Tubb, EC - Dumarest 13 - Eye of the Zodiac (v1.0) (html).html
Eye of the Zodiac
#13 in the Dumarest series
E.C Tubb




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 completedbut 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 isonce 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 moneywhen I get itcan I go with you?"
"No."
"Why not? We could travel together. I could help you, maybe, andwhy 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 guessor 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?"
"NothingI 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, worshipingI 
couldn't face it, I had to run."
"How?"
"Idoes 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 moneyan 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 madeand 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 Earththere 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 mountainshe 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 dangeron 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 himyou 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 bonusesyou 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 shouldernothing 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 Abanactbetter 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 Hyeadcheap 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 jobwhy 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? Nerththe 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 bottomsjust 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 ordershell, 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 falsehoodhow 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 reenforced 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. Tomorrowwho 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 anotherthere, but for 
the grace of God, go Ithe 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 exchangefood 
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 nameno, 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 
formulae. 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 situationsfragments 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?"
"Steadymove 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 mewe'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 truthfullyhave 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?"
"Ithey, 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 primitiveany 
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 boyI 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 landedhe 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 fieldit 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 workingsanother 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 knewsometimes 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 candyand 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 momentor 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 helptrouble?"
"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 foodcan 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 yourselfa 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."
"ButEarth?"
"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?"
"Fiveyou 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 toolsall 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 burnings 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 swinein 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 chronometersthe 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 
jeweleryyou 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 helllook, 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, boysbuy 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?"
"Nonewhat'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 traderor 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 othersthe 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 manmade 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 choresbut 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 entrepreneurI 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 farmeryou 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 upwell, 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 nameso 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 trapand 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 formulae, 
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 restand yet coincidences happened. Leon could have belonged to the Original 
Peoplethat 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 reenforced 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. 
Demarkations of the day which left the greater proportion of it to the affairs 
of business.
Businessthe 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 harvestit 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 StreetKinabalu 
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 withbut 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 bonusa 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 oneand 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?"
"Noare 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 badI 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 boneyou 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 womanwhy 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 sensualistor 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 honestythere 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 doesbut 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 forwhat? 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 uptilted, 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 requirementsif 
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 imaginationor 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 peoplenothing."
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 whichtell 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 scorebut 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 paranoidthat 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 failureand 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 beforewell, 
never mind."
"Before your brother fell ill?" A delicate way to put it, but he had no desire 
to be cruel.
"Yesyou 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 hadhurt 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 recoverregrowths, 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 younghe 
would have been much younger when he had left home. A few years spelled the 
difference between a child and a man. The nameChaque 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 womana 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 
hourthat 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 recrimation 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 
usbut 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 
attackone 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 buckbut 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 manbe 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 brotherhe 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 impressionwhat 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 guidewhy 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 windsit 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, cojoined 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 loaddump 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 imbedded 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 legit 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 machetesbut 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 thornit needs arid conditions. And see how those leaves reflect the light? 
What vegetation is that, Chaque?"
"Frodarif 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. Earlis 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 livesafter 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 fearthe 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 responsibilityto 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 speedssometimes 
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 fieldstwo 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 memorya 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 automarum, 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 waitthe 
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 returnno 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 
clearedthe 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 
possibleif he had come from the valley which lay beyond. If the valley was 
Nerth.
"Earl!"
He spun at Iduna's cry, seeing a multilegged thing, spined tail upcurved, 
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 putand 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 predatorsand 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. Strangersand 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?"
"Rilled 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 othersand 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 itif 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."
"Threeis 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?"
"Ilet 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.
Kindyet 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 maregood 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 menot 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 lockeda 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 Chamberwhat 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 strangerand 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 unknownand 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 
gonenothing 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 youfor 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 brainand 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 energyagain 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 menif 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 sisterwhy 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.
"Vargcan 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 
chittinous 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 doand 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 returnand 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 
hatewho 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 brotherI 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 moneywhat 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 pricealways 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 ruleyet 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 mountainssurely fate had guided him.
Orhad 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 largeand 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 valleyonce 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. Nerththere 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 courseyou 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 youyou 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!"


* * * * *

His 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, 
securityfor 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, LalliaI have reason to hate the Cyclan."
Hate, an emotion unknown to the cyber as were all others. Love, fear, pity, 
greed, ambition, hopeall 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 ityon 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 ithere 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, cyberif 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 sawwhat 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 ofthe 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 knowwithout 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 valleyyes, 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 soresthis 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 
numbersSinus 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 faceis 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."







