlight, as fast as dancing flame. Stealth and speed which carried him down the slope to where a house sat like a
gem in a cup of tended greenery. To a woman who had waited too long.
 She was like a tigress, a barely contained creature of seething emotion, pride and dignity alike affronted by his
apparent indifference.
"You are my guest, Earl. As such you have certain obligations. If they do not please you then be honest enough to
say so. An arrangement can be made."
She was cold and it was hard to think of her as the passionate woman he had held in the turret, yet beneath the
icy chill he could sense the masked fires she fought to control. Fires of anger and revenge rather than those of desire
and all the more dangerous than those of simple need.
"I beg your pardon, my lady, I was detained."
"Do you mock me?" She had been striding across the floor, moving with a lithe grace, turning to move again. Now
she halted and stared her accusation. "I am not your lady. I am your hostess."
"And I was detained."
"Tending the Ohrm. Nursing men who deserve to be eliminated. What did you hope to gain, Earl? Another
woman to fall into your arms? Another victory?"
"Information." He was curt. "Doing the job you should have done and should be doing. You, the Choud, your
guards. Guards!" He made no effort to mask his contempt. "Where are they when needed?"
"When needed they are summoned."
"By whom? The Choud?" Dumarest looked down at his soiled clothing, the place on his thigh where the arrow
had ripped the plastic from the protective mesh. "A pity none of you were around earlier this evening. They could
have saved some lives."
"You were attacked?" Abruptly she was concerned. "When? Where?" She tilted back her head when he'd told her
then blinked. "Guards have been alerted and will comb the area. It is monstrous that the Ohrm should have the
temerity to venture so close to the city when they have no duties here. And to have attacked you—Earl, doesn't that
show you what manner of creatures they are?"
"I know what they are," he said coldly. "Human beings."
"Animals."
"Servants through no fault of their own. Slaves who want to be free."
"What?" She stared at him then shook her head. "Earl, for a man who has traveled you are strangely innocent.
Isn't it obvious to you that some people are more gifted than others? That some are meant to rule, and others are
destined to serve? It is the natural order of things and has been so on this world since the First Landing. The Choud
make the decisions and the Ohrm, obey. Anything else is unthinkable."
"To you, perhaps, but others may have more active imaginations." Dumarest looked at the laser he had found
then handed it to the woman. "Do you recognize this?"
"A standard pattern," Ursula barely glanced at it. "The same as used by the guards." Then, as she recognized the
implication, she added emphatically, "No, Earl, you were not attacked by the Choud."
"Then how explain the gun?"
"It was stolen or—" She broke off as her eyes misted. "No, that is not the explanation. No weapon, has been
stolen either from the individual or the armory." Blinking, she explained, "This is a small world and we have only one
city. There is no need of a large stock of armaments and none are missing. Hury is certain of that."
He frowned, recognizing the word, the second time he had heard it. When had been the first? At the dinner before
the women had danced when someone had mentioned Debayo who sat before Hury.
Remembering, he said, "Ursula, when you mentioned Debayo, you said he sat before Hury. Where is it?"
"Don't worry about that now, darling." Her smile was warmly possessive. "We are to visit for dinner and you have
yet to bathe."
A change of mood but warmth was better than hostility and far more welcome in someone from whom he
needed to gain information. Soaking in steaming, scented water, Dumarest reviewed recently acquired items of
knowledge. The Ohrm, Pellia, the men who had attacked him for reasons he could guess. He had asked too many
questions or those of the wrong kind and they had taken him for a spy. A natural mistake—but one which had almost
cost him his life.
"Earl?" Ursula had come to join him and stood at the edge of the tub dressed in nothing but a thin robe of
shimmering azure. It fell to reveal the unadorned lines of her body as she leaned toward him. "I've come to massage
your back, do you mind?"
For an answer he extended his arms.

Chapter Eleven
 The dinner was held at the house owned by Etallia and this time Renzi was invited. He sat with his hostess at a
round table dressed in the center with a mound of succulent dainties served to add climax to the meal.
"Food!" Tuvey puffed out his cheeks as he selected a fruit with a striped rind. "That's the trouble with being
guested on Ath. A dinner every night and food enough for an army. Better than the basic most of us grew up on, eh,
Earl?"
"That's right, Captain."
"Food and more food." Renzi was becoming expansive though he had said little during the meal. "Things to eat
and things to taste. Nice things which come in decorated boxes. Nice women who provide them. Gorgeous ladies like
my Lathrynne." His hand fell from her shoulder to glide with slow deliberation over her breast. "To live on this world
would be a pleasure. To die on it—"
"Would be a pain," snapped Lathrynne. "As you are getting to be." She pushed aside his crude embrace. "Is there
nothing else, Etallia?"
"A novelty Lon bought me. Not the music cube—that has been handed to the victor of our recent little contest—
but something as amusing. A globe of living motes which fight and die to breed again on the bodies of the fallen and
so wage perpetual war. A gambling device, so I understand, no one can guess the ultimate end of any combat. Come
and see it. And you, Rattalie? Cominaria? Wynne? And you, naturally, Ursula." Her smile held pure venom. "As a
compensation. Perhaps you can win on something which requires no personal effort."
"The bitch!" Sardia dug her teeth into a crusted ball of inner sweetness. "Does she work at it or does it come to
her naturally?"
"A game." Tuvey set aside his fruit. "I've watched it for years. Each time I visit Ath they are at daggers drawn. Not
just those two but all the Choud. The product of boredom—if they had to sweat they would not have time for minor
feuds."
"Years, Captain?" Dumarest selected a pair of hard-shelled nuts and crushed them together in his palm. "You have
been visiting here for so long?"
"Years." Tuvey fell silent and stared blankly at the center decoration. Then, "Years," he said again. "I make it a
regular run. The guesting alone is worth it."
"The guesting and the rest." Renzi sank back into his chair. "Tell them of the rest, Captain. The true joy of Ath."
His smile was that of a clown. "Tell them of the tekoa."
"Watch your tongue!"
"Why? What is the secret? His women will tell him if we do not. She will tell him and show him, too, if I read her
correctly. And I know how to read a woman, Captain. I can read one as I can read a spectrum gauge or a digital
output. Ursula is in love with our late passenger and a woman in love will give a man her world."
As she had promised when, locked in his arms, they had both surrendered to passion lapped by the steaming
water of the bath. Scented vapors had accentuated their desire and the water, far from cooling, had added fuel to her
ardor. But the world she had promised was not the world he sought and still she had not told him how to find Earth.
"Earl?" Sardia touched his hand. "Don't let him upset you."
She had misread his introspection and her eyes were anxious. They cleared as he smiled and shook his head.
"I was just thinking. What news as to the Sivas, Captain?"
"Little and all bad." Tuvey rose. "I should be there now, helping Shartan. We should both be there." He glanced at
the navigator, who shrugged.
"The obligations of a guest, Captain. And what do a few hours matter?" He, too, rose. "Let us join the rest Sardia?"
"Later."
"When your host arrives?" Renzi winked. "Or did you exhaust him this afternoon? Cornelius seems far from
strong."
She said with cold ferocity, "Talk that way to me again and I'll rip out your eyes. I'm no cheap harlot to take the
filth from your sick mind. Wash out your mouth, man, before someone fills it with broken teeth."
"You?" He backed as she rose and lifted one foot to send it against the hand he lifted, the fruit it contained. A kick
which turned it into a messy pulp. "I'd forgotten, a dancer knows how to use her feet."
"Her nails, too—you wouldn't be the first I've taught to behave." She looked at Dumarest as the navigator left with
the captain. "That should have been Ursula. I'd have ruined her pretty face."
"And paid for it."
"Perhaps. Cornelius—"
"Is weak and you know it."
She said patiently, "I wasn't going to say he would protect me. But we have been talking and he told me a lot
about the Choud. They settled here from some other planet. Three ships forming a convoy which reached the Rift.
One was destroyed when it ventured into an energy vortex. The Choudhury landed here on Ath. The other, the
Khawaja, became separated and they lost contact."
"Three ships?"
"Two, Earl. One was lost in the vortex." She added, "He talked while he worked. I was posing for him."
"And?"
"We just talked, Earl, not that it's any of your damned business. You let me know exactly where I stand with you.
It's Ursula first and all the time, isn't it? You're lovers, aren't you?"
Dumarest said, "What else did he tell you?"
"Cornelius? Not much. He said you were with the Ohrm today."
"How did he know? Did you tell him?"
"How could I?" She stared into his eyes. "I didn't know where the hell you'd gone after we'd parted. I—well, I had
to bathe my eyes. Dust, I guess. Then I went to see Cornelius and he asked me to pose and so I did."
"Any visitors? No?" Dumarest frowned. "Then how did he know where I was? When he told you, how did he
look?" He nodded as she answered. "A little vague as if he were listening to something. Have you noticed it before?"
"Not that I remember. Why did you visit the Ohrm?"
"To learn what I could."
"About what?" Sardia caught at his arm. "We're partners, Earl, remember? Leaving everything else aside, we have
an agreement of mutual help. Is there anything I should know?"
"He said bluntly, "The Sivas was sabotaged."
"The explosion? That was an accident."
"Maybe, but I wasn't talking about that. On the face of it, Tuvey's pet chewed its way into the radio and destroyed
both itself and the installation. Couple that with the damaged generator and we're in a bind."
"How?" She frowned at her own stupidity. "Of course! Unless the engineer can repair the engine we'll be stuck.
Tuvey can't radio out now for another ship to bring him replacements. But why should anyone do a thing like that?"
"You tell me."
"Renzi? He likes it here but would he sabotage the ship to stay? Tuvey? He's the captain and can remain as long
as he likes. The handler? No, he's dead. The steward? Doubtful, he hasn't the guts or the brains. The engineer? Why?"
Shrugging, she ended, "Hell, it's anyone's guess. There's no one else."
"There's you."
"Me?" Her laughter was genuine. "Earl, have you gone out of your mind? The quicker I get those paintings back
to real civilization the better. I've Cornelius eating out of my hand and every hour spent here now is an hour longer to
wait for a fortune. But you?" Her eyes narrowed with speculation. "Maybe you don't want the ship to radio out. The
woman? A need to hide? Afraid Tuvey might send a message to be relayed back to Juba that the man they were
looking for is to be found here on Ath? Was that it, Earl? Did you wreck; the radio?"
"No."
"You could have. There isn't much you couldn't manage once you put your mind to it." Her hand dropped to his
own and she stared at him, abruptly serious. "Earl, I'm jealous and I'll admit it, but I'm not a young girl and I know
that certain things happen." She remembered Cornelius and her own manipulations. "Sometimes they have to happen
—all living is a matter of compromise. But if you're in trouble and I can, help?"
"Thank you."
"I mean it, Earl. Just ask and it's yours. Anything. I owe you that."
He said firmly, "You owe me nothing. All debts have been paid."
"Some debts can never be paid." The fingers of the hand resting on his tightened with a warm intimacy which
diminished the importance of mere physical association. Then, conscious of the stinging in her eyes, she said, "We're
business partners and shouldn't be getting sentimental. There's no profit in sentiment. Earl, I need cheering up. Isn't
there anything interesting you think I should know?"
"Only one thing," said Dumarest dryly. "We're sitting in the middle of a revolution."
"The Ohrm? Rebelling? Impossible!" Casavet threw back his head and laughed. He was a big man who had
helped himself plentifully to wine and was a stranger to Dumarest. "My friend, you must surely be joking." He wiped
his eyes with a scrap of lace-like fabric. "A revolution! Here on Ath!"
Tuvey said, "Are you sure, Earl? If you're not, it was a damned stupid thing to have said."
"I'm sure."
"How? You read it in the stars? Listened to a message carried on the wind?" The captain's scowl left no doubt as
to his disbelief. "You've been on this world just over a single day and you think to know more than those who live
here? Who rule!"
"There is an old saying," said Lathrynne quietly. "The husband is always the last to know. I don't take Earl for a
fool and only a fool would have made such a statement unless he had grounds for believing it to be true." Her voice
hardened a little. "You have data?"
"A ship damaged by explosives accidentally detonated. Why were they being carried and who ordered the
unloading?"
"Captain?"
"Explosives are a normal cargo for any vessel operating as a trader and touching a variety of worlds. As for who
ordered the unloading, I guess the handler did."
"The man who is dead and now cannot be questioned." Lathrynne glanced at Dumarest. Without discussion she
seemed to have become the head of the impromptu interrogation. The child-like servants who had been discreetly
present during the meal had vanished. "Well?"
"Some of the explosives were unloaded and taken to a predetermined point. And there was a laser which didn't
belong to your normal armament."
"Which could have been left here by a previous visitor," pointed out a man.
"And given to the Ohrm? Exactly." Dumarest looked from one to the other. "I notice you avoid the subject of
where the explosives could have been taken."
"If any were taken." The man raised the objection. He was young with purple hair and neat in puce and emerald.
"The first box to be unloaded could have been detonated."
"Doubtful but possible," admitted Dumarest. The young man seemed to have adopted the position of a devil's
advocate and, like Lathrynne, had done so without discussion. "But some of the Ohrm were hurt in the blast and they
refused to come to you for help. That in itself would be suspicious on the majority of worlds I have visited. When the
people fear authority there is usually a good reason. As far as I can tell, you don't seem to be unduly harsh."
"We treat the Ohrm as if they were children," said a woman. "Children to be loved and protected."
"We are of the same roots," said another. "We landed on the same vessel—surely, you know a little of our
history?"
"We ask only that they should obey," said a man. "And we ask that only because they lack the knowledge to
govern themselves."
Ursula said blankly, "Why should they hate us? They should be happy."
"As you are?" Dumarest waited for an answer and when none came added, "I'm not defending the Ohrm. I don't
give a damn for their condition or imagined grievances or supposed cause. But I am a guest and, as you've mentioned
before—" He glanced at Ursula. "—A guest has certain obligations. In my experience it is to defend the people and
the property of those who have given him hospitality. I have given you warning and that ends my obligation. If you
refuse to heed it then that is your business. Now, with your permission, it is late and I am tired."
"Earl! Don't leave!" Ursula turned to the others. "At least let us probe the possibility. Lathrynne? Khurt?"
The young man nodded. "Of course."
"Yes," said Lathrynne. "Is there general agreement? Etallia? Casavet? Rattalie?" Nods answered as she called
names. "So what do we have so far? Explosives which may have been taken from the Sivas and hidden. Men injured
by a known event who refuse to ask for treatment. A gun which must have been smuggled or stolen by a servant
some time in the past. An attack on a guest which he fortunately survived. And?"
"A feeling," said Dumarest. "A conviction."
"That a revolution is imminent? How imminent? Tomorrow? Next week? In a month? A year?"
"If I could tell you the exact time and the manner of the insurrection," said Dumarest dryly, "I wouldn't be a guest
but a prophet."
"Or the leader of the insurrection itself." Lathrynne nodded. "A good point. It was unfair to try and pin you down.
Is there anything else?"
"Names. Wilkie, Flavian, Masak. They were three of the men who attacked me."
"And who are now dead. A pity. Did they need to die?"
"They wanted to kill me." It was answer enough. Dumarest added, "But they would have had associates and they
could be found."
"And persuaded to talk. Of course, but there is doubt as to their identity. Many of the scanners in the homes of
the Ohrm are no longer operating or have become erratic."
Scanners? Dumarest had seen none or, if he had, had failed to recognize them for what they were. As easy
mistake; such instruments could be small and masked in a variety of ways. But scanners presupposed a central
operations room where data could be evaluated and correlated. Another item to add to the rest but as yet the
knowledge was of little use.
He said, "Are any scanners installed in the homes of the Choud?"
"No." Lathrynne looked puzzled. "What would be the point?"
A question Tuvey answered. "None. Earl, you probe too deeply. It would be wise to remember that you are a
guest on this world."
"As you are, Captain," reminded Dumarest. "But I present no danger to my hosts."
"Are you saying I do?" Tuvey stepped forward, fists clenched, face ugly. "You accuse me? Do that and I'll leave
you here to rot."
"As you did Balain." Dumarest saw the captain frown, glanced at Renzi and saw his blank expression. "You know
him?"
"No. Damn you, Earl, you—"
"I wasn't accusing you, just stating a fact. The Sivas is a prime factor in the revolution. It has been used to bring
the insurgents arms and explosives. It could even have supplied their leader."
"Balain? No."
"How can you be certain, Captain? Men have been smuggled before."
"Not on my ship." Tuvey looked down at his hands, unclenched them, then halted the automatic movement of
one toward his empty shoulder. He frowned, missing his pet, an irritation exploded into anger. "Damn you for a fool!
Why can't you leave well enough alone? This is a nice, pleasant world and I want to keep it that way. That's why I
keep it secret and why I'm reluctant to carry passengers. Now you've spoiled it with your talk of revolution and arms
and explosives. There was an accident, that's all, and—"
"Men tried to kill me."
"So you say. But what reason could they have had? A woman?" Tuvey glanced at Sardia then at Ursula. "Another
woman? Didn't you have the sense to leave the Ohrm alone?"
"Did Balain?"
"To hell with Balain! He's just a name you picked up from somewhere. I've never seen him and wouldn't know
him if I did. If he exists at all he's some crazy fool chasing dreams."
"No," said Dumarest. "He's not crazy and he's not chasing a dream. What he wants he can get. And what he wants
is to end the rule of the Choud."
Casavet laughed. He laughed as he had at the first mention of the rebellion, jowls quivering, tears streaming from
his eyes. A man convulsed with genuine amusement.
"Earl, my friend, you will kill me with your jokes. Balain destroy the Choud? One man?" He broke into fresh peals
and ended gasping and dabbing at his eyes. "The thing is inconceivable. You don't know—how could you? You don't
understand. If you did you would realize how incredible the concept is. One man, even the entire Ohrm, couldn't
harm us. The Choud cannot be overthrown."
"You are wrong," said Dumarest. "And you are making the biggest mistake which could ever be made by a ruling
class. You consider yourselves to be invulnerable and that your rule will last forever. If history has anything to teach
us at all it is the fact that such conviction is the prelude to inevitable defeat."
"Nonsense!"
Dumarest shrugged. "It's your world."
"And a strong one."
"Strong?" Goblets stood on a nearby table; fine-stemmed containers of engraved crystal with fluted rims and
delicate curves. Dumarest selected one and held it between his outstretched fingers. "Strong," he said. "I could stand
on it and it would carry my weight if I chose how to position it. It's beautiful, too. As strong and as beautiful as your
world." He opened his fingers and, as the goblet fell to shatter on the floor, added, "And as brittle."

Chapter Twelve
Tuvey was gruff. He said, "Here you are, my lady, safe to your door. No revolutionaries can get you now."
Sardia forced herself to smile at the weak joke. Cornelius, despite his promise, had failed to join her and the
captain had escorted her home. Now he stood, a little awkward, arm lifted as his fingers searched for his missing pet.
He noticed her eyes and lowered his hand.
"I miss him," he said simply. "Borol wasn't much to look at but he was company of a kind. The sort which doesn't
make demands. You know?"
"Yes, Captain, I know."
"A man needs a companion in space. Something or someone who can be close. Some men travel together most
of their lives but I've never met anyone with whom I could be that friendly. It makes a difference."
To a man and to a ship—the Sivas had been cold with a chill owing nothing to the lack of heat. Sardia said, "I
mustn't detain you. Your hostess will be looking for me with daggers if she thinks I'm keeping you from her side."
"Etallia?" His shrug was eloquent. "We're used to each other and that's about all. She knows better than to be
jealous."
"No woman knows that, Captain."
"And not all women can tolerate a man as ugly as I am." He was stating a fact, not fishing for a compliment. "I
know it and she knows I know it. Knows, too, that I can't afford to be independent while on Ath. That's something
Renzi has yet to learn. The stupid bastard!"
"His mouth?"
"His damned carelessness. Borol didn't like him—he used to tease the beast when I wasn't around. I would have
kept him with me but Etallia wouldn't hear of it. So I left him in the control room. I guessed he liked to be put on
guard and he was snug enough in his box but Renzi had to go after him. He must have tormented the poor creature
and it tried to run." He added savagely, "He'll pay for a new radio and compensate me for the loss of my pet before I
get rid of him. I swear to that!"
"The radio was Renzi's doing?"
"Yes. He confessed earlier this evening while we watched the gambling. The fool was high and thought it a joke.
I'll give him a joke. If he ever lands on this world again it won't be on my ship." Tuvey swallowed and lifted his hand
in a brisk salute; one learned half a galaxy away when young. "I've kept you standing out here long enough. Good
night, madam."
"Good night, Captain."
Politeness which held a cold formality, the formality itself a sense of security. Rules by which people chose to
live; a custom which could be appreciated and a discipline which provided support as well as barriers. Did the Choud
have something similar? Were there areas of privacy into which none could intrude without condemnation?
Why had Cornelius broken his word?
The answer was in the studio and she paused at the door seeing the figure slumped in the chair before the easel
and feeling a sharp anxiety before she noticed the rise and fall of his chest, heard the susurration of ragged breathing.
"Cornelius!" He was asleep, sunk in a numbing exhaustion, not even the slap of her palm against his cheek
enough to arouse him. "Cornelius, wake up!" Again she slapped the flaccid cheek. "Wake up!"
"Who—" He stirred, one hand lifting, the fingers thickly smeared with paint. "What—"
"Wake up!" Spirit stood close at hand. She gushed it on a rag and held the rising vapors beneath his nostrils.
"Cornelius! Please!"
He stirred again, the hand blindly groping, eyelids twitching. She thrust the rag beneath his nose, the sting of the
spirit against delicate membranes an added stimulus, then, as he reared a little, kissed him full on the lips.
"Sardia!" He rose higher to sit upright, his arms closing around her. "Sardia, my darling!"
The kiss had been a wind kindling latent desire to a dancing flame. She felt it as she retreated, sensed her own
response, and rose to step backward well away from his reach.
"You promised to join me. What happened?"
"I was working and must have lost track of time." He ran a hand through his hair. "God, I feel exhausted. The box.
Pass me that box."
She handed it to him and watched as he opened it to reveal swollen yellow pods. He lifted one and slipped it into
his mouth, biting, leaning back as he chewed. The transformation was amazing, within seconds the muscles of his
face had firmed, the flaccidity born of fatigue washed away together with his fatigue.
"Tekoa," he said. "At times it helps. Helps you to relax, that is. Helps you to drift and think and plan and see
everything in bright colors." Fatigue had given way to euphoria and he sensed it. With an effort he added, "I don't use
it often."
"Would it matter if you did?"
"Perhaps not but—" He broke off, giggling, becoming abruptly sober again. "I'm sorry. It hits you like this
sometimes. The contrast—don't worry about it. I'll get over it soon."
She said nothing, staring at the easel, the canvas it supported, the picture he had painted since she had seen him
last.
Herself ?
She stepped closer, looking at the figure, a female, seated on plain boards, one knee lifted, the face resting on the
summit of the curve. A woman dressed in a soiled costume with tinsel wings drooping like the tattered vanes of a
butterfly, the body-garment accentuating the tired drag of breasts and stomach. A dancer as she could tell from the
shoes. And it was so real.
Leaning closer she could smell the greasepaint, the odor of dried sweat, the female exudations caught and held
by the fabric of the costume. Feel, too, the rough boards beneath her buttocks, the aching fatigue, the depression. The
performance was over, the audience gone, the lights dimmed and now she sat alone. A woman who had danced the
part of an angel. One now fallen. One soiled and dirtied and conscious of her state.
 Herself ?
She had sat before the window, tall, gracious, the light warm on the smooth contours of her body. Her head had
been high, the chin uplifted in proud grace, the lips carefully arranged in a smile—and Cornelius had been unable to
freeze the picture with his genius. Instead, after she had gone, he had created his own interpretation. A dancer, soiled,
degraded, disconsolate—was that how he saw her?
She looked even more carefully and more details sprang to life. The barely seen lines on the face which gave it an
air of corruption. The eyes which told of cynicism. The lips which told of standards lost never to be regained. Even
the curve of the fingers had been made to resemble claws avid in their greed. A woman who had sold herself for
ambition. Who had accepted compromise and the use to which her body could be put. The face of a cheat, a liar, a
thief, a whore.
Her face.
Sardia turned and ran from the studio, crying, feeling naked and ashamed.

***

The guard was young, confident of his ability and impatient to be getting on with the job. The leader of a score of
others, all young men of the Choud taking their turn of duty and excited at the prospect of interesting action.
Dumarest said, "Be sure and check the walls, floors and roof. Don't forget the outside of the roof as well as the
inner rafters. Check every item of furniture. If you find anyone who insists on staying in bed then move him and
search the bedding. Even if they are sick move them just the same. You understand?"
"We know what to do."
"I hope so. Look into cupboards, cabinets, cradles. Check toys and boxes and privies. Don't forget the people;
watch their eyes as you search. A glance could give you a lead."
Again the man said, "Leave it to us. We know what to do."
A confidence Dumarest didn't share. Though young and confident they would lack experience but he had done all
he could. As they moved off into the darkness Ursula said, "If you're wrong, Earl, I'll be the laughing stock of Ath."
"And if I'm not?"
He saw the answer in her eyes, the sudden warmth which accompanied the touch of her hand. She would be
grateful; no member of the Choud wanted to be host to a fool, and in her gratitude she would tell him what he needed
to know.
"Earl, let's go inside. It's getting chill." She shivered beneath the cloak she had flung over her shoulders.
"Pre-dawn adventures are all right for men wearing heavy garments but I'm not fond of hardship. Let us go into
the house and you can share my bath and we can talk of your past exploits."
"I'd rather be with the guards."
"I know. You men are like boys. You want action and incident and the fun of giving orders. And you want to be
proved right, Earl. But there is nothing you can do more than what is being done. All exits from the area have been
sealed, the region cut into sections and already the first divisions are being checked. If explosives are there the
guards will find them."
Dumarest frowned, the decision to search had been recent, how had men been moved into position so quickly?
He hadn't even heard them alerted.
Then, remembering the crossbow, he said, "I hope they aren't stupid enough to underestimate the Ohrm. They
have weapons which can kill."
Weapons they were willing to use. Dumarest heard the scream as they moved across the lawn toward the house
and felt Ursula stiffen at his side. It came again, a long, wailing shriek which ended in an ugly gurgle. The sound torn
from a man with punctured lungs who had tried to run and had fallen to scream his pain before blood had filled his
throat.
"They were waiting," he said. "And ready."
"For what?"
"The guards, the search, they expected it." He looked up toward the ridge, seeing moving points of light against
the sky. "They could be coming down here to attack the city."
"No, those lights belong to the guards. They will protect us." She clung to his arm. "No, Earl! Stay here with me!"
"And listen as they die?" Another scream had seared the night. "Don't those fools know enough to stay under
cover?"
She followed him as he ran up the winding path leading to the summit, falling back, joining him as he slowed and
halted at the crest. Guards stood in line, armed, portable lights standing dark but ready and aimed toward the homes
of the Ohrm lying sprawled below.
 "Get those lights working," snapped Dumarest. "Keep them high in order to illuminate the roofs. Aim them lower
and you'll make easy targets of your companions. What happened?"
A man glanced at Ursula who nodded.
"The search had started and seemed quiet enough, then some women started acting up. As we pressed into
another section one of our men was hit."
"With what?"
"An arrow. He fell and we didn't know what had happened at first then another got it. You may have heard his
scream."
"And?"
"Two more followed, one is dead and the other close to it. We got them out and scattered." He squinted as the
portables flashed into life. "We were going to wait until dawn."
"That's what they wanted you to do." Dumarest looked at the vista revealed by the lights. Some of the roofs had
crude parapets built of stone and bags of dirt. "Were any other weapons used aside from the crossbows?"
"No."
"Which doesn't mean they haven't got any. Right, have the men split into pairs and operate as teams. One to
cover the other—you understand?"
"Yes, but wouldn't teams of three be more efficient? Two to cover and one to move?"
"And if one gets hit?" Dumarest didn't wait for an answer. "Use pairs. They can double up if necessary but each
knows that he has to rely on the other and will be that much more attentive. Keep those lights on the roofs to dazzle
snipers if they are present. Have men watch the strong points on the houses but don't fire unless they are occupied.
Can you contact those searching?"
"Of course."
"Tell them to keep at it but to stay in groups and to be doubly alert. And have them look for a man named Balain."
"Balain? But—"
"That's a common name, Earl," interrupted Ursula. "It could belong to any of a hundred men even if it is
genuine."
"He could be down there. Can't your scanners pick him out? Once we have him located we can go in after him."
He saw the shake of her head. "No?"
"The scanners are all inoperative now. They must have blocked the terminals." She inhaled, breath hissing over
her teeth. "Why are they doing this? Why?"
"Blocking the scanners?" Dumarest echoed his impatience. "Isn't that obvious? They don't want you to know what
they're doing. My guess is that the leaders are arranging to escape under cover of a diversion. Had we waited for
dawn they would have had plenty of time in which to vanish. As it is we could have them trapped." To the guard he
said, "Make sure the area is surrounded and illuminated. If anyone tries to leave he is to be held for questioning. And
tell the searchers to hurry."
As he turned away Ursula said, "I wasn't talking about the scanners, Earl. What I can't understand is why the
Ohrm are rebelling against us? We've never done them any harm."
He said dryly, "Maybe they've grown tired of your telling them how to run their lives. It happens."
"Not here, Earl, it can't. It's—well, you don't understand."
"Try me."
"It's knowledge. They don't have it. They—" She broke off as a guard called from where he stood beside alight.
"They've found something! The explosives I think!"
The room was in a house set well within the complex; a bleak chamber, undecorated aside from crude patterns
scrawled on the walls, illuminated by a single fluorescent tube. In the cold light Dumarest looked at a table, a bed, two
chairs. The bed had been dragged from the corner to reveal a cavity gouged in the floor beneath. Boxes filled the
opening.
"They're empty." A guard kicked at one with his boot. "All empty."
Dumarest kneeled and picked one up and turned it in his hands. It was small, the construction strong, the walls
thick and padded with a synthetic quilting on the inside. He sniffed at it and ran a finger over the interior.
"Well?" Ursula was impatient. "Is. that what we were looking for?"
"Yes, but we've arrived too late." Dumarest rose, dropping the box. "They've gone and taken the stuff with them."
"They could still be in the area."
"No. That guard we heard scream and the others who were killed must have run into the rebels making their
escape. That's why they had to die. If the men had been in position a little earlier—" But it was useless to regret what
could not be altered. "Who lives here?"
"Lived." The guard was precise. "Masak."
 "Alone?" Dumarest studied the room with greater care. Even if not married he could have shared with a friend
and certainly fellow conspirators would have spent time with him." The hollow holding the boxes proved that; one
man would have needed help to gouge it out and dispose of the dirt. The boxes too would have required more than
one to carry. "Are there other rooms attached?"
A kitchen and bathroom comprised the whole. A single person's accommodation as decided by the Choud.
Dumarest had known worse.
"Find out who lives in the adjoining rooms," he said. "Get them. Don't frighten them but bring them here to me."
As the guards left he moved to touch the walls. They echoed when he rapped them and he guessed they were of
hollow brick coated with plaster. He said, "We have a chance, Ursula. These walls are thin and it's possible that others
could have heard what was being said in here."
A small chance and one which dwindled as he questioned those brought to him. An old man who lived on the
kitchen side and who was almost totally deaf. A woman who lived to the rear of the bedroom and who had a baby at
her breast.
"Sometimes I'd hear things," she admitted. "Laughter and cheering and when I did I'd bang on the wall. Lately I've
been busy with the child."
Too busy as was the young man who lived in the rooms against the bedroom.
"I'm out a lot," he said. "Working in the fields and when I get back home I'm too tired to do much more than
sleep. I didn't hear anything and I don't know what went on."
"Failure, Earl," said Ursula as the man left. "There's no one else."
"One more," he corrected. "The rooms back of the bedroom aren't exactly in line. They're offset a little and the
corner of one overlaps this chamber. We've still a chance."
One which faded as he saw the person who occupied the room. An old woman who blinked and cringed and
backed as he stepped forward to take her arm.
"Relax, mother," he soothed. "No one is going to hurt you."
"Men," she said in a thin, dry voice. "Running and pushing people about and all that screaming. It wasn't like this
in the old days. I lived in a bigger place then with Arold and my two sons. They've gone now and only I'm left." She
sucked at her lips. "Should have left me," she said. "That was my house. They should have let me keep it."
"It was too large for you," said Ursula. "How could you have kept it clean?"
Logic which had no place in the old woman's world. She glared and turned away then halted as Dumarest
stepped before her.
"They made a mistake, mother," he said. "You'll get your house back if you can help us. Now, let's play a little
game. If this were your bedroom, where would your bed be positioned?" He nodded as she pointed. "The head
against the wall, eh?"
"In the corner, mister. Where else?"
"And you need a lot of rest. At your age that's to be expected."
"I'm not too old to clean!"
"No, I'm sure you're not, but you like to go to bed early, right? And sleep."
"When I can," she grumbled. "When the noise lets me. All that scraping—why don't they do something about the
rats?"
"Scraping," said Dumarest. "You heard a lot of scraping. When? Yesterday?"
"Days ago—I can't remember."
"And talking?"
"That too. Some people have no consideration for an old woman. If Arold and my sons were alive they'd have put
a stop to it. Up half the night and sometimes until dawn. Talking and laughing and singing, too, at times. Young
villains! Someone should do something about people like that."
"We're going to," promised Dumarest. "When we find them. Now listen carefully, mother. Did you hear them a
little while ago?"
"Yes. Bumping and banging and arguing. One of them had a loud voice and my head was against the wall."
"One of them? How many were there?"
"I don't know. Several, I think. One was called Balain. He was the one with the loud voice and he seemed to be
giving the orders. Am I going to get my old house back? I can keep it clean."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "That's a promise." Gently he took the thin shoulders in his hands and looked into the faded
eyes. "Now just one more thing, mother. Think carefully and tell me if Balain or any of the others said what they were
going to do or where they were going."
"Into the city. They were going into the city."
"Among the Choud? And?"
 "Get hurry."
"What?"
"Hurry," said the old woman impatiently. "The man with the loud voice said they had to get hurry. That's all I
know. When do I get my house, Mister?"
Ursula said, after she had gone, "A waste of time, Earl. The old woman was almost senile. The men are probably
far into the plains by now."
"What would they do with explosives in the plains? How would that destroy the Choud?"
"They can't destroy us, Earl."
A confidence he didn't share. Balain would have known what he was doing and speed would be important, but
hurry? Get hurry? How could hurry be a target? Not hurry, then, but a word like it. One distorted by the wall and the
onset of sleep. Urry? Huri?
Hury!
He said, "They're after Hury. Can they get it?"
"No." Ursula was positive. "It is guarded and there is only one way to reach it."
"Only one way? In a city? You really believe that?"
"Earl—"
"The sewers, Ursula! They're using the sewers!"

Chapter Thirteen
They ran beneath the jewel-like houses and the neatly kept terraces in a maze of twisting tunnels lit at intervals,
damp, noisome, their brooding silence broken only by the susurration of water, the splash of adapted life.
"Rats." Ursula shivered as something darted into the water ahead to leave a trail of widening ripples. "This place
must be alive with them."
"They won't hurt you."
"Maybe not." She didn't share Dumarest's confidence. "I hate the creatures. They could be everywhere."
If so they stayed but of sight as did other things which had made the subterranean complex their home. Webs
festooned the glowing bowls of luminescence, their delicate, lace-like strands turning the cold glare into a nacreous
glow which was reflected in broad lines of deposited slime on the curving sides of the passages and the raised
concrete platform which provided dry footing. Bridges crossed the catwalk at intervals to provide access to branches
and tributary passages. Echoes rose from the impact of their feet to die murmuring in the distance.
In the lead Dumarest halted, dropping to his knees as he examined the path. He rubbed at the surface, examined
the grime on his finger, looked again before rising. Ursula looked at him.
"Earl?"
"We could have found their trail. One must have slipped and the edge of his shoe had scraped the concrete."
A guard said, "It could have happened weeks ago."
"No. The mark is recent or it would have been washed clean of fragments." Dumarest stared ahead to where the
tunnel branched. "Send men ahead to search for further traces."
They edged past, the beams of their flashlights making hard circles of brilliance against the stained walls, the
turgid water. Dumarest felt the woman close to his side. She was shivering beneath her cloak.
"You're cold," he said. "You should have waited on the surface."
"No." She stared at the bobbing lights. "Why don't they hurry?"
"Give them time." Dumarest saw a light steady and heard the call. "They've found something."
A patch of lichen had been scraped from a wall to leave a relatively light patch. Dumarest examined it, felt the
ripped patch of primitive growth, and looked at the woman.
"Would this take them in the right direction?"
"They could have taken either path. The other would take them to a main junction and they would have to swing
around the initial processing area. This would take them to the tributary inlets from the west."
"This is the way they came," said Dumarest. The marks could have been deliberately placed but the odds were
against it, Amateur conspirators would have no time or thought for such deceptions and, as yet, they wouldn't know
they were being followed. "Let everyone keep a watch for more signs and avoid making any noise."
The tunnels were sounding tubes and small sounds would be magnified. Something which worked both ways but,
though Dumarest had called a halt several times in order to listen, he'd heard nothing.
"Hurry," said Ursula. "We must hurry!"
A reversal of her previous confidence when she had been certain nothing could threaten the Choud. Only when
she'd learned of an alternative route to Hury had she displayed a nervous anxiety. One shared by the guards.
Dumarest thinned his lips as one called to him from where he'd halted ahead.
"Keep your voice down, damn you! What is it?"
"A branch." The man pointed. "Which way do we go? Left or right?"
"Ursula?" Then, as she made no answer Dumarest snapped, "What's the matter? Doesn't any of you know how
these sewers run?"
"Not the entire system."
"But you know where the target is?"
"Of course, but all these passages are confusing." She kept her voice low, words echoing to be lost in the
susurration of the water. "A thing which will have to be rectified but who could have guessed we should need the
information?"
"Those who built this place." Dumarest looked at the sides of the tunnel. "If they had had any sense they would
have set up maps at strategic points.
"Earl, we have no time to look!"
"We'll look as we go on," he told her. "For now we'll split." His gestures divided the party. "You will take the right-
hand tunnel while we take the left. If you hit another junction, split again if you have to. Keep searching until you find
something. If you do, slow down and act with caution. We don't want to alert the men we're looking for. And
remember—it won't help anyone if you get yourselves hurt."
They pressed on, the passages smaller now, the walls more thickly slimed. Beside the raised platform the water
rushed past with increased velocity and the air was heavy with noxious odors. An open area gave some relief, the
domed roof studded with lights, the walls pierced with rounded openings.
"A sector junction," said Ursula. "We go that way, I think."
Dumarest looked at the opening she had pointed out."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I—" She broke off, clutching his arm. "For God's sake what was that?"
A cry which echoed all around them, low, mournful, a wail which hung like a dirge. It came again, followed by a
high-pitched ululation, a deep booming, a sound which resembled a snarl. Cries made by injured men, distorted,
magnified, sent to stir the air in deceptive vibrations.
"Balain," said Dumarest. "The others must have found him."
And had been careless despite his warning. Dumarest looked down at a crumpled figure staring upward with
sightless eyes. At another with a charred hole above his heart, a third with a crushed skull, a fourth and fifth burned
and lying where they had fallen. Another lying with head and arms in the water as if to follow the one who had
floated down to guide the living to the scene.
"Ambushed," said Dumarest. "The fools! I warned them to be careful."
"How?" The guard had been sick and stood beside his own vomit. "How did it happen?"
"They were careless. They talked or laughed or let their equipment strike against the wall. They were too
confident and they paid for it." Dumarest stared down the passage, at the open mouth of a side tunnel, at a ledge
which rested above eye level. "They were here, waiting, and found easy targets."
"The bastards!" The man wanted revenge. "Let's get them!"

***

Dumarest caught Ursula by the arm as she made to follow the others. They were acting without thought despite
the grim evidence of what thoughtlessness could do. They would run and make noise and warn those ahead and
again the tunnels would echo to the cries of dying men.
Things he explained as she fought to break his grip.
"Earl, you're letting them kill themselves!"
"I can't stop them." He was grimly practical. "But they will draw the enemy fire and pin them down. If they learn
sense those left alive will know what to do after the initial contact. But there is no point in your taking a senseless
risk."
"I'm not a coward!"
"And not a fool either, I hope." Dumarest released her arm, listening to the sudden outburst of noise, the cries
which echoed down the tunnel. "That's it. Now let's see what we can do."
Another wide area lay beyond the end of the tunnel, a guard lying sprawled in the opening, blood thick around
his throat, the feathers which tufted his flesh. The arrow had killed, ripping as it struck, the barbed head shredding
delicate tissues. Another moaned as he sat with his back against a wall clutching his stomach. Blood pulsed between
his fingers and the cloth of his uniform reeked with the stench of burned fabric.
Dumarest said, "What happened?"
"We found them. I heard a hiss and Riup dropped. Then there was a flash and I got burned." He sucked in his
breath. "The beam hit me across the guts."
"Show me." Dumarest lifted the bloodied hands and examined the wound. The man had been lucky. "You'll live.
Where are the others?"
"They went after the enemy. The firing came from up there." His head jerked toward the upper regions of the
domed area. "There's a stair and the others went up it. I think one got hit."
More than one. Dumarest looked down at the sprawled bodies lying on the lower treads. One had fallen victim to
an arrow. Higher up the flight a figure sprawled, head downward, one hand extended as if to clutch at the crossbow
inches from his fingers.
"Kumate," said Ursula looking at his face. "The supervisor of the upper plantation. I always thought he was a
happy man."
Dumarest made no comment. He stood, looking upward, the laser he carried poised in his hand. As the woman
rose from her inspection he said, "Stay back and under cover."
"Why?" She lifted her own weapon. "I can use this as well as anyone."
"And die as bravely?"
"If I have to, yes."
He said bluntly, "I don't want you to die, Just stay out of the way until this is over. The guards may have been able
to finish it but I doubt it. If any of the Ohrm are still alive they'll be waiting for us to pass through that door."
It gaped at the head of the stairs, a narrow portal, arched, glowing with a bluish light. Within it lay a dead man,
another of the Ohrm, his body marked with many charred holes. Dumarest paused as he neared it, looking, straining
his senses to catch any sound or flicker of light. He heard nothing but a faint humming and the light glowed with a
steady luminosity.
Ursula said in a whisper, "They must have retreated, Earl. They ran before the guards. They couldn't have
expected a second group to be following them."
"Two dead," he said as quietly. "There had to be more."
"They could be lying inside. It could be over."
"Then where are the guards?"
"They, too, perhaps—" She broke off and shook her head. "I don't know. Earl, tell me what to do. You're the
expert."
"I told you."
"Not that!"
"Then be careful. Don't stand too close to me and keep to one side. Watch for movement. If you see any, fire
without hesitation." He added, "I'm going inside. Count to three and follow."
He moved forward, running, jumping as a foot rested on a body to land to one side, to spring again as he scanned
the chamber. A litter of bodies lay on the floor, some of them guards.
"Earl?" Ursula had followed. She fell silent at his gesture, followed the movement of his hand. A spiral staircase
lay at one end of the room terminating in an opening above. As she watched it Dumarest checked the bodies.
The Ohrm were all dead aside from one who breathed with a liquid gurgling and blew bubbles of blood from his
stained lips. None carried explosives. One of the dead guards had an arrow in his heart Counting them, adding those
lying below, Dumarest found one to be short. Upstairs?
He reached the foot and began to climb the spiral, laser held in readiness, attention concentrated on the opening
above. Halfway up he caught a transient gleam as of a firefly burning in the night. Higher and he froze, listening,
aware of the instinct which sent messages of warning; the signals he had long learned to trust.
Looking at the opening, trusting the woman was watching, he made gestures with his free hand.
"What—" With sudden understanding Ursula knew. Without a break she added, "—do you think, Earl? Did the
guards get them all? That Ohrm over there, is it the one we're looking for? Here, let me help you turn him over."
She walked across the floor, emphasizing the sound of her footsteps, running to halt and gasp as if bending and
lifting a heavy weight.
A deception which worked.
Dumarest saw the glint, the loom of mass and fired as a man thrust his head, shoulders and crossbow over the
edge of the opening. As he fired again the constricting finger tightened in the death shock, and the vicious hum of the
released string joined the savage hiss of the arrow as it passed close enough to catch Dumarest's hair.
Before it had fallen to the floor he was up and through the opening, leaping to one side to stand poised, eyes
searching, seeing yet another stairway, the bulk of a machine, the sprawled figure of a guard.
 "Earl!" Ursula appeared in the opening, tripping as her foot hit the dead man, stumbling to save herself from
falling with a hand pressed against the enigmatic machine. "Did you get him? Balain, is he dead?"
A question answered as a man stepped from behind the shielding bulk of the machine to close his arm around
her throat, the forearm pressed against her windpipe as the snort of the laser he held pressed hard against her temple.
"Drop your gun! Drop it!" As she obeyed he snapped, "You, too, Earl." Throw down that laser. Do it or I'll burn her
brains out!"
"Of course, Balain." Dumarest threw aside the weapon. "Or should it be Eian?"
Calmly he looked at the handler of the Sivas.
The man was as he remembered, short, stocky, a little inclined to fat, attributes emphasized by the Ohrm clothing
he wore. Held by the locking arm, Ursula said blankly, "Eian? The handler? Earl, he's dead!"
"No, he just wanted everyone to think that and it was easily arranged. A man murdered and dressed in his
uniform to be rendered unrecognizable by the blast. Which is why you arranged it, Eian. A neat method of covering
your tracks."
"You knew?"
"I guessed. Explosives such as carried by the Sivas can't be detonated with a laser even if the beam were
powerful enough to burn through the packing. The weapons used by the guards aren't strong enough. So why did the
explosives blow? They had to be fitted with detonators and no one in his right mind would have moved primed
charges and risked an accidental explosion. So it shouldn't have been accidental." Dumarest added casually, "Do you
intend throttling the woman? If not I'd suggest you ease the pressure of your arm."
"If you try anything—"
"Try what? You have the gun." Dumarest displayed his empty hands. "But the woman could do you an injury if
she put her mind to it and, while you're busy killing her—" He smiled as the man cursed and pushed Ursula to one
side. "That's better."
She said, rubbing her throat, "Why, Earl? Why?"
"For money." Dumarest kept his eyes on the handler. "For a lot of money."
"For a world!" The man sucked in his breath. "I had a plan. It would have worked like a clock but for an accident.
It was perfect."
"But you misjudged the blast," said Dumarest. "You used too much explosive or triggered it to blow at the wrong
second. The engine was hit and the Sivas was grounded."
"And you started to nose around. If it hadn't been for that none of this would have happened." The gesture of the
laser took in the man lying dead at the opening, those lower down. "A couple of days and the ship would have left.
There would have been all the time in the world to complete the plan. Instead you had to get suspicious. That
business in the cold-store, Pellia thought you were giving the dead a blessing but I knew better."
"Which is why you gave orders to have me killed?"
"You were getting too close and I couldn't afford to take chances. There was too much at stake. Money—all the
money you could ever hope to want And more.
Power, the real kind, I'd have been a king. I can still be a king."
"Money," said Dumarest. "Let's stick to the money." He heard the woman suck in her breath but ignored her.
"How? Where is it to come from?"
"Tekoa. The pods they suck—or haven't you learned about that yet? No, I suppose not, you've only been hours on
this world and have kept yourself pretty damned busy. It's the main export. One pod if you're feeling low will set you
up. Two will put you on a mountain. Three will lift you up to the stars. More than that—" He shrugged. "That's why
Tuvey is so keen to keep this place a secret. He's got a monopoly."
"Which you wanted."
"Which I have." The laser lifted a little. 'It came more messy than I'd intended but it's mine just the same."
"Balain," mused Dumarest. "The friend of the Ohrm. Teaching the oppressed the secrets of successful revolution.
They overthrow their rulers and you ride along for fringe benefits. Let's hope they will last."
"Fringe benefits? Is that what you think?" Anger convulsed the rounded face. "I've go it all. Do you understand?
It's all mine. The tekoa, this world, everything. If it hadn't been for you it would have been easy. I'd planned it down
to the last detail. But a dancer's pimp had to get nosy. I ought to burn out your guts for interfering."
"I didn't."
"Would the Choud have searched the Ohrm houses but for you? Would they have dreamed of the possibility of a
rebellion if you hadn't opened your mouth? I owe you a lot, you bastard!"
Dumarest said, "Why did you want the explosives?"
"Couldn't you figure that out?" Eian glanced at Ursula. "She knows. Haven't you told him about Hury yet? How
you depend on it." To Dumarest he said, "Do you take me for a fool? How the hell did you think I was going to win
this world? Trust a bunch of ignorant yokels to be grateful? That would have been stupid. No, I was going to
blackmail the Choud. I'm still going to blackmail them. In a day they'll be eating out of my hand."
"And calling you their king?"
"If I wanted, yes."
Ursula said urgently, "Please, where are the explosives? I'll promise all the pods you need, money, too, and, of
course, safe conduct if you will tell me."
"You're too late," said the handler. "They're stacked and I don't have to tell you where. But I'll tell you what will
happen if you don't do as I say. You see this?" His free hand lifted a small, black box from a pocket. See the two
buttons? This is a radio remote control. If I press the red button the explosives will blow in twenty seconds. Unless I
press the green one within fifteen nothing can stop the blast. Neat, eh? I figure it'll—" He yelled as Ursula dived
toward him. "You fool! Get back! Back!"
He fired as Dumarest dropped his hand to his knife, fired again as the steel rose to hurtle toward him, the blade
turning red hot as the beam hit it, searing metal striking his face to hit the bone above the eye, to glance downward to
plunge into the orb, blood and lymphatic fluids hissing and creating wisps of steam as it came to rest in the brain
beneath.
"Ursula?"
"He missed!" She slapped at the flames marring the cerulean beauty of her hair. "Well, almost. Where is the box."
Dumarest reached for it as he dragged free his knife. Eian still clutched it and, dying, he had done his worst The
red button was depressed.
"God!" She turned and raced for the stairs. "Dear God give me time!"
"Come back!" Seconds had already passed and more were flying as she climbed the treads. "Eian could have been
bluffing."
And, if not, she could be running to her death.
He called to the wind. Ignoring him she raced on, reaching the top of the stairs as he set foot on the bottom, out
of sight by the time he dived through the upper opening, only the rap of her running feet echoing through the upper
chamber.
One which held more enigmatic bulks and had a roof supported on massive struts. Instruments glowed from
humped machines and the air was filled with the taint of ozone and coolants.
"Ursula?" Dumarest ran forward, no longer hearing the patter of her feet. "Ursula!"
A metallic tinkle and he turned to run down a narrow passage. Another and he saw her busy at heaped packages
wired into a compact whole, a rounded box set among them, a ruby light glowing on its surface.
"Ursula! Get—"
The world exploded into livid flame.

Chapter Fourteen
He had died and was drifting in the void and his decaying brain was projecting the stored images in a series of
scintillant flashes. The massed explosives, Ursula turning, the ruby light, the sudden gush of flame which turned her
blue into scarlet; clothing, hair, skin all vanishing as the shock wave of the blast had reached toward him faster than
he could think.
But now that he was dead and drifting there was time for thought. Ursula was dead and she had been of the
Choud.
Eian, dying, had taken his revenge and destroyed the Hury.
The Choud. The Hury.
The Choudhury!
The obvious which had nagged at his subconscious and which he had failed to recognize until it was too late.
Instead he had formed a wrong conclusion—a mistake which had cost him the chance of finding the whereabouts of
Earth.
"Earl!" Someone was calling him, but who would waste time calling the dead?
"Earl, wake up. Wake up, Earl. Please wake up!"
A noise which gave him no peace. One which sent the darkness rolling back to leave a thin, pale, illumination
pressing like a ghost light against his eyes. Fingers caught the hand he lifted to his face.
"No. It's all right. You were burned and had to be bandaged. Tuvey—"
"My eyes?"
"Should be healed now. Please, Earl, let me do it."
 He lowered his hand and felt the touch of chill metal; scissors which snipped the bandages from the upper part of
his face. As they fell away he blinked at the figure which stood beside the bed.
Kalin?
She looked the same but was misted against the light which caught her hair and turned it into flame. But the color
was wrong, and as she turned, the flame changed to gold as the face became familiar.
"Pellia?"
"You recognize me. Good." She leaned closer, her fingers cool as they touched his face, the region around the
eyes. "You were lucky, Earl. Instinct saved your eyes. You threw up an arm to shield them and the blast flung you
back behind some cover." She added quietly, "The woman—"
"Is dead. I know." Dumarest sat upright on the bed and fought a momentary nausea. "How long?"
"Two days. We found you, and the captain told us what to do. Sardia helped."
With slow-time which had accelerated his metabolism so as to stretch hours into days. With intravenous feeding
and selected hormones to mend the broken ribs and aid the replacement of destroyed tissue.
"It was completely destroyed, Earl." Pellia rubbed her hands over the bedcover like a small girl who is reluctant to
break bad news. "Balain carried out his threat, He was a great man."
"He was a self-seeking animal and you're better off without him." Dumarest threw his legs over the side of the
bed. He was naked. "Where are my clothes?"
They were burnt, seared, protective mesh bared to the light. Only the boots and belt remained relatively
untouched. The knife would have to be honed and re-tempered as the garments needed to be refurbished but they
were things easily managed.
As he stepped from the room with its bed and medical apparatus, Tuvey came into view down the corridor.
Etallia was with him carrying a large jug. As they met, the captain halted her, took the jug from her hands and handed
it to Dumarest.
"Here, I guess you could use this." It was basic. As Dumarest swallowed the energizing liquid Tuvey continued,
"It's a hell of a mess. The only good thing about it is that Shartan was wrong about the generator. It doesn't need a
replacement. We'll be ready to leave in a few hours."
"I want passage."
"Yes, I thought you might, and I guess you've earned it. Eian—" Tuvey broke off and looked at his clenched
hands. "That bastard must have been crazy. He rode with me for years and all the time he was planning to ruin a
world. He did ruin it. Ath will never be the same again.
"It could be better."
"Maybe." Tuvey sounded doubtful. "But it won't be the same. Finished with that jug?" He took it and handed it to
the woman. "I owe her something," he explained. "She was good to me in the past and I'm trying to make things a
little easy for her."
"Aren't the Ohrm helping?"
"Of course," said Pellia. "We are doing everything we can."
Which needn't be enough. Dumarest said, "They need you, Captain. The Choud and the Ohrm both. You can help
them. They need books and educational apparatus; hypnotic tutors and the like. You can bring them in together with
agricultural machinery; nothing too elaborate but something to relieve them of endless labor. In a few years, with
your aid, Ath will have gained new life and have a viable culture. Give passage to a few monks—they'll be glad to
help."
And would be grateful for the opportunity. The Church of Universal Brotherhood could use a relatively
untouched world and would be kind to the innocence now prevailing. Tuvey thought about it, weighing the
advantages, nodding as he reached a decision.
"Hell, why not? I'm not going to live forever and I'll still hold the monopoly. If they can increase tekoa production
I'll double trips and profit. And it could be fun to take a hand in the shaping of things. I might even retire and take up
land to the south." Reaching out he took Etallia by the arm. "We leave at sunset."
Outside the hospital the city looked as he remembered and then little things gained his attention: men and
women, gaily dressed who wandered without apparent purpose. The swimmers sitting beside the water who looked
as if they had sat there for days and would continue to sit unless someone led them away. Others, the Ohrm, who
walked with a new assurance and looked at the jewel-like houses with possessive eyes.
At his side Pellia said, "Earl, we need you. Please don't leave us. You could be our new leader. Now that Balain is
dead we haven't anyone to follow. We don't know what to do." She ended plaintively, "I never guessed it would be like
this."
A sudden change which hurt as all changes do. An alteration in the previously smooth-running scheme of things
and the unaccustomed burden of responsibility. How many of them had thought beyond the glittering lies the handler
had fed them? How many had been capable?
He said, "Pellia, when a woman gives birth it hurts, right?"
"Yes, Earl, but not for long."
"And this won't hurt for long either." She hadn't grasped the analogy. "A revolution is like a birth," Dumarest
explained patiently. "Something new is created and creation is always accompanied with pain. At the moment you
feel lost. The Choud are no longer telling you what to do and when to do it and how it should be done. Now you are
having to think for yourselves. You are having to make decisions." Then, as she continued to stare at him, he snapped,
"Damn it, girl, did you imagine it would be easy?"
"Balain—"
"Wanted to be a dictator. He wanted to take over from the Choud and to become a despot. Thank your gods he
didn't succeed. If he had you'd have learned what it was to be a slave. Now you've got to learn to stand up and act
and think for yourselves."
"Earl why don't you stay and teach us?"
"I can't."
"You could have a house, the best there is, and we would do just what you told us to do. You could have anything
you wanted. Anything. Earl, please!"
A world which he could use as a plaything, one he could guide as he wished. The tekoa would provide a fortune,
the Ohrm willing servants, the Choud—he didn't want to think about the Choud. About what had been done to them.
"Earl?"
"No." He looked at the sky. The sun was past zenith and time was running out. "Where can I find Sardia?"
"I don't know." Woman-like she was sullen at his refusal. "At Cornelius's house, I guess."
She came to meet him as he turned from the path, crossing the lawn to stand before him and search his face with
her eyes. Her own held shadows and a peculiar hurt and age rested more heavily on her face than he remembered.
"Earl!" Her hand lifted to touch his cheek. "I was so worried!"
"There was no need."
"You didn't see what you looked like after you'd been dragged from beneath the wreckage. And there was no one
at the hospital who could help. If—"
"I know," he said. "Pellia told me."
"She learned," said Sardia. "And will learn more. They will all learn." Bitterly she added, "So much for victory."
"It was an accident. They didn't know."
"They didn't care!"
He repeated flatly, "They didn't know. Did you? Did I? We should have guessed but we didn't and we had all the
clues. The way the Choud would tilt back the head and seem to listen and blink after the connection was broken. The
things they knew without being told—of me leaving you after the dance, the subjects discussed, the whereabouts of
others and the things they had done. The knowledge they had."
The hobbies taken up and dropped to make way for another. The gracious living. The certainty of supremacy.
The ship they had arrived in.
The Choudhury,
The name they had taken. The name they had given to the computer to which they had all been linked.
He remembered the rounded nodule he had felt beneath the woman's scalp, the lack of anything similar on the
heads of the Ohrm. Divergent stock could have accounted for the differentiation but he had been told they were both
of common origin. And Ursula had known about Earth.
Not Ursula—Hury.
"Earl?" Sardia was looking at him, her eyes anxious. "Is something wrong?"
Dumarest looked down at his hands and forced himself to relax the clenched fingers. Forced himself, too, to fight
the sick regret tearing at his insides, the anger at his own stupidity. Why hadn't he recognized the obvious sooner?
Ursula could have told him about Earth—but so could any other of the Choud!
The information had been stored in the computer taken from the old vessel; one used as a general-purpose
library to deliver information to all fitted with the engrafted transceivers. The strength of the Choud and their
ultimate weakness.
He said, "Where is Cornelius?"
He sat before the easel in the studio with the high, arched windows which framed the vista beyond. Paint was
thick on his fingers, eyes fastened to the work as, tongue thrust between his teeth, he painstakingly daubed splotches
on the ruined canvas.
"It's gone," said Sardia bitterly. "All gone. He doesn't know anything. He can talk and walk and that's about all. All
the rest has been forgotten."
 Not forgotten—never learned.
Dumarest looked at the man, wondering what it must have been like to have the answer to any question
immediately at hand. There had been no need to memorize a single fact; a thought and it was delivered. As had been
the data needed to take up pottery, weaving, painting, architecture, medicine, dancing—all that had been painfully
learned over the millennia, condensed, refined, at hand at any moment. The accumulated knowledge which had
made the Choud the masters of their world.
Cornelius turned and saw them and smiled. "Look," he said. "Look."
"That's good." Sardia's voice held tears. "Very good. But try and get the lines into a pattern which can be
recognized. Two lines set opposite to each other and joined by a curve at the top. See?" Her hand lifted to point at the
window. "Just like that. Now draw me a picture I can recognize as a window."
"A window?"
"An opening set into a wall to admit light," said Dumarest. The man was like a child. "You must know what a
window is."
"An opening," said Cornelius. "One set in a wall to admit light."
A child, but like a child he would learn as all the Choud would learn. As they had to learn if they were to survive.
"A moon," said Dumarest. "Think of a moon. Describe it to me. Tell me where it can be found?" He looked at the
blank face and uncomprehending eyes. "Terra," he said. "The moon as seen from Earth. "Where is Earth?"
A hope which died as Cornelius frowned and turned back to his painting. Once he could have answered with facts
and figures, given the spatial coordinates and so pinpointed the location of the world which had become a legend. A
simple question would have done it—why hadn't he asked it?
So close!
So very close!
"Earl! You're looking as you did in the garden! As if you wanted to kill someone. But Cornelius isn't to blame. You
can't—"
"No." Dumarest shook his head. "No, he isn't to blame and I won't hurt him. Have you assembled his paintings?
Are they here?" He walked across the room to where canvases lay piled on a table. "Tuvey is leaving at sunset."
"I know. I'm not leaving with him." Sardia came to stand at his side, to look as he was looking at the topmost
portrait. It was of the degraded angel. "You spot the resemblance?"
"This isn't you."
"No? How can you be so sure, Earl? What do you know of me? Cornelius saw beneath the skin and into the
heart." She reached out to touch it. "It's yours if you want it."
He lifted it without answering and looked at the one below.
"The suspended man," she explained, "He told me about it. He had yet to finish it. The face—" She drew in her
breath.
"His face."
"Once, yes, but he must have added touches since I saw it last. Now it resembles someone else." She looked at
him. "He must have done it after you'd met at the dinner. After I'd made a fool of myself."
"After you'd danced," he corrected. "If there is a fool on this world it isn't you. So you're staying?"
"Yes. They need help and I can give it. And I'm hoping that he'll get it back." She glanced at Cornelius. "It still has
to be there. Genius isn't something you learn from a book or gain from a computer. He has it and maybe I can get it to
flower again. It may take years, even a lifetime, but it's something I have to do. Can you understand that?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "I can understand."
"We have an agreement, remember?"
"Forget it."
"I can't do that. These paintings are of value and should compensate you. You could take them to a man I know
and let him sell them for you on a commission basis." She saw his expression. "No?"
"No." He added, "Cornelius could need them. They might trigger his latent talent or something."
"Then take one at least," she urged. "This one. I'd like you to have it. To give you something by which to
remember me."
"I don't need that to remember you, Sardia." Dumarest made no move to take the painting. "And I need to travel
light."
With his clothes and knife and little else aside from his memories but they would burden enough. As would be the
pain he had known, the broken hopes, the aching loneliness.
She turned, looking at Cornelius, seeing him staring at her, one hand extended. He smiled as she took it in her
own, comforted, satisfied and contented as a man could be who has found the thing necessary to his happiness. The
thing most men needed; a woman who loved him and whom he could love. A simple thing but Dumarest—Dumarest
needed to find a world.

THE QUILLIAN SECTOR

Chapter One
A great bowl of flowers had been set on a small table close to the window so that their petals reflected the light
in a mass of glowing scarlet necked with amber, the stamens a brilliant yellow around styles of dusty black. The bowl
itself was of veined porphyry, shaped with a rare elegance, curves melting one into the other to form an object of
both visual and tactile beauty. A thing of delicate elegance in direct contrast to the room itself, which was bleak in its
Spartan simplicity, all white and functional, the walls devoid of any decoration, even the carpet a neutral gray.
A room in which to work, to study and to plan with all distraction kept to a minimum. Something Irae could
appreciate, as he could not the flowers. They were an anomaly and he crossed the room to stand before them,
studying their form and arrangement before lifting his head to stare through the window itself.
It was set high in the building and framed a view of grim desolation. The soil had been leached to expose the
underlying rock, the vegetation which once had covered it long since gone, as were the minerals once contained
within the stone. Machines had dug and ripped and crushed and spewed their detritus, turning a pleasant landscape
into a barren wilderness. Exploitation had left nothing but sourness and acid rains which, even as he watched, came
to add more corrosion to the thick pane and the metal in which it was set.
Looking down, he could now understand the presence of the flowers; the contrast they provided to the
desolation outside.
"Caradoc's work," said a voice behind him. "He said that a touch of color would help."
Turning, Irae said, "Help whom? You?"
An accusation, which Yoka dismissed with a small gesture of a hand which seemed to be fashioned from
transparent porcelain. No cyber was ever fat, for excess tissue lessened the efficiency of the physical machine which
was the body, but Yoka was skeletal in his thinness. Beneath the scarlet robe, his body was reed-frail, his throat a
match for the gaunt face and sunken eyes which, with his shaven pate, gave his head the appearance of a skull. A
skull set with the jewel of his eyes which burned now, as always, with the steady flame of trained and directed
intelligence.
He said, "No, Cyber Irae, the flowers are here to set at ease those ushered into this chamber to wait. Naturally,
you grasp the underlying purpose."
A statement, not a question. For him to have framed the sentence otherwise would have been tantamount to
insult. No cyber could avoid seeing the obvious, and now that Irae knew the purpose of the room, the presence of the
blooms and the position they occupied was plain. A contrast and a good one; outside, the bleak desolation of Titanus
—within, the glowing color and beauty of the flowers and what they, by association, represented. The security of the
Cyclan; the rewards and wealth and comfort the organization could provide to any who engaged their services. A
contrast too subtle to be immediately appreciated by any visitor, but it was there and would be noted on a
subconscious level.
"Caradoc shows skill and intelligence. An acolyte?"
"No longer." Yoka lifted a hand and touched his breast, fingers thin and pale against the rich scarlet and the
design embroidered on the fabric, A gesture signifying the acolyte had passed his final tests and was now one of their
number. Beneath his hand the Seal of the Cyclan glowed and shimmered with reflected light. "A young man who
shows promise. He should give good service and rise high."
And would, unless he committed the unpardonable crime of failure.
Irae looked again at the flowers, at the window and the desolation beyond, thinking of others who had shown
promise and who had failed. Those who had paid with their lives because of their failure. Others who had been
broken. He did not intend to become one of them.
He said, "You are certain Dumarest is not on this world?"
"I am."
"The prediction that he could be found on Titanus was of seventy-three per cent probability."
"Not high."
"No, and obviously there were factors we could not take into account. Even so, we must be close."
 As they had been close before, each time to miss the quarry by a few minutes of time, by coincidence, by the luck
which seemed to follow Dumarest from world to world. A trail marked by the death of cybers he had killed in order to
ensure his escape.
The irrevocable loss of trained and dedicated intelligences which should have gone to swell the complex of
Central Intelligence.
The reward of every cyber who proved his worth.
"It is against all logic," said Yoka. "How could one man have eluded capture for so long?"
Luck, and more than luck. The instinct which gave warning when danger was close. The intelligence which
recognized the threat and remained alert for the little things which gave warning—a stare maintained too long, a
glance, a too-fortuitous meeting, a proffered friendship, an unexpected invitation—who could tell?
And yet, the Cyclan should be able to tell. The cybers, with their trained minds which could take a handful of
known facts and from them extrapolate the logical sequence of events encompassing any imaginable variation. To
arrive at a deduction and make a prediction which was as close as possible to actual prophecy. They should know
where a man on the move would come to rest, had known, but still he had managed to dodge, to stay one jump
ahead.
For too long now. Too long.
Irae studied the flowers. Had an insect hummed among the blossoms he would have been able to predict on
which it would next settle, on the pattern it would follow. Had he wanted to snare it, he would have known exactly
where to apply the compound which would hold it fast.
An insect—why not a man?
He said, "We know that Dumarest is among the worlds of the Rift. That is a probability of ninety-nine percent.
We have checked the course of each vessel leaving relevant worlds and have agents alerted at each port of call. All
precautions have been taken."
And still they hadn't proved enough. Like a ghost, Dumarest had vanished, aided by the unpredictable, riding his
luck until even those searching for him had begun to doubt their powers.
"The Rift," said Yoka. "A good place for a man to hide." Too good. A section of space in which suns burned close
and worlds were plentiful. An area in which opposed energies created dangerous vortexes and regions in which
matter itself could cease to exist. A place in which planets rested in isolation in whirls of dust, rolled hidden in
masses of interstellar gloom, hung like glittering gems in a web of destructive forces. A haystack in which a wisp of
straw could so easily be lost.
Irae lifted his eyes from the bowl of flowers and turned like a scarlet flame to where Yoka stood respectfully
waiting. "Your conclusions?"
"Based on all available data, the probability of capturing Dumarest at this time is fifty-three percent. Not until he
is located can we hope to gain information on which to base a more favorable prediction."
"Fifty-three percent?"
"Low," admitted Yoka, "but I said 'capture,' not 'discover'. The probability of spotting him is higher—seventy-six
percent."
"Eighty-seven point five," corrected Irae. "You are too conservative. Even if he is now in space he must eventually
land and when he does, an agent could spot him."
"If the man is at the right time, at the right place." Yoka had the stubbornness of age. "It comes to a matter of
logistics. In order to maintain surveillance at every probable port of call at all appropriate times, we need the services
of an army of men. Add to that the probability that he is on a planet and, unless he makes a move, locating him will
be far from easy. And we must check all worlds." He ended, "In the Rift they are many."
He said it without change of the smooth, even modulation, devoid of all irritant factors which all cybers were
trained to adopt. And yet, Irae caught the irony beneath the apparently flat statement.
"You repeat the obvious, Cyber Yoka. I am fully aware of the problem but we can eliminate a large area of low-
order probabilities. We have information as to where Dumarest was last located, together with the names and routes
of the vessels which left at the critical time."
"Data?" Yoka stood, immobile, as he listened to the stream of facts and figures, his mind assimilating, correlating,
selecting and discarding various possibilities until he reached a decision. "You are correct. The probability that
Dumarest will be discovered within the Rift is as you say. The Quillian Sector. He could be there now, but to locate
him will not be easy."
"For a cyber?"
"For anyone but an expert hunter of men." Yoka added, "I have one at hand."
Leo Bochner didn't look the part. While tall, he appeared slim, almost womanish, his face unlined, his hands
smooth, as was his voice as he announced himself. He stood waiting with an easy grace. Instinctively, he selected the
one in authority, turning a little to face Irae, recognizing that while younger than Yoka, he held the command. A point
Irae noted as he did the clothing; good, yet not obtrusive; fine woven cloth cut to emphasize good taste and not
vulgar ostentation. Clothing which somehow added to the effeminate impression he had gamed and which lessened
the threat of the man.
A mistake?
A less experienced man could have thought so and wondered at Yoka's judgment, but Irae had long since learned
to look beneath the surface of apparent truth. Now, looking, he noted the smooth pad of muscle beneath the skin of
face, throat and wrists. The iron beneath the smooth set of lips and jaw. The carriage. The ingrained confidence in
words and manner. The eyes.
The eyes which, even as he watched, changed to give the lie to the polished dress and manner; turning into those
of a beast, a wolf, a tiger, a hunter of prey.
Then, in a moment, they were again a part of the disguise, calm, bland, faintly mocking.
Irae said, "Tell me something of yourself."
"I have, shall we say, a certain skill." Bochner's voice carried no pride, it was merely a vehicle used to convey a
fact. "I realized I had it when very young and took steps to cultivate and perfect. I have an affinity with wild things. I
sense their habits and, knowing them, can anticipate what they will do." He added with the same easy tone, "I am
probably the finest hunter ever to be born on Pontia, and on that world you hunt or you starve."
"Animals." Irae watched the eyes as he spoke. "Beasts operating on instinctive patterns of behavior."
He had looked for anger. None came, nor did the eyes change as they had before. That, he knew, had been a
demonstration, a dropping of the veil to show a little of the real nature of the man.
Bochner said, "Beast or man, my lord, they are the same."
"A man can think."
"And for that attribute, has lost others. But we talk to little purpose. My record is known to you."
A good one or he would not now be standing before them. A noted hunter, a skilled assassin, but this time such
skills would be unwanted.
Bochner shrugged as Irae made that clear. "I understand. I find Dumarest and hold him with the least amount of
force necessary until he can be handed over to your agents. Of course, it may be that I shall have to cripple him to
ruin his mobility. Break his legs, for example, and even his arms. But his life will not be in danger. That is acceptable?"
"We want the man unharmed and in full possession of his mental faculties."
"You want the man in any way he can be delivered," said Bochner flatly. "As long as he is alive on delivery. If that
isn't the case, why send for me?" His eyes moved from one to the other of the scarlet figures. "I shall not let you
down, my lords. My reputation was not gained by bungling my commissions. And, speaking of commissions my
fee—"
"Will be paid," said Yoka. "The Cyclan does not break its word."
A bow was Bochner's answer, but Irae added more; it was well that the man should remember the power of the
Cyclan, and that it could take as well as give.
"You will be rewarded," he said, "with wealth and property should you succeed. With something less pleasant
should you fail."
"I shall not fail."
"How can you be sure? How can you even know you will find him?"
"When you cannot?" Bochner was shrewd. "Or when you do, you always seem to arrive too late? The answer is
basically simple; you hunt a man but I hunt a beast. You operate on the basis of pure logic, but a man is not a logical
creature and does not follow a nice, neat, predictable path. Not a man with sense. Not one who knows he is being
hunted. Not one who is afraid. Such things confuse the normal pattern. Watch such a man as I have and you will see
his instincts guide his decisions. A ship arrives—shall he take it or wait for the next? The same with a raft, a cab, a
caravan. The same with a hotel, a meal, a drink in a tavern. The shape of a door can send quarry scuttling into hiding.
The whisper of a woman who, by chance, speaks his name. The look of an official which, misunderstood, can lead to
flight. How can you predict exactly where he will go when he doesn't even know himself ? What he will do, when
what he is permitted to do depends on chance?"
He was over-simplifying and was wrong in his assessment of the ability of the Cyclan, but Irae did not correct
him. Neither he, nor any cyber, wished to advertise their abilities to those who had not hired their services. And the
'chance' to which Bochner referred was not a matter of infinite variables, as he seemed to think, but a limited set of
paths determined by prevailing factors. A man stranded on an island could only escape by sea or by air. Without the
means to fly, he was limited to the sea. Without the means to construct or obtain a boat, he could only swim. If
unable to swim, he would be forced to wade the shallows. Knowing the man, the circumstances, there was nothing
hard in predicting what he would do and where he would go.
 Irae said, "Do you know the Quillian Sector?"
"As much as any man can know it."
"Which is to say?"
"Parts well, other parts not so well, a little not at all. But then," Bochner added, "no one knows them—the worlds
hidden in the dust and those caught in the mesh of destructive forces. There are rumors, but that is all."
"Expeditions sent and lost," said Yoka. "Companies formed and dissolved, as the investigations they made turned
to nothing. We are not interested in such planets. We are only interested in your quarry."
"Dumarest."
"Yes, Dumarest You are confident you can track him down?"
"Guide me to a world and if he is on it, I will find him. More, give me a cluster of worlds and I will show you
which he will make for. You think I boast?" Bochner shook his head. "I speak from knowledge. From conviction. From
experience."
"A claim others have made. Now, they are dead."
"Killed by Dumarest?" Bochner looked at his hands. "I can take care of myself."
A conviction shared by others before they had died, but Irae didn't mention that. Instead, he said, "Tell me one
thing, Bochner. Aside from the reward, why do you want to hunt Dumarest?"
"Why?" Bochner inhaled, his breath a sibilant hiss over his teeth. "Because if half of what you've told me is true,
then he is the most wily, the most dangerous and the most interesting quarry I could ever hope to find."
The ship was small, unmarked; The crew, taciturn servants of the Cyclan. Alone in his cabin, Bochner went
through his routine exercises, movements designed to keep his muscles in trim and his reflexes at their peak. When
Caradoc opened the door he was standing, dressed only in pants, shoes and blouse, a knife balanced on its point on
the back of his right hand, which was held level at waist height. As the young cyber watched, he dropped the hand
and, as the knife dropped towards his foot snatched at it with his left hand, catching the hilt and tossing it upwards to
circle once before catching it in his right.
"A game," he explained. "One played often on Vrage. There we stood naked and held our hands at knee height.
Miss and you speared a foot. There was a more sophisticated version played for higher stakes in which, if you were
slow, you usually died." Idly, he spun the knife. "You have used a blade?"
"No."
"You should. The feel of it does something to a man. Cold, razor-sharp steel, catching and reflecting the light,
speaking with its edge, its point, words of threat and pain. Watch a man with a knife and see how he moves. A good
fighter becomes an appendage of his weapon. A man with a gun gives less cause for concern. Why? Can you tell me
why?"
"A gun is dispassionate. Everyone knows what a knife can do."
"Cut and slash and maim and cripple. True, but a gun can do that and more. But still the psychological factor
remains." Then in the same tone of voice he added, "Is that why Dumarest carries a knife?"
"You have read the reports."
"Words on paper—what do they tell me about the man? I need to know how he looks, how he walks, the manner
in which he snuffs the air. You think I joke? Smell is as important to a man as to a beast, even though he may not be
aware of it. And a man hunted and knowing it seems to develop his faculties. So what is Dumarest really like?"
"I have never seen him."
"He wears gray, he carries a knife, he travels. High when he can afford it low when he cannot. Space is full of such
wanderers. What makes him so special?" It was a question to which he expected no answer, and gained none. Either
Caradoc didn't know or had no intention of telling, but it was early yet and, later—who could tell? Gesturing to his
bunk, he said, "Sit and join me in some wine."
"No," said Caradoc.
"No to the wine, to the offer of rest, or both?"
"I need neither."
A thing Bochner had known but had deliberately ignored, Caradoc was a cyber and the nearest thing to a living
machine possible to achieve. To him, food was mere fuel to power the body. He was a stranger to emotion and unable
to feel it by virtue of the operation performed on his cortex shortly after reaching puberty. A creature selected and
trained by the Cyclan, converted into an organic computer, a metabolic robot who could only know the pleasure of
mental achievement.
Sitting, Bochner stared at him, wondering what it would be like to have been like him, to have worn the scarlet
robe, to have relinquished all the things which most men held dear. Caradoc would never know the thrill of sitting in a
hide waiting for the quarry to appear, to aim, to select the target, to fire, to know the heady exultation of one who has
dispensed death. The sheer ecstasy of pitting mind against mind in the hunt for one of his own kind—the most
exciting and dangerous quarry of all. To kill and to escape, which often was harder than the kill itself. To outguess and
outmaneuver. To anticipate and to watch the stunned sickness in a quarry's eyes. To hear the babble for mercy, see
the futile twitches as the demoralized creature tried to escape, to plan even while it begged to die, finally, when the
hunter had become bored.
No, Caradoc would never know what it was to be bored and for that alone, Bochner could envy him.
The wine was in a bottle of crusted glass, the crystal flecked with inner motes of shimmering gold, the liquid
itself a pale amber, holding the tart freshness of a crisp, new day. Bochner poured and lifted the cap which served as
a cup.
"To your health, my friend." He drank and refilled the small container. "You object?"
"I wonder."
"Why I drink?"
"Why any man of intelligence should choose to put poison into his body."
"A good point," mused Bochner. "Why do we do it? To find escape, perhaps to discover a world of dreams. Some
cannot do without the anodyne of alcohol, but I am not one of them. Listen, my scarlet accomplice, and try to
comprehend. The quarry I hunt lurks in unsuspected quarters and must be sought in regions you may not
understand. At times, I must sit for long hours in taverns and what should I drink then? No, I drink as a part of my
camouflage and must maintain my tolerance for alcohol. As a runner must practice to keep up his acquired ability. A
swimmer, his mastery over water." Again he emptied the cup and again refilled it. "Test me now and you would find
me as sober as yourself. Give me a mark and a gun and I will hit it as many times as you choose to name. In any case,
it helps to pass the time."
"Quick-time will do that better."
"The drug will shorten the days and little else." Bochner slowly finished his wine. "But no compound ever yet
discovered or invented can ease the weight of boredom."
An alien concept which Caradoc could understand only on an intellectual level How could anyone ever grow
bored in a universe filled with an infinity of questions awaiting answers? Even the cabin in which they sat offered
endless scope for mental exercise connected with its structure, stress factors, cubic capacity, resonance, relationships
of planes and divergences from the mathematical norm.
Bored?
No cyber could ever be that while two atoms remained to pose a problem of interrelationship proximities. While
life remained to set the eternal question of what and why it existed at all.
But lesser beings needed the convenience of quick-time; the drug which slowed the metabolism so that normal
days passed in apparent minutes. A means to lessen the tedium of ship life on journeys between the stars.
The steward brought it an hour later when the vessel was aligned on its target star and safely on its way. He
nodded to Caradoc and, without a word, lifted the hypogun he carried, aimed it at Bochner's throat and pressed the
release. Air blasted the charge through skin, fat and muscle directly into the bloodstream. Bochner should have
immediately turned into the rigid semblance of a statue. Instead, he slumped and fell unconscious on the bunk.
"Minimum dose as ordered, sir," said the steward. "Another?"
"No. You have all that is necessary? Good. Stand aside while I work."
Caradoc turned the unconscious man on his back, handling the bulk with surprising strength. From a packet the
steward handed him, he took a slender instrument and a small capsule together with a can of anesthetizing spray
fitted with a slender nozzle. Thrusting the nozzle into Bochner's right nostril, Caradoc hit the release, numbing and
sterilizing the inner membranes. With the instrument, he quested the nasal passage and located the entrance to the
sinus cavity. Removing the instrument, he fitted the capsule to its end, thrust the small package into the nostril,
pressed and pushed it into the sinus. There it expanded, thin filaments attaching themselves with minute hooks to the
inner lining, they and the capsule both coated with numbing and sterile compounds.
As he withdrew the spray after a final treatment Caradoc said to the steward, "Now. Neutralize and administer
quick-time."
A metabolic shock, but Bochner was fit and could stand it, and what did it matter if the jar to his system should
have later repercussions? He was a tool to be used for the benefit of the Cyclan and nothing more. The instrument
planted within his skull was a device which, on receiving a signal, would respond with a burst of coded emissions. No
matter where or how he tried to hide, he could be found, and the capsule itself could be exploded by remote control.
No one living had ever betrayed the Cyclan and Bochner would not be the first.
Caradoc watched as the steward set him upright, deftly triggering the hypogun, seeing the slow movements of the
hunter's hands and eyes. Movements which jerked to normal as his own metabolism responded to the impact of the
drug blasted into his bloodstream. The door blurred and they were alone.
Bochner wished he was more so. He hadn't wanted the company of the cyber but had known better than to
protest Irae's decision. Later, if the need arose, he would slip away and certainly, if necessary, the cyber would have
to change his appearance. The scarlet robe and naked scalp were signals the quarry couldn't miss.
Thinking of the hunt, he said, "How can you be so sure he is within the Quillian Sector?"
"Dumarest?" Caradoc leaned back to rest his shoulders against the wall. Bochner had noticed nothing wrong and
that was proof of his own efficiency. He sat as Bochner remembered, the cabin looked the same. To Bochner, his
temporary unconsciousness would have seemed no more than the blink of an eye. "A matter of applied logic."
"A guess?"
"No."
"And yet you can't be certain. I mean, you might know about where he is but not exactly where. If your logic and
skill were good enough surely there could be no doubt?"
"Doubt?"
"Uncertainty. You would be certain."
"Nothing is ever that," said Caradoc. "Always there is the unknown factor which must never be ignored. No
matter how certain a thing appears to be, it must never be considered an absolute event. The probability may be high
but, always, it remains a probability."
Bochner nodded, remembering a time during his early youth. A copse in which a beast was lurking, himself set
and armed, the weapon lifted, aimed, the butt hard against his shoulder, the sights leveled on the spot in which the
creature was sure to appear. A long, delicious moment of savored anticipation. The nearing climax of the hunt was
like the climax of sex itself, though far more satisfying.
And then the shadow, which had crossed the sun. The raft, which had appeared in a cloudless sky and, as it threw
a patch of darkness over the front sight, the quarry had appeared to turn, to run, to dodge the bullet which should
have brought it low.
Revenge had done little to ease the hurt and after the dead man had toppled from the raft, and the vehicle itself
risen to vanish into the distance, the penalty had waited at the end—the blood-price paid in money and sweat and
exile from his home world.
A little thing. One he should have taken into consideration. A neglect which had altered the trend of his life.
Watching him, Caradoc said, "Imagine a container of boiling liquid containing tiny motes of solid substance.
They are in continuous, restless activity. The Brownian Movement. The tiny particles are in motion because of the
irregular bombardment of the molecules of the surrounding medium. Now, imagine one of the particles to be colored
for easy identification. We can tell where it is in relation to the whole. We can tell where it has been. We can even
predict where next it might be, but never can we be utterly and absolutely certain."
"Dumarest? The colored particle is Dumarest?"
"The analogy will serve."
"And you know about where he is to be found. In the Quillian Sector." Bochner's face became taut ugly, the skin
tightening so that his cheeks looked like scraped bone. "The place where space goes mad. Where the suns fight and
fill the universe with crazed patterns of energy so that men kill at a glance and women scream at imagined terrors.
Ealius and Cham and Ninik."
"Swenna," said Caradoc adding to the list. "Vult and Pontia—" He paused, then said again, "Pontia."
"Where I was born." Bochner's voice matched the taut ugliness of his face. "I told you I knew the area well."

Chapter Two
Dumarest heard the shout and looked up to see death falling from the sky. The grab of the digger was overhead,
the jaws open, tons of oozing clay scooped from the cutting, blotting out the pale orange of the firmament. It should
have been neatly deposited in the body of his truck. Instead, it was plummeting down to crush and bury him. No
accident. The crane was well to one side, the truck closer to it than himself, but there was no time to think of that.
Even before the warning shout had died he was on the move, lunging to one side, feeling his foot slip on the loose
dirt, toppling off balance as the load thundered down.
Luck was with him. A second later, or had he been less fast, he would have been crushed and buried like an
insect. As it was, he felt the impact on his left shoulder, the barest touch of the debris which rasped down the sleeve
of his coverall, the blow throwing him further in the direction of his fall. He hit a slope, rolling, falling, to land on the
waterlogged clay at the foot of the cutting as over him showered the mass of clay, dirt and rubble.
Too much rubble. It pressed on his back, drove his face into the water as it piled on his head, his shoulders,
trapping his entire body with a layer of dirt which pressed with an iron hand. A hand which could kill, which would
kill within minutes unless he could find some way to breathe.
 He strained, body aching, muscles tense, blood thundering in his ears as, slowly, he lifted. A fraction only; loose
dirt compacted by his upward pressure, yielding a trifle to form a shallow gap beneath him so that, arms and legs
rigid, back arched against the strain, head turned to rest one cheek in the water, his nose lay above the surface and he
could breathe.
Breathe and wait for a rescue which need never come.
Life was cheap on Ealius. Only the skilled technicians were of value, the rest were easily replaced. Those in
authority could decide that he wasn't worth the trouble and effort to save. Better to let him lie, to be covered in,
buried, forgotten. But the cutting had to be kept open, the great channel formed and smoothed, the passage through
the mountain maintained.
After what seemed hours, Dumarest felt and heard the grating vibration of mechanical jaws.
They were not being operated with any care for the vulnerability of a human body. The steel teeth dropped,
closed, lifted with a load of clay to set it aside and return for more. Only a concern to avoid marring the sides of the
channel made the operator take small bites at the mound he had dropped. The fact that any of the scoops could have
sheared through a body didn't seem to have occurred to him.
Dumarest had a more personal interest. He felt a touch against one leg, kicked, felt metal beneath his foot and
then the rasp of the teeth over his thigh. Luck had saved him; a few more inches and his foot would have been
caught, his leg ripped from its socket as the grab lifted with resistless force. Before it could return he heaved,
squandering the last of his conserved energy, fighting the crushing weight on back and shoulders as he thrust himself
back to where the clay had been lifted from his legs. When next the grab returned, he was ready. As the open jaws
dug into the mound he threw himself into the grab, ducking as the serrated edges closed, one hand caught between
two of the steel teeth of the low jaw, the upper halting an inch from his wrist as it closed on a stone.
Then up and out to one side, the grab halting, turning, opening as it jerked to shower its load into the open body
of the truck waiting below. As Dumarest fell, he heard a yell.
"It's Earl! By damn, it's Earl!"
Carl Devoy, the one who had shouted, his face taut beneath a tangle of rust-colored hair now smeared with ocher
clay. He ran to the side of the truck, heaving himself up and staring over the side.
"Earl?" He sucked in his breath as Dumarest moved. "By God, he's still alive! Give a hand here! Give a hand!"
He was small, but with a temper to match the color of his hair, and two men ran to obey. A third arrived with a
bucket of water as they lowered Dumarest to the ground and, without preamble, threw the contents over the clay
smeared figure.
"Earl?"
"I'm all right." Dumarest straightened, breathing deeply, water running down his head and face to soak his
coverall. As he wiped his hands on his sides, he said, "Who was operating the digger?"
"Menser, He's still operating it." Devoy glanced at the man seated in the cab of the machine. A transparent
canopy gave weather protection, its clarity now marred with dirt. Behind it, the face and figure of the operator were
blurred. "I saw the bucket jerk and yelled but I was too late."
"No," said Dumarest. "If you hadn't shouted I'd be dead now. And then?"
"After the load dropped?" Devoy shrugged. "They figured you had to be dead and would have left you but Strick
wanted the cutting to be cleared. Ten minutes later and he'd have left it for the next shift to clear up the mess."
Ten minutes—the difference between life and death. Dumarest looked at the orange sky, at the bulk of the digger
etched against it, at the dark face which peered at him from behind the canopy. As a whistle blew the face moved,
became a part of the body which climbed down from the cab, a man who stood almost seven-feet tall and with
shoulders to match. A black giant with massive hands and thighs like trees. A man who stepped to where Dumarest
stood waiting, to halt, to part his lips in a grin before spitting on the ground.
"Mister, you were lucky."
"No," said Dumarest. "You were careless."
"Meaning the accident?"
"If it was one."
"Hell, man, how can you doubt it? A cable locked and I had to snap it clear. That's why I swung the grab over and
away from the truck. Sometimes the catch slips and you drop the load."
"On me?"
"I didn't see you." Menser spat again. "I had other things to think about."
Truth or lie, there was no way of telling and certainly nothing could be proved. Dumarest studied the man, seeing
the eyes, white rims showing around the irises, the corners tinged with red. The telltale signs of the drug he chewed,
as was the purple spittle he had vented on the ground. The pungent, shredded leaf which gave euphoria at the cost of
sanity.
 Then, as the whistle shrilled again, Devoy said, "Come on, Earl, let's get away from here. The next shift's taking
over."
The residential quarters matched the workings; hard, rough, severely functional. Sleeping was done in
dormitories, eating in a communal mess, washing in a long, low room flanked by shallow troughs above which
showers supplied water ranging from tepid to steaming hot. The place itself was filled with steam; writhing vapor
which blurred details in a man-made fog. In it shapes loomed, indistinct, voices muffled as men called to each other.
Stripped, Dumarest stepped under a shower, feeling the drum of water on his head, the rivulets cleaning away the
grime and dirt from his hair. Soap came in liquid form from a dispenser and he filled his palm with the sticky goo,
rubbing it hard and getting little result.
"Here, Earl, try this." Devoy handed over a bar of soap from where he stood in the adjoining shower. "Something
special from a friend in town." His wink left no doubt as to the nature of the friend. "She likes her men to smell nice.
Go ahead," he urged. "It's good."
The soap held a crude perfume but it contained oil and lacked the harsh bite of the supplied liquid. Dumarest
used it, creating a mass of suds which flowed over the firm muscles of shoulders and back, stomach and thighs. As he
turned beneath the shower to wash them free, Devoy sucked in his breath.
"Hell, Earl, you look as if you'd been clawed by a giant."
Dumarest turned to examine his legs. On the back of each calf, running midway up each thigh, ran a wide,
purpling bruise: the result of the raking jaws of the grab. They marred the hard, smooth whiteness of the skin, as did
the other marks carried on his chest and forearms, the thin cicatrices of old wounds.
Devoy looked at them, recognizing them for what they were, wondering why he hadn't spotted them before. The
long bruises gave the answer to that; unless they had caught his attention he wouldn't have stared. Wouldn't now
know that Dumarest bore the scars of a man who has fought with naked blades. That he was a fighter, trained to kill.
He said, "That's Menser's trouble, Earl. I've heard it from others in the gang. He's been pushing, seeing how far he
can go, how much he can get away with. That accident could have been fixed."
"I know."
"Does he have anything against you? Did he try to push, and you told him where to get off ?"
Dumarest shook his head, then lifted his arms to let the steaming water cascade over his body, the impact helping
to ease the ache of muscles recently overstrained. Since coming to the workings he had kept himself to himself, not
asking for trouble, not looking for it. The last thing he wanted was to become the center of attention. Now, it seemed,
Menser had other ideas.
He came into the washroom, voice booming, attended by a handful of sycophants eager to hook their wagon to a
profitable star. On any construction site there were men who recognized opportunity when they saw it and took steps
to skim the cream. Parasites, using threats and violence to intimidate others, demanding a share of their pay under
the guise of collecting contributions, donations, or as insurance premiums. Such men, if they survived, could become
rich and powerful with their own small, private armies to enforce their dictates.
Menser wanted to become one of them.
Dumarest watched as the steam swirled to part, to reveal the giant, to close again over his giant frame. What the
man did was no concern of his as long as he was left alone, but Menser had recognized in Dumarest a source of
potential trouble. To eliminate him would pay dividends in more ways than one.
"He's high," said Devoy uneasily. "Doped and crazed and spoiling for trouble. Let's get out of here."
Good advice, but Dumarest didn't follow it. If trouble was to come this was as good a place as any in which to
meet it. He stood, the soap in his hand, eyes narrowed as he stared through the vapor. It broke, shredded, torn into
wisps as the giant came forward, head lowered, shoulders hunched, fists pounding the air as, weaving, he
shadowboxed his way along the edge of the trough. His intention was obvious; to locate his victim, to strike, to break
bones and pulp flesh with hammer blows and then to explain that he had seen nothing in the steam and had maimed
or killed by accident.
"Earl!" Devoy was anxious.
"Stand clear."
As the smaller man stepped from the shower, Dumarest left the trough to stand facing the approaching giant.
Menser was huge, coiled ropes of muscle shifting beneath the gleaming ebon of his skin, his head a ball of bone, hair
cropped close to the scalp. Now he looked up, grinning, a purple stream jetting from between his lips to spatter the
floor inches from Dumarest's feet.
"Waiting for me, friend? Well, now, that's nice of you. A pity you're going to have another accident." His laughter
was soft, feral, devoid of amusement. "A fatal one this times."
Dumarest threw the soap.
It flashed from his hand to drive against the giant's face, to land beneath one of the thick eyebrows and to slam
against the eye with a force which tore the orb from its socket, to leave an ugly red hole streaming blood. A blow
which shocked and blinded, one which he followed with another as, lunging forward, he lifted his foot and sent the
heel up hard against the chin.
It was like kicking a mountain.
Menser yelled, one hand lifting to his ruined eye, the hand falling as he dodged Dumarest's second kick. Hurt, he
was even more dangerous than before, pain fueling the hate now powering his muscles, obliterating everything but
the desire to rend and kill the man standing before him. Like an oiled machine, he swung into action, hands extended,
feet moving in little, dancing steps, body poised to turn in any direction.
A wrestler and a dangerous one. A man with a very high pain threshold, as his apparent ignoring of his ruined
eye testified. One who had to be treated with respect and caution.
One Dumarest had to kill before being killed.
He moved back, aware of the circle of watchers, the eyes avid with anticipation, the faces gloating at the free and
unexpected spectacle. Faces rendered more beastlike by the blurring vapor, eyes more feral because of the steam.
"You bastard!" Menser inched forward. "I was just going to hurt you a little, break a few bones, maybe, or give you
some bruises. Now I'm going to make you pay for what you did. Your eyes first, maybe. Or maybe I'll smash both legs
and, as you crawl, tear out your arms. Then I'll take care of your eyes, a thumb in each socket, pressing slowly, so
slowly, until they pop out like stones from a fruit And then—"
His voice whispered on but Dumarest ignored it. A trick to command a part of his attention and to ruin a little of
his concentration. To weaken him by fear and to soften him by imagined terrors. Blatant tactics he had long since
learned to disregard.
"Earl! Get him, Earl! Get the bastard!"
Carl Devoy offering what help he could and at the same time revealing both his courage and stupidity. If Menser
should win he would be marked and taken care of—a high price to pay for the encouragement Dumarest didn't need.
He dropped as the giant came in, turning, his hand rising to chop with stiffened palm at the man's left knee. He
felt the jar and spun to one side as the right foot lashed at his face, kicking back in turn, his heel impacting the knee
he had struck. Then he was up and on his feet, circling to keep on the blind side of his opponent, making use of the
advantage he had won.
A fist darted toward him, to scrape against the side of his head as he weaved, the forearm like an iron bar as he
gripped it, throwing back his weight, trying to throw the giant off balance. Menser yielded, snarled as his other hand
grabbed, laughed as the fingers sank into Dumarest's shoulder.
"Now," he gloated. "Now!"
His knee jerked upwards, Dumarest turning to avoid the crippling impact, striking back in turn, his foot aimed at
the same left knee. A weak blow, but one which added to the previously caused damage, and he followed it with a
thrust of his head which hit the nose and sent more blood to join that streaming from the ruined eye.
Then Menser struck in turn.
His fist rose, darted forward, making a meaty impact as it slammed against Dumarest's torso. A blow aimed for
the face, which had missed as Dumarest reared upwards, fighting the steel like fingers holding him fast. One followed
by another, which brought stars flashing and the taste of blood. A third, which created a web of darkness which
edged close as, all around, men yelled in anticipation of the kill.
Dumarest twisted, using his weight to tear free of the gripping fingers, sweat oiling his skin as he blocked another
blow and sent his own hand to stab fingers in the ruined eye. Menser screamed, jumping back, hands lifted to protect
his face as again Dumarest kicked at the knee. This time, he felt bone yield, the kneecap splintering, maiming the
giant and robbing him of quick mobility. But even though he had to fight to maintain his balance, he still had his
hands and the strength they possessed.
"Coward!" Menser snarled his hate as he stood balanced on one foot. "Come and fight like a man!"
An invitation only a fool would accept. Dumarest feinted, drew back and then, with a blur of movement, had run
forward, his hands busy, stiffened palms like blunt axes as they drove at the throat, the windpipe and larynx, crushing
both before he withdrew from the closing arms.
Again.
A third time, this one resulting in a long gash over his shoulder as Menser clawed at his elusive opponent.
And then again, to leave the giant sprawled like a fallen tree, blood puddling the floor around his mouth, one leg
bent at an impossible angle, the great machine of his body broken and stilled.
The woman said quietly, "Hold on now, this is going to hurt."
Dumarest heard the rustling behind him as he lay prone on the couch, a shifting of clothing, a metallic rattle and
then something like liquid fire traced a path over his shoulder.
As he grunted, the woman said, "You should have gone to the hospital."
 "Aren't you a nurse?"
"I was once." Her tone held bitterness. "But that was a long time ago. Now I earn my living treating young fools
who should have more sense than to get themselves hurt in stupid duels. We have a law against such things and the
penalties are harsh. Hold still, now." Again came the liquid fire, the touch of acid burning away the corruption which
had festered in the wound. Menser had carried vileness beneath his fingernails; a paste containing virulent bacteria
which, untreated, could kill. "There, that should do it. You were lucky."
The woman was wrong. Caution, not luck, had dictated his actions. He had noticed the festering gash and had
suspected its cause. The same caution had made him seek unofficial aid; had caused him to leave the camp with pay
still uncollected. A precaution against Menser's friends and others who might have agents lying in wait.
Now, turning, he looked at the woman who stood to one side of the couch, a small bowl in one hand, the glass
stylo with which she had applied the acid held by her thumb. "Is there anything else?"
"Maintain a watch on your temperature. Should it rise more than five degrees take antibiotics and seek medical
advice."
"The wound itself ?"
"Has been cleaned and sealed. The compound of my own devising; the residue film will peel automatically as the
wound heals." She added, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
He did not mistake her meaning even though she was still attractive, though far from young. Many of those who
paid for her help would have wanted more than the service she offered—passion riding on the relief of assistance
given. Perhaps she catered to them. People lived as best they could and there was little charity on Ealius, but he
sensed she had judged him to hold wider interests,
"I need to get on a ship," said Dumarest. "I'd like to do it without attracting attention. Would you know how it
could be done?"
"The gate is guarded," she said immediately. "All leavings are checked against the files deposited by the
construction company. They don't want anyone leaving who owes them money. Are you breaking a contract?"
"No."
"Then you could pass through the gate without difficulty."
"And if I were?"
"Breaking a contract?" She frowned. "There are ways if you have money. Men who will smuggle you on a vessel
as long as you don't care where you go or how you end. I wouldn't advise using the service they offer."
"Why not?" Dumarest asked, but already knew the answer. Too many worlds close by had mines which needed
workers and those who operated them were careless as to how they gained their laborers. A man, buying a secret
passage, could wind up contracted to slave in a living hell. "What else is there?"
"If you can afford it, there are men who could arrange to have you signed on as a crew member."
"And would that be safer?" Dumarest eased himself from the couch. The sting had gone from the wound and he
moved his arm a few times to test the pull of the plastic film covering it. "I'm avoiding enemies," he explained. "A
little trouble I had—no need for detail. You've heard it all before."
As she had learned to recognize lies. As Dumarest dressed, she put away her things, turning to look as he donned
the boots and the knife he carried in the right. They were a match for the pants and long-sleeved tunic, which rose
high to fit snugly around the throat. Tough material in which was embedded protective metallic mesh. The gray
plastic was easy to clean and simple to refurbish. A convenience for any traveler.
As he reached for money, she said, "You paid me in advance."
"For the medical treatment only."
"The advice came free."
"And your silence?" He dropped coins on the couch as she made no answer, "This is to forget you've ever seen
me. And this," he added more, "is for being what you are."
For not asking questions, for taking him in on the basis of nothing more than a whispered introduction from an
intermediary, for taking care of the man, in turn. And, perhaps, for looking like someone else he had known years ago
now, and a long journey through space. A woman who had tended him when, as a young man, he had suffered his
first wound and who had healed the gash as she had tended his desires. Her name? That was forgotten, together with
the name of the world on which they had met. But some things about her could not be forgotten; the touch of her
hands, the shape of her hair, the clustered wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, her kindness.
"Thank you," the woman said quietly. She made no effort to pick up the money. "There is a tavern on the corner
of North and Inner. Some captains and others have a habit of using the back room. Ask for Varn Egulus. But you are
welcome to stay, if you wish."
"No. I must be on my way."
From the house and into the town and out to where the field lay in its circle of perimeter lights, with ships at rest
and the stars winking like jewels against the black velvet of the sky. At the gate, men stood in casual attitudes, some
uniformed with the garb of the local authority, others wearing ship uniforms, a few in civilian dress. Watching,
Dumarest noticed how they examined a man coming toward them, how they checked him, watched after him when
they allowed him to pass.
It could have meant nothing, but Menser could have been reported murdered and even if those watching had
testified to the truth, personal combat was against the local regulations. He could be arrested, tried, fined or set to a
term of forced labor. At best, it would mean delay.
"Mister!" One of the guards called to him. "You looking for something?"
"Yesh." He swayed, deliberately slurring his words, one hand pawing vaguely at the air as it hid his face. "A girl…
she promised to meet me… late..." A hiccup emphasized his drunkenness. "Thish South and Outer?"
"No, you're on Inner and West. South is that way." A hand lifted to point, lowered as the guard turned away, losing
interest but completing the directions. "Go up it and you'll hit Outer."
Dumarest lurched away, plunging deeper into the shadows, following directions until he was out of sight.
Straightening, he turned up a narrow alley and made his way back to the road running north, turning to head back to
the one curving around the field.
The tavern was like most of its type, a place where men journeying between the stars could find the comforts
they lacked on their ships, the dissipations offered for their enjoyment. Dumarest shook his head as a pert young girl
offered her invitation, shook it again as an older matron repeated it with added detail, shrugged as a man hinted at
more exotic delights. None was offended at his refusal, no recent arrival could be considered a real prospect but it did
no harm to try. Later, when alcohol had worked its magic, or when drugs had dulled the sharp edges of
discrimination, they and others would try again.
Varn Egulus was a tall man of middle age with a long, serious face, a beaked nose and hair which was cut and
lifted in an elaborate forelock. His lips were thin, the jaw pronounced, the cheeks hollowed as if with privation.
Beneath thin brows his eyes were shrewd, watchful, calculating.
He said, "It seems we have a mutual friend. Sit and order some wine. Good wine—I can afford it since you are
paying."
Dumarest obeyed, watching as the man poured, barely sipping at what his own goblet contained. The woman
must have sent word ahead for Egulus to expect him and he would take his own time in getting to the point.
"Good wine, this." Egulus lifted his glass and studied the play of color trapped in the crystal. "Such a wine makes
a man glad to be alive." And then, without changing tone, he said, "Why did you kill Menser?"
"Did I?"
"Perhaps not, but you match the description of the man who did. The one who brought the news was most
explicit as to detail. He was also amazed at the speed you—the man—operated. It was like watching the dart of
lightning, he said. Movements faster than the eye could follow." Egulus tilted his goblet and slowly drank the wine it
contained. Emptied, he lowered it toward the table. Then, before it could hit the surface, he flung it directly at
Dumarest's face.
He smiled as it scattered on the floor.
"Clever," he mused. "You did not catch it as I thought you might and, most certainly, could have done. You didn't
simply block it, and so risk cuts to hand and face. Instead, you deflected it as if by accident, to smash on the floor.
Which proves nothing to any who might be watching. Well, to business.
"I command the Entil. A trader. One of the rules we follow is that nothing should ever be done without some
form of return. To do otherwise would be to operate at a loss and only the stupid do that. A cooperative, you
understand. We work, take risks, carry any cargo we can get, and go anywhere a profit is to be made."
And run a ship more like a heap of wreckage than a vessel designed to survive in the void. One that is
undermanned, with faulty equipment and dangerous installations.
Egulus smiled again as he guessed Dumarest's thoughts.
"A ship such as you imagine wouldn't last long in the Rift. Also I have a regard for my life, which is why the Entil
is as good as I can make her. But obviously, you've had experience. What as? Steward? Handler?"
"Both."
"And?"
"I know a little about engines. A little more about caskets. And," Dumarest added, "I can operate a table should
the need arise."
"A gambler?" Egulus pursed his lips as Dumarest nodded. "And one who can take care of himself if he has to.
Good. That's an advantage. Now, this is the situation. You give me the cost of a double High passage and work as one
of the crew. When you decide to quit, I'll compute what is your share of the profit and pay you off. Fair enough?"
For the captain, more than fair. Unless he was more honest than his fellows there would be no profits and he and
the others would have gained passage money and service for nothing.
Dumarest said, "About the tables. What I win I keep?"
"You know better than that. It goes into the common fund."
"And if I lose?"
"You pay." The captain's tone hardened a little. "And I should warn you that I have no intention of haggling. The
cost of a double High passage, take it or leave it. And I want the money now."
"No." Dumarest reached for the wine and called for a new goblet to replace the broken one. "You'll get it after I'm
on the ship and we're on our way."
"You have it?" Egulus didn't wait for an answer. "You're committing suicide if you haven't. Unless I get paid, you'll
be evicted into the void."
He meant it. Dumarest said, "Don't worry about the money. You'll get it. When do we leave?"
"At noon." Egulus reached for the wine Dumarest had poured. "But we'll hit the gate an hour before dawn. The
guards will be sleepy then. I'll arrange for a uniform for you before we leave here and they'll take you for one of my
crew."

Chapter Three
The Entil was a pleasant surprise. Despite what the captain had claimed, Dumarest had expected to see the usual
dirt and neglect of those sharing partnership and unwilling to perform more than the essential tasks. A ship run on a
shoestring, with patches and stained paint and filters which passed dust and tanks which leaked air. He had worked
on such vessels and traveled on them too often to have retained any illusions, but the Entil was the exception to the
rule.
Dumarest checked it after Egulus had seen him aboard and then moved on to the control room. The passageway
was brightly illuminated, the cabins opening on it clean and neat, the paint shining as if newly washed. The salon was
well furnished, the gaming table covered in clean, unworn baize, the light above throwing a neatly defined cone of
brilliance. Testing the spigots, Dumarest found they not only supplied the normal water, but also a weakly alcoholic
fruit drink. Unexpected luxury in any trader or in any vessel lower than the luxury class.
Allain, his guide, shrugged when he mentioned it. The steward was pushing middle age, his face smooth, bland
with the diminution of curiosity. A man who had found his niche and who now observed the universe with cynical
detachment and an extended palm.
"Egulus is smart. Advertise free wine and it adds the edge to persuading customers to ride with us instead of
another. And it whets their appetites for something stronger!"
"Which you can supply?"
"Naturally, and you, too." Allain glanced at the table. "Get them a little high and they get careless. A smart man
can really clean up if he puts his mind to it. Well, you'll learn. Now come and meet Jumoke."
Jumoke was the navigator. He was younger than the steward, with intense blue eyes and a mouth which betrayed
an inner sensitivity. He rose from the edge of his bunk as Dumarest entered his cabin, extending his hand, lowering it
as Dumarest touched the fingers. They were smooth and cool, the nails rounded and neatly polished.
He said, "So you have learned the old customs."
"On a world far from here, yes."
"The touching of hands," explained Jumoke to the steward. "A civilized act or an act performed among civilized
peoples to show they have no hostile intent. On some worlds both hands are extended, on others only the empty
palms are displayed." To Dumarest he said, "From Naud, perhaps?"
"No."
"Hagor, then? Fiander? Or even Grett? All three worlds use the old custom. Rumor has it they gained it from the
Original People, but so often does rumor lie. Personally, I come from Vult. You know it?"
"The cesspool of the Rift," said Allain, before Dumarest could answer. "Every man is a thief or murderer, every
woman a harlot, even the children learn to lie and cheat at their mother's knee. A world of madness."
"And our next port of call." Jumoke looked at the steward. "Aren't you supposed to be checking the stores?"
"It's done."
"Completely? You've checked the sensatapes? The rare and delicate wines? The stronger liquors? The preserved
delicacies which fetch so high a price? Be careful, my friend. If, by your neglect, we lose a profitable sale, may God
help you, for surely we shall not." Jumoke chuckled as the man hastily left the cabin. "He's good at his work but
sometimes doubts his memory. Vult always disturbs him. Mention it and you get a tirade. He had a sister once—but
never mind that now. We all have burdens to bear. Allain, myself, you—?" He paused then, as Dumarest made no
comment, shrugged and smiled. "The captain mentioned you were close. But so close you are reluctant to give the
name of your home world?"
"Earth."
"What?"
"Earth," said Dumarest again. The man was a navigator and must have traveled far. And he could have heard the
gossip of others of his kind. It was possible he had heard of the planet, knew where it was to be found. A hope which
died as Jumoke laughed.
"A humorist! I knew you were a hard man but never that! Earth!" He laughed again, "You know as well as I that
you talk of a legendary world. One of many—El Dorado, Bonanza, Jackpot, Avalon—the list is long. Myths invented
by men yearning for paradise. Earth!" The navigator shook his head. "The name alone should warn you of its nature.
Every world contains earth. They are made of it. Crops grow in it. Who would name a world after dirt?"
"It exists."
"In the mind."
"In space somewhere. It is real."
"Of course." Jumoke sobered, his tone gentle. "If you say so, my friend. Who am I to argue? We must talk more
on the subject, but later. Now I have work to do in the control room; sensors to check and instruments to test. You
understand?" Then, as he stepped toward the door of the cabin, he added, "A word of advice. The captain has little
use for those who are less than serious. If he should ask about your home world, it would be best to lie a little. Tell
him you were born on Ottery, for example. Or Heeg. They, at least, are in the almanac."
Outside, the passage was deserted. As Jumoke headed toward the control room, Dumarest moved in the other
direction toward the hold and engine room. As handler, it was his job to check the stowing of cargo and to operate
the caskets designed for the transportation of beasts and often used to carry those riding Low; people traveling
doped, frozen and ninety percent dead, risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap transportation.
Now the caskets were empty and the cargo, a mass of bales and metal-strapped boxes, already in place.
Dumarest checked the restraints, tightening and adjusting as needed. More cargo could arrive before they left, but he
doubted it. From what Egulus had told him, the main trade of the Entil was in carrying passengers. Some of them
could have personal luggage, and maybe personal packets of stores and cargo, but they would arrive with their
owners.
Crouching, Dumarest checked the caskets, tracing the wires and pipes, rising to swing open the transparent lids,
closing them and operating the controls and watching the gauges showing the drop in temperature. As he lowered the
lid of the last, he saw the woman standing in the open doorway leading to the engine room.
She was tall, with a helmet of glinting blonde hair, the tresses cropped to hug the head and to frame the wide,
strongly boned face. The shoulders were wide, a support for the muscles supporting the prominent breasts which
thrust unmistakable mounds beneath the tunic of her uniform. Her eyes were oval pools of vivid blueness, her ears
small and set tight against the head, the nose a little uptilted above a generous mouth. The chin matched the cropped
hair in its masculine determination and when she spoke, her voice held a deep resonance.
"Satisfied?"
"Number two needs some attention to the hinges."
"And?"
"Number four is sluggish on the intake."
"Full marks," she said. "Not many would have noticed that. At least you know your caskets. Ridden in them
often?"
"Too often."
"It's a hell of a way to travel." Stepping forward, she extended her hand in Jumoke's gesture. Touching it, he found
it soft yet firm and, now that he was close, he caught the scent of her perfume. It was floral, slightly pungent,
accentuating her femininity but at variance with her general appearance. A sign that she was not attempting to
emulate the male, perhaps. A personal touch which gave her an individuality, and rescued her from the anonymity of
a uniform. "So you're the new man. Glad to have you with us. I'm Dilys Edhessa. The engineer. You?" She nodded as
he gave his name. "Well, you're an improvement on Gresham. That's his uniform you're wearing. It's too tight at the
shoulders and too loose around the waist but I can fix that for you."
"What happened to him?"
"Gresham? He tried to hold out and was caught cheating by a couple of punters. Miners from Cham. He made the
mistake of trying to get them and one shot him from under the table. You want to watch out for that, by the way.
Make sure they keep their hands where you can see them. We carry some wild types, at times."
"And Gresham?"
"As I said, he'd been holding out on the common fund so when he got himself killed Yarn wasn't too concerned.
He took a bribe from the miners to forget what had happened and we dumped Gresham into the void." She made a
gesture as if brushing dirt from her hands. "He was no loss."
"Anything else I should know?"
"I doubt it. You've met Jumoke and Allain? And you know the captain, of course. Now you've met me. That's the
lot. We run the Entil. Including you, naturally."
An afterthought, and Dumarest could understand it. He, like the steward, was expendable. It would be natural for
the woman to regard him as less important than herself. And with reason. Looking past her, Dumarest could see the
humped bulk of the engines, the wink and gleam of instruments and monitors. A comforting sight; the neatness
would extend to the maintenance of the all important generator.
Following his eyes, she said, "Know anything about engines?"
"A little."
"Good, then you can help me run a check later on. Just routine, but it would help to have someone relay the
readings. Someone who knows what it's all about." Then she added without change of tone, "Just in case you've tried
a bluff with Yarn, it won't work."
"I know that."
"Listen! What I'm trying to say is if you need a loan? You can pay it back later."
"Thank you, but it isn't necessary. I mean that."
"Good." She stood looking at him, her eyes level with his own. A woman as broad as himself but heavier due to
the swell of hips, buttocks and breasts. An Amazon, but one who held an unmistakable femininity, whose eyes held a
genuine concern. "I like the captain but, at times, he can be hard. As you can be, I guess. You have the look, Earl, the
manner of—hell, what am I talking about?"
"The caskets," he said.
"What?"
"The hinges need fixing, as does the intake. If you'll let me have some tools, I'll take care of it."
"There's no hurry," she said, welcoming the change of subject, the path he had opened from the intensity of the
moment when, startlingly, she had felt her body respond to his masculine closeness. "We don't use them often now.
On most of the worlds we visit, it's easy enough for anyone to earn the cost of a High passage. And few are
interested in traveling Low."
"But they wouldn't be refused if they asked?"
"Of course not. Why turn down a profit?"
"Then I'd better fix the caskets."
"We'll fix them," she corrected. "Together. But why the concern? If a man's too big a creep to gain the cost of a
decent passage, why worry about him?"
He said dryly, "Call it a vested interest. That creep could be me."
From where he sat in the narrow confines of the cabin, Leo Bochner said, "In order to survive, an animal needs
three essentials; food, shelter and seclusion. It must eat, have protection against the elements and, because no matter
how strong or savage a predator it may be, it will need to sleep at times, and so be vulnerable." He helped himself to
some of his amber wine. "A pattern which any hunter must bear in mind."
Caradoc said nothing, sitting with his face shrouded in the uplifted cowl of his robe, his hands buried within the
wide sleeves. Bochner was a little drunk, or was trying to give that impression. If the former, he was betraying a
weakness which could kill him; if the latter, then he must again be trying to get information. An exercise which the
cyber would have found amusing if he had been able to experience the emotion.
"A pattern which has won me many a trophy," continued Bochner. "To learn the habits of the quarry, to trail, to
anticipate and then, finally, to close in for the kill." His hand tightened around the cap of the ornate bottle. "To win
and again affirm the superiority of a thinking mind."
"One fogged with drugs?"
"This?" Bochner lifted the cap and deliberately swallowed what it contained. "You object?"
"To your drinking, no. To the possibility of your failure, yes. Need I remind you that the Cyclan has little patience
with those who fail? That when you accepted your present commission you also undertook certain obligations? It
would be wise for you to remember them."
"Don't preach to me, Cyber!" For a moment the smooth, almost-womanish features changed, to become those of
a feral beast, an animal devoted to the kill. "The Cyclans have hired my skill, nothing more. And why did they hire
me? Why, with all the skills and talents you claim to possess, was it necessary to find another to hunt down the man
you seek?" Leaning forward a little, he added, "Can't you, even now, guess why Dumarest has been able to elude you
for so long?"
"Chance—"
 "Luck! The whining excuse of fools!" Wine gurgled as Bochner refilled the little cup. "Shall I tell you why? You
persist in thinking of Dumarest as a factor and not as a man. As a unit instead of a thinking, human being. You make
your predictions and assess your probabilities and point to a certain place and claim that is the spot at which your
quarry is to be found. Yet, the men sent there find they are too late, or get themselves killed, or discover that some
incident has negated your prediction. And still you haven't trapped your prey, and still you can't understand why."
Caradoc watched as Bochner emptied his cup and again refilled it from the bottle.
"Dumarest is a man, not a cypher. An animal with sharpened instincts and an awareness of danger. But this time,
he must know who is hunting him and why; an advantage he has which I do not. It would help if I did." Pausing, he
waited, and Caradoc noted the steadiness of his hand, the absence of glimmering reflections from the glass of the
bottle, the surface of the liquid in the cup. A pause which the hunter ended before it became obvious he waited for an
answer. "But no matter how clever he is, the rules apply to him as they do to a beast. He has the same need for food,
shelter and seclusion. Being human, all can be obtained with the one commodity—money. To get it he must steal, beg
or work. To beg would take too long and bring too small a return. To steal is not easy, and to rob others is to take high
risks for the sake of little gain. Therefore, he must work and where would a traveler without great skills obtain
employment in the Quillian Sector? Work which would provide all a man in his position needs? Well, Cyber, where is
he to find it? Where would he feel safe? Where else but among others of his own kind? Transients who ask no
questions, employed by those who regard them as nothing but a needed source of labor. A construction site—mines,
roads, buildings, canals—but where, Cyber? On which world?"
"Ealius. We arrive tomorrow."
They landed at sunset when the terminator was bisecting the single continent and tattered clouds hung like
shredded garlands against the darkening orange of the sky. Bochner paused at the gate as Caradoc went on his way,
asking for and receiving audience with the guard-commander, a burly, sullen man who softened as money was
pressed into his palm.
"Procedure? It's simple. We don't worry about arrivals and only test people when they leave. We stand them on
the detector and ask their names. If they lie, we hold them for further investigation. If they're on the list, the same."
"List?"
"Contract-breakers, debtors, those accused of any crime. We catch them, hold them, pass them on for
appropriate action. Dumarest?" He frowned. "No, no one of that name has passed through."
"How can you be sure? Are you on duty at all times?"
"No, but we keep records and I check the lists. Want to check?"
"I'll take your word for it. Sorry to have taken up your time."
"Dumarest!" The commander frowned, musing. "Wait a minute! Dumarest—that name's familiar." He turned to
where a man sat at a computer terminal. "Check it, Mallius."
A moment, then, "It's on the list, Commander. Man to be detained if spotted. An accusation of theft by the Hafal-
Glych made on the—"
"Never mind that." The commander looked at Bochner. "Satisfied?"
With the thoroughness of the Cyclan, if nothing else. The listing of the name was proof of the efficiency of the
organization—they must have alerted agents on every world in the Quillian Sector to keep watch for Dumarest. His
respect for the man increased as he realized what difficulties he had to face. Still had to face. A cunning and
intelligent quarry who should provide a stimulating chase.
Caradoc, sitting in a room in the foremost hotel, listened to what he had learned, then said, "Your conclusions?"
"Dumarest must be working for one of the construction companies here. Maybe the Fydale or the Arbroth—both
are large employers of labor."
"As is the Lenchief."
"You think that is where he is to be found?"
"The probability is high." Caradoc made a gesture of dismissal. "If you hope to gain your reward I suggest you
waste no further time. Contact me immediately if you have located Dumarest. Once you are certain you have found
the man I will give you further instructions."
Bochner drew in his breath, aware of the rage mounting within him, the anger which must surely burst to reveal
itself on his face. A rage triggered by the realization that the cyber had already assessed all possibilities and had
arrived at his decision without deigning to consult his partner. His anger was not helped by the knowledge that his
inquiries at the gate had been a waste of time. Why hadn't he been told?
Caradoc said, "You have the name of the company and can gain its location if you ask at the desk. They will also
arrange for transportation. Is there more you need before undertaking action?"
"No, I—" Bochner forced himself to remember that no cyber was ever sarcastic and that Caradoc's inquiry had
been genuine. "Aren't you coming with me?"
 "There is no need, in fact, my presence could be a disadvantage. In any case, I have other work to engage my
attention while you execute your commission." Again came the gesture of dismissal. "Please delay no longer."
Caradoc followed the hunter with his eyes as the man left the room. Bochner had mastered his obvious rage well
and that was to his credit, but against that was the fact there had been no rational cause for anger at all. Another
demonstration of the futility of emotion; the crippling reaction of the mind and body to external stimuli which
destroyed the sharp reasoning power of the intellect. Had he considered the Cyclan to be so devoid of foresight that
he had thought it necessary to question those at the gate? Had he no concept of the power of the organization which
had chosen to utilize his limited skills?
Yoka had chosen him, and the old cyber had long ago proved his capabilities. Yet, too much importance should
not be placed on past achievements. Age could bring more than physical decay; always there was the danger of a
mind affected by senility. It was barely possible that all relevant factors had not been taken into account when he had
decided on the use of Bochner. He would include the suggestion in his report. In the meantime, as he had mentioned
to the hunter, he had other matters to attend to.
A touch on a button and a man answered the summons.
"Master!" The acolyte bowed. One of two sent from a different world on another vessel—what Bochner didn't
know he couldn't guard against. "Your commands?"
"Send in Fan Dudinka."
He was of middle height, middle-aged, his face marked with lines of worry, his eyes wary even though his
manner was assured. The Head of the Essalian Group, which faced ruin unless the Cyclan could help them.
"Cyber Caradoc, it is good of you to receive me."
"Please be seated." Caradoc waited until the man had taken a chair. "As you have been informed, your bid to
engage the services of the Cyclan has been successful. Now it must be clearly understood by you, and those of your
group, that I can take no sides, that I am not interested in matters of moral right or legal wrong, that my sole function
is to predict the possibility of events resulting from nodes of action."
"And for that, we pay," said Dudinka. "But, unless we pay—" he swallowed, "for God's sake, what can we do?"
"The Essalian Group is composed of those who operate farms running along both banks of the Ess. The river will
be diverted once the major cutting into the mountains is completed. Once that happens, then shortage of water will
make the land unproductive." Caradoc lifted a hand to still the other's outburst. "I merely review the situation. Now,
as to what you can do—your major crop is the narcotic weed used by many of the workers. It grows quickly, cures on
the stem, can be harvested and shredded in a matter of weeks from initial planting."
"We could maintain production if we used hydroponic vats," said Dudinka, "but the cost would be prohibitive."
"And the returns nil. Once you raise your prices to compensate, you lose your market. Your problem is with the
company digging the cutting. They have no real need to divert the river and could avoid it by constructing an
appropriate channel. If you were to guarantee to meet the cost, the probability is ninety-one percent they would
agree."
"We haven't the money."
"You have the crop. You could sell it to the company at a set price and deny all free sale. The profits the company
would gain from a monopoly would more than compensate them for the expense of the channel." Caradoc added,
"The probability they would accept such an arrangement is in the order of ninety-seven percent."
A simple solution to a basically simple problem—the more so when already the construction company had
learned to rely on the advice given by the Cyclan. All would be satisfied and all would be eager, when the next
problem rose, as it would when the workers left when the channel was completed, to hire again the services of a
cyber. And the advice he gave would, as always, be slanted to dependency on the service offered by the Cyclan. Use
it and gain wealth and security, and who dared not use it when a competitor might?
And, once a dependency had been achieved, it was only a step to later domination.
"Master?" The acolyte was at his side. "Is there anything you require?"
"No." Caradoc rose from his chair. "I shall rest for a few hours. Should Bochner call, summon me at once."

***

Fifty miles from the town, the hunter walked through a man-made jungle of rips and tears and steaming mounds
of noxious vapors and tormented ooze, of patches of acid vileness and bogs of lurking dissolution. All construction
sites were the same; places where nature had been ravaged, the earth torn, the area despoiled in order to wrest
wealth or later gain with a casual disregard for the safety or comfort of those who toiled like insects beneath the sun
by day and flood lights at night.
A good place in which a man could hide.
 Or so a man on the run would think, not seeing beyond the immediate necessity of obtaining shelter and a
degree of anonymity. But, in such places, no man was ever truly alone. Always eyes watched him; those of the
gambling sharks eager to take his pay, of those who sold food and comforts, of the girls operating in the shacks at the
edge of the perimeter; raddled harlots together with their pimps and the sellers of chemical dreams. Only in a city
could a man be really alone, and only then if he had the money on which to survive. Without that, he would be forced
to work however and wherever he could.
"Dumarest?" The man in the office shrugged. "Mister, they come and they go—how the hell can I remember a
name? Check with the wages clerk."
"Dumarest?" The clerk scowled. "Do you realize how many we have working here? How long it will take me to
hunt through the files? They get paid on the first of each month. Come back then."
"Dumarest?" A guard rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "I can't place him. Say, why don't you ask among the girls?"
They knew nothing, and neither did the purveyors of killing delights. Bochner had expected little else. No quarry
of any worth would leave so clear a trail or make such a stupid mistake. But he picked up a rumor and followed it,
and spoke to a man who had a friend who knew a little more and who was willing to talk, once primed with a bottle.
"Dumarest? Tall, wears gray, doesn't say much? Yeah, I've seen him. Fact is, he got into a little trouble recently
and killed a man. A fair fight, so I understand. Didn't see it myself, but I know who did."
"Dumarest?" Carl Devoy was cautious. "Never heard of him. The man who killed Menser? Well, he did a good job,
the bastard asked for it, but I don't know who did it. Not Dumarest, you can take that as a fact. Who is he anyway, and
why do you want him?"
The official in the morgue was curt.
"Menser? He had an accident. What business is it of yours?" Money mollified his tone. "Well, I guess it would do
no harm to let you see him. You're lucky, we were going to dump him but the manager said to wait until dawn. He
wanted to get the doctor's report. No doubt about it—accidental death."
An accident which had ruined an eye, broken a knee, crushed larynx and windpipe. Bochner examined the
injuries, assessing the force which must have been used, the agility needed to escape the long arms. He checked the
hands, the nails with their sharpened points, the paste beneath them. An animal and a dangerous one—how much
more dangerous must be the one who had bested him?
Back in the town with a new day brightening the sky, he quested another jungle. One not as raw as the site, but as
viciously alive with its own form of predators. Men whom he hunted down with the hard-won skill, the cunning
learned over the years. Trees or houses, gutters or rivers, men or beasts, all were basically the same. Note your target,
wait by the water hole, watch the feeding ground, the accustomed trail, and then close in for the kill. And if money
takes the place of bullets, then it is that much easier. All it took was time.
"Hurt?" The man had shifty eyes which never stared at any one thing for long. "A friend of yours? Hurt, you say?"
"Cut a little." Bochner winced as he moved his arm. "A quarrel that got out of hand—you know how it is."
"A friend?"
"That's what I said." Again Bochner winced as he moved. "A good friend. I'd like to help him."
"Then take him to the hospital."
"Which has doctors who'd ask questions, and guards who'd ask more. Hell, all I want is for someone to bind up a
wound and I—my friend—can pay. For the service, and for anyone who guides him to it." Money sang its song of
appeal as he dropped coins on the table between them. From the far side of the tavern a man stared, then rose and
moved casually toward the door. Following the movement of the shifty eyes, Bochner said, "Him?"
"Yeah." The man snarled as a hand fell to grip his own as it tried to rake up the coins. To crush the flesh against
the bone until blood oozed from beneath the nails. "What the hell are you doing? My hand!"
"Him?"
"I—to hell with it." The man whispered a name, gave directions. "You'll find help there but if you tell who told
you—"
The man who had sauntered toward the door stepped forward as Bochner approached, fell back as stiffened
fingers slammed into the pit of his stomach, again where the heart beat under the ribs. A precaution—but no hunter
would allow himself to be hunted.
Afternoon found him with a woman who turned stubborn. At dusk, he had gained a name and had something
which was barely alive. Before he left the house, he had a name only.
Caradoc said, "You are certain?"
"I am sure as to my facts. But as you pointed out, there can be no such thing as certainty." Bochner was enjoying
his triumph. "I tracked him, do you understand? I followed his trail. From the site to the town, to where he went to
find help, to where he gained it, to where he went to find another."
"So easily?"
 "He was on the move and relying on speed more than covering his trail. He knew he couldn't do that. There had
been a fight and he had killed a man. After that he had to run." His laughter rose. "To here, Cyber. To this town. To a
tavern close to the field. A week and we would have lost him. A couple of days, even, but I was hunting him down.
Me, Cyber! Me!"
His pride was a beacon, a force which drove him to pace the room, to halt before the uncurtained window, to turn
and pace again before the desk at which the cyber sat with poised immobility.
"So you have tracked him down," said Caradoc. "You know just where Dumarest is to be found. All that remains is
to reach out and take him. Correct?"
"Not exactly."
"Explain." Caradoc listened then said, "The Belzdek—how can you be so sure?"
"The name the woman gave me. It was that of a captain, large Krell. The Belzdek is his vessel."
"And you assume that Dumarest must be on it?" As Bochner nodded the cyber added, "But, of course, the woman
could have lied."
"No!"
"What makes you so certain? Have you yet to learn that nothing is ever certain? How can you be convinced she
did not lie? After all, you could hardly have been regarded by her as a friend."
Tortured, dying—no, she would not have considered him that.
Caradoc said, "Assuming that Dumarest killed Menser, we have a time node from which to base extrapolations. If
he left the site immediately, he would have arrived in the town by sunset. Allow more for him to have met the woman
and be treated by her, more still for him to have gone to any rendezvous she might have arranged."
"To meet Krell."
"He or another. What is of more concern is the ship departures during the relevant period." Caradoc picked a
paper from a sheaf on his desk. "Five vessels left in the period between Menser's death and our arrival; the Belzdek,
Frame, Entil, Wilke and Ychale. The latter is an ore-carrier plying between Ealius and Cham on a regular schedule.
The Wilke is a vessel of a commercial line operating a circular route and touching at Ninik, Pontia, Vult and Swenna.
The others are traders going where the dictates of cargo and passengers take them." Caradoc lowered the paper.
"Well?"
Bochner said, thoughtfully, "Dumarest didn't pass through the gate."
"He didn't subject himself to the lie detector at the gate," corrected the cyber. "Which means he either smuggled
himself through or surmounted the perimeter fence. As that is watched and guarded by electronic devices, and as no
alarm was recorded, it is safe to assume that he left Ealius by deception."
"And he had to leave," said Bochner. "An animal on the run can only think of finding a safe place in which to hide.
Where, on this world, could Dumarest find that? After killing Menser, he would be marked for assassination by the
man's friends. Certainly he would have become prominent, and that would be the last thing he wanted." He frowned,
remembering the woman, her tormented eyes, the way she had spat before she had screamed out the name. Had she
lied? Would she have retained sufficient resolve? "The Belzdek," he decided. "I say Dumarest is on the Belzdek."
"Which left for Gorion as we landed. The Entil left the previous noon for Vult. The Frame earlier for your own
world of Pontia. Five vessels in all and the possibility remains that Dumarest could be on any one of them." Pausing,
he ended, "Now tell me, hunter, how would you find your prey?"
"Set traps. Radio ahead and—" Bochner broke off, remembering. "No," he said bitterly, "it's not as easy as that.
We're in the Rift. In the Quillian Sector. Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"

Chapter Four
Vult was as Allain had claimed: a mad world inhabited by the insane. In the sky the sun, huge, mottled with
flaring patches of lemon and orange, burned with a relentless fury, and at night the stars glittered like a host of
hungry, watching eyes. Stars which were close, suns which filled space with conflicting energies, radiations which
disturbed the delicate neuron paths of the brain, dampening the censor so that between thought and action there was
little restraint. A harshly savage world where only the strong could hope to survive.
"A bad place, and we've arrived at a bad time." Jumoke looked at the sky from where he stood, with Dumarest
and Dilys at the head of the ramp. "Look at that sun! An electronic furnace scrambling the ether. There'll be murder
and raping abroad. Be sure you're not the victims."
"Earl will see to that." The woman touched his arm. "Right, Earl?"
Her fingers lingered on the smooth plastic, a gesture the navigator chose to ignore if he saw it, but one Dumarest
knew he would remember if he had. As if by accident he moved away from the caress, looking down over the field,
the sagging fence around it, the cluster of people attracted by their arrival. One was on his way toward them.
"There's Inas," said Dilys. "I wonder what he'll have for us this time?"
Inas was the local agent, a Husai, his dark face adorned by the pattern of his beard. He touched Jumoke's palm,
nodded to the woman, stared at Dumarest.
"Our replacement for Gresham," she explained. "Any news?"
"With the sun the way it is?" Inas lifted his eyebrows.
"You know better than that, my dear. We can hope for nothing until the activity dies and even then the messages
will have to be decoded. You?"
"Nothing but static all the way." Jumoke stepped back and made way for the agent to enter the ship. "Anything
good for us?"
"A party for Ellge. They wait in town. Interested?"
"We could be, if the price is right and nothing better turns up. Still, that's up to the captain. He's in the salon with
a bottle. Wait a moment and I'll take you up." He turned to look at the others. "Remember what I said now, be
careful."
A warning Dumarest intended to heed. Even as they crossed the field he could sense the invisible energies
prickling his skin despite the protective mesh in his clothing, the gray plastic he had chosen to wear rather than his
uniform. It was more comfortable, offered better protection and the knife in his boot was a sign most would recognize
and be warned..
Dilys said, "How many worlds have you visited, Earl? I don't mean called at like this, but actually lived on for a while.
A dozen? A score?" She turned her head to look at his face. "More than that?"
"I forget."
"You didn't keep count?" She saw him smile and realized she was talking like an impressionable child. Well, he
had impressed her, damn him! "I suppose after the first dozen they all begin to look the same. Like women. Isn't that
so, Earl? Isn't that what most men think?"
"I don't know what most men think, Dilys."
"You must have heard them talk. Boast, even. About all cats being gray at night. Men!"
He said mildly. "Are they like that? Men, I mean. Don't they all begin to act and sound and look alike after the first
dozen or so?"
"How should I know?"
"You're a woman—"
"But not a whore!" Then, as she looked at him, her anger vanished and she smiled. "All right, Earl, you win. I
should know better than to talk like that. In our game, we're all the same. Sex makes no difference; we work together,
take the same risks and share the same rewards."
"You really believe that?"
"Of course. Why do you ask."
He moved on, not answering, wondering if she was being deliberately obtuse; if any woman with her degree of
femininity could ever delude herself that she was regarded as other than what she was. If so, Jumoke could educate
her; the man was obviously in love with her. A love which he seemed to contain, to hold in private, as if to expose it
would be to destroy it. A weakness, perhaps, but some men were like that; fearing to lose all if they hoped to gain too
much.
"Mister!" A man, young, barely more than a boy, came running toward them, his eyes on Dumarest. "You the
handler on that ship? Can you give me passage? Please, mister, can I ride with you?"
"Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere. Just as long as I get away from this place. Hell itself, if that's where you're going. It can't be worse
than Vult."
Dilys said, "We can carry you if you've got the price. Have you?" She shook her head as he mentioned what he
had. "It isn't enough for a High passage, but we could take you if you're willing to ride Low."
"No!" Dumarest was sharp. "No!"
"Why not?"
"You heard what I said." He took her arm and pushed her past the youngster, who stared after them with sunken,
desperate eyes. "Don't argue with me. Not in public. Not before that boy."
She said nothing until he had led her into a tavern and had ordered drinks. They were tart, strong, arriving dewed
with condensation and tinkling with ice.
Looking at her glass, Dilys said, "Why, Earl?"
"Why am I buying you a drink? Let's just say that I like you and want to be friends."
"I'm talking about that boy out there. You turned down a chance to make a profit. Why?"
 He said flatly, "Carry that boy and you'd arrive with a corpse. He hasn't the fat on him to survive. He hasn't the
strength. He's starved too long and worked too hard to get a stake and, if we take it from him, we'll be taking his life."
"A chance he's willing to take, Earl." She was stubborn. "A chance you've no right to stop him taking."
"Have you ever ridden Low?" The flicker of her eyes gave him the answer. "No. Have you ever opened a casket
and seen someone lying dead? I thought not. You wouldn't like it if you did. You'd like it a lot less if you knew, when
you put him into the box, that you were putting him into a coffin. Believe me, girl, I'm trying to save that boy's life."
She stared at him, her eyes searching, then she said slowly, "Yes, I really believe you mean that. You care about
that boy. But why, Earl? What is he to you? What does it matter if he should die while we carry him?" Then,
understanding, she added, "You. You're thinking of yourself when young. When you were like that boy, perhaps;
young and scared and a little desperate. Did someone save you then? Is that it? Are you repaying an old debt?"
He said bluntly, "I was lucky."
With a luck which was still with him. No message could have been received on Vult from Ealius. If the Cyclan
were on his trail, they were still one step behind—a distance he hoped to increase.
"Earl?" The woman was watching him, her eyes lambent, understanding. "Earl, you—"
He said, "Drink up and let's get about your business. We don't want Jumoke to get worried."
They had come to shop, which was Allain's work, but he refused to set foot on the world he had reason to hate,
and Dilys had volunteered to replenish the ship's store of luxury items and what staples were needed. Dumarest
followed her from the tavern into the commercial complex, where thick roofs of translucent crystal softened the glare
of the sun, and inset panels of variegated colors threw a multi-hued swath of rainbow brilliance over the covered
walks and promenades, the fronts of shops, the seats on which people lounged, their eyes ever-watchful.
They wore colors as bright as their sun; blouses and tunics set and studded with odd shapes of metal, stones,
scraps of quartz, minerals which glowed like fireflies—fabrics either dull or shimmering with chemical sheens, winks
and glitters and somber patches. They could have been clowns, but no clown came armed with spines and spikes on
shoulders and joints, carried knives and clubs at their belts, sported tomahawks, cutlasses, cleavers, helmets set with
slitted visors, trailing plumes. A populace armed and armored, touchily aggressive, watchful and radiating a feral zest.
If nothing else those inhabiting Vult were strongly alive.
Dilys sensed the atmosphere and responded to it as she walked close at Dumarest's side. Colors seemed to grow
brighter, the pulse of blood through her veins, stronger, the air itself held a sharp and virile fragrance. The scent of
violence, she thought, if violence could be said to have an odor of its own. The scent of physical bodies tense and
aware of the possibility of combat. The exudation of people who had to be constantly on their guard, constantly
alert.
"Earl!" A man had screamed from an adjoining way, and another had cursed as if with anger rather than pain. A
flurry, and they were past the opening, Dumarest not altering his stride, doing no more than glancing down the path
dimmed and shadowed with dusty purple light. "Earl, someone is—"
"We mind our own business. Is this the place?"
The store had thick windows meshed with strips of metal, doors which were held fast with electronic devices, a
floor which glowed with warning light, displays in which goods could be seen but not touched.
Assistants who were armed.
"Madam, sir, it is my pleasure to serve you!" The man wore a quilted jacket and pants puffed and bright with
metal. The helmet winked with polished gems and, as Dumarest lifted his hand, the visor fell to mask the face, the
eyes.
"My apologies." A hand lifted the metal screen back into place. "A misunderstanding.. The movement of your
hand—I'm sure you understand."
A hand which could have been fitted with a container of acid. A movement which could have sent it into the eyes.
"Your needs?"
Dilys produced a list and read off items, frowning at the prices quoted, altering, taking alternatives which, the
man assured her, were every bit as good.
"If they aren't, I'll be back," she warned. "And if I find cause for complaint, you'll lose more than our trade."
"If you are dissatisfied, then full compensation will be made. And for you, sir? Is there any item which arouses
your interest? You are a visitor, I know, but it would be prudent to display arms. A short sword, or, a small axe
balanced for throwing? A club, or at least a whip which can be worn at the wrist?"
And one which would stir the aggressive natures of all who saw it, inviting challenges and combats and bloody
meetings.
Dumarest said, "Have