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  "Keep running! Move, you idle bastards! Move!"

  His voice was a lash to stimulate flagging energies. Santis responded to it, a reaction born of youth when he had trained on a parade ground. Kemmer responded too, from anger or simple fear. Both using the last dregs of their strength, making the last, final effort Dumarest had known was in them. One needed now to carry them over the sand toward the city.

  Again it blurred, vanished beneath a pluming cloud, reappearing for a brief moment, then disappearing as the storm broke and the world became a screaming nightmare.

  Immediately they were blind. Dumarest saw the outer layer of his transparency become frosted with the countless scratches born of the impact of dust and was too conscious of what could be happening to his suit. One weak spot and it would fray, yield, open to the storm. A stream of tiny bullets would blast in to strip his flesh as driven sand could wear away steel.

  "Down!" He shouted but it was useless over the roar of wind. Fumbling he hauled at the rope and felt another figure, the shape of a helmet. He pressed his own to it and yelled again. "Down! Get down!"

  He dropped without waiting, feeling the other join him, Santis, he guessed, followed by Kemmer. Beneath him the sand streamed away before the thrust of the wind but he dug, using both hands, making a shallow trench into which he lay. The others did the same, sand heaping on the windward side of their suits, shifting to pile again and giving a small measure of protection.

  Fumbling, Dumarest found a helmet and shouted as he made contact. "Carl?"

  "That you, Earl?"

  "Yes. Get hold of Kemmer. Lock him in. We may not get another chance to talk."

  When the storm gained its full strength, the wind, made almost solid by the dust it carried, became a smashing force against which it would be impossible to stand or even lie in one position.

  "We've got to reach the city," said Dumarest as Kemmer's helmet joined the others. "Get into the lee if nothing else. With it to block the wind we'll stand a chance."

  "For how long?" Kemmer was bitter. "A storm can last for days. We'll be dead of thirst before it's over."

  Santis, more practical, said, "Can you find it, Earl?"

  "I think so. It's big and, close to it, there could be eddies. They could guide us. Anyway, we've no choice. We find it or we die." He added, "Well find it. It isn't far."

  In the storm anything out of touch was too far. Senses, disturbed by the wind, couldn't be trusted. In the swirling dust orientation was lost and all directions became the same. Blind, deafened, they could only crawl and trust to luck.

  Dumarest took the lead. He kept low, equalizing each movement, jerking at the rope when he felt it begin to veer to one side. Santis, doing his best, becoming even more confused but, for lack of anything else, willing to follow. Kemmer, behind him, managed to keep in line.

  As he crawled Dumarest counted, measuring distance against time, setting an arbitary speed to his progress and allowing for error. If he'd guessed right they should reach the city before the sandblast of the storm tore too deeply into their suits. If his calculations were correct they would feel a shift in the direction of the wind as it was affected by the bulk of the complex; eddies which would give them further guidance so as to find the shelter of the leeward side.

  If he was wrong they would crawl for the rest of their short lives.

  An extra vicious gust and he was rolling, a sharp sensation of heat on one thigh, a burn which eased as he covered the place with a gloved hand. The material had been eroded and had transmitted the heat generated by the friction of the scouring dust. A weak point and there would be others.

  Again he moved forward, compensating for the roll, aware of the danger of overdoing it. A small error even when close could be fatal. They could pass the city at arm's length and never know it. And it was instinct to move away from the thrusting, dangerous pressure of the wind.

  The next burn came from his back where scales had rasped the suit when running with Hine from the tunnel. Dumarest turned to face the wind, fumbling at his helmet discovering that two of the overlays of the transparency had been shreded away. If the third went he would have to open his helmet in order to see.

  He turned again, trying to protect the helmet, moving on with his body pressed hard against the sand. Another gust hit him followed almost at once by another from a different direction. A conflict of forces which created a sudden vortex; a funnel enclosing a relatively calm area.

  "Up!" Dumarest hauled at the rope as he rose to his feet. The funnel could collapse at any time but he wanted to take full advantage of the freak occurrence. "Up! Get on your feet! Run!"

  The last overlay fell as he ripped it clear. Ahead now he could see a solid wall, sand drifted high, the shape of domes. The edge of the city and they reached it as, again, the storm closed around them.

  "Earl! I can't see!" Santis clawed at his helmet. "The overlays are gone!"

  "Feel! Maurice, look for a vent. A shaft of some kind." Dumarest lowered his hands from his helmet, the shielding gloves now worn paperthin. "There has to be some-the city has to breathe."

  To breathe and to discharge foul vapors. The underground layers needed air pumped down from the surface and that air needed to be drawn through shafts. Sealed now, perhaps, but seals could be broken.

  But where? Where?

  The blast of wind eased a little as they crept into the leeward side of the city, swirls and erratic gusts trying to pull them from the shelter, eddies which hammered at them with fists of dust. It was impossible to see, hard to concentrate, but unless they found a shaft they were dead.

  "Here!" Kemmer shouted from where he stood against a cylindrical protrusion. "Is this it?"

  His words were thin, lost in the storm, carried only by the taut rope linking them together. Dumarest joined him, Santis following, hands extended as he groped. His helmet was totally opaque. Together they searched for signs of an opening; a port or grill, a cap which could be lifted, a scoop to be forced. They found the outline of a flap facing away from the wind, a hinged plate now firm, too tightly fitted to permit fingers to be thrust beneath the overlapped edge.

  Stooping, Dumarest ripped at the material covering his right leg. Eroded by the dust, the suit tore like paper to reveal his boot, the knife carried in it. Snatching out the blade, he drove it under the rim and moved it until it hit the catch. A jerk and the flap was open: Inside was a circular space fifteen feet across meshed with thin struts.

  "In!" He guided the mercenary, his own helmet now frosted with scratches. "Keep hold of the struts and move from the opening. Now you!" Kemmer followed, Dumarest coming after, turning to close the flap. The catch was bent and he hammered it tight with the pommel of his knife. "Now down! Move down!"

  Down and away from the noise and fury of the storm. Down to where the space narrowed sixty feet down to half its diameter and where a wide ledge gave support on which to rest, to remove the suits, to relax in the knowledge that, incredibly, they were safe.

  The jeweler took his time; examining the items with exaggerated care, probing, using a lens to study detail. Watching him Ellain snapped, "For God's sake, man, why take so long? If you know your trade you know their value. What do you offer?" She frowned at the answer. "So little?"

  "If you wish to sell I could offer more. As a pledge-" He shrugged, a small, wizened man with old, cynical eyes. More than one attractive woman had come to him on similar errands and some had even returned to redeem their goods. "You will take it? Good. The name?" He paused, frowning. "Yunus Ambalo? Are you sure?"

  "I am pledging these things in his name."

  "And your own?" He smiled as she told him. "Ellain Kiran the singer? Madam, let me thank you for the pleasure you have given. I heard you at the assembly given by the Guild. That must have been shortly after you arrived. An event to remember."

  And praise which warmed her as she left the shop. A small thing, but artists lived on such, and somehow, it had taken some of the sordidness from the transac
tion. To pawn Yunus's things was a despicable act-but what else when she was so desperate? And it wasn't theft. She could argue that in court if it ever came to it. It was no more than a loan; his goods were safe and could be redeemed. All it would take was money and, if luck was with her, he need never know.

  A hope which died as, rounding a corner, she saw him standing, smiling before her.

  "I hope you bargained well, my dear." He took the tickets from her pouch, the money. "Why didn't you sell your own possessions?"

  She had and he knew it, knew too that the money gained had been lost. And now this. But why had he allowed her to stay in the apartment?

  The answer lay in his eyes, the curve of his mouth. A cat teasing a mouse, allowing it the pretense of freedom then to strike, to wound, and finally to kill. God, how he must hate her!

  She said, "Either call the Guard, Yunus, or let me go. I have things to arrange."

  "The Guard?" He shrugged. "What could I tell them? You pledged some trifles on my behalf. A clever move, my dear, to use my name so openly. Did I give you the idea when I mentioned certain items which could have been stolen? If so you are quick to learn." His voice deepened a little, became a feral purr. "And there is so much for you still to learn. To accept the fact that I am your master, for one. That what I wish you will do. That my command will be your desire. Think of it, Ellain. Our life could become so-interesting."

  One in which he would no longer trouble to hide the real side of his nature. He would become the pervert, the degenerate and she would be forced to cater to his every whim. To crawl and kiss his feet, the lash which he would use to beat her, the blood dappling her flesh. She had seen such creatures-despicable toys of the Cinque. Yunus wanted her to emulate them.

  He said, "Enough for the present. Let us make a short journey. I have some business to attend to and I'm sure you will find it interesting." He turned to signal a cab. As she entered he said, to the driver, "The Exchange."

  "No, Yunus!"

  "No?" The lift of his eyebrows was sardonic. "Would you prefer me to summon the Guard? On second thoughts I distinctly remember not having given you permission to pledge those items. In which case, once having removed them from the apartment, you became guilty of theft. Now, my dear, shall we go to the Exchange?"

  It was a place of whispering voices as dealers worked at their trades, relating lies, promises, bright speculations in figures which held blood, despair, broken lives. A large, vaulted chamber, the floor smooth and set with a pattern of interwoven lines of black against the dull ochre. The walls were painted with abstract murals, points of brilliance flashing with reflected light to give the illusion of moving, watching eyes. Benches set in long array and one end was occupied by a dais furnished with chairs and a long table. A busy place with cabs thronging the broad passages outside and with a constant stream of people coming and going.

  Some nodded to Yunus while others, too engrossed in business, failed to see him pass. Words hovered about them like a miasma.

  "… for twenty. Initial debt was for five but it climbed. No fault of the debtor-he had an accident and crushed a hand. He's healed now, a good worker and reliable for his wages. Young too. I'll accept nineteen."

  And would settle for less. Another voice, this time strained, desperate.

  "For God's sake, mister, I only borrowed a couple of thousand! I've repaid ten times that already and now you say I owe as much again. I'm doing my best but how the hell…"

  A question repeated from where others stood; couples, small groups, some arguing, others bland, confident of their power. Men who played a game with human lives as counters with no danger to themselves.

  "… old but going cheap. On paper he owes twenty-two thousand but we must be realistic. I'll take seven hundred and fifty. A good investment. You could farm him out and get your money back in a few months. From then on it's all profit."

  Unless the man died within a few weeks as was more than likely.

  Ellain turned away, disgusted, conscious of the fear which prickled her skin. Here was the place where debts were bought and sold and the final product of the system could be seen. A debtor was a free man. He could not be beaten, flogged, tortured but there were other ways of pursuading him to pay. And one sure way of making those who had neglected their obligations try their best.

  She watched as they were led on the dais; the weak, the stubborn, the lazy. Those who had tried to beat the system by borrowing to gamble and who had lost. Others made victims through no fault of their own.

  The tribunal sat and the formalities began.

  "Number 49," droned an attendant. "Has refused to meet his obligations for the past four months. Refuses to work as directed. Has been warned several times. No certified physical disability."

  The head of the tribunal, an old man, said, "What have you to say in your defense?"

  "I had a sickness in the stomach." Number 49 had a surly, disgruntled voice. "It costs to get treatment so I did without. And they wanted me to work down in the Burrows by a reactor. I've heard what it's like down there. So I refused. But I'll pay-I swear it!"

  "Unless you meet your next month's obligation you will be liable for eviction if your creditor so desires. The next time you appear before us you will be evicted without further argument or delay. Next!"

  A woman with an ailing child who stammered her excuses and promised to do anything to earn the money if only the court would show mercy. The court obliged. A moronic youth who grinned vacuously and was given another chance. A crippled oldster, obviously incapable of heavy labor, who was given none at all. Others.

  Too many others.

  Watching, Ellain wondered why they were so meek. Why so humble. They were facing personal extinction so what had they to lose?

  What had she?

  "Look at them, my dear." Yunus whispered at her side, his voice holding a chilling mirth. "Just remember that, if I wish, you could be there among them. Owned interest, the proof of theft, no prospect of an income-need I say more?"

  A statement of his position as it was a revealing of her own. She was as trapped as any standing on the dais; caught under a mountain of debt, prevented from working, unable to pay.

  And no one would be willing to pay for her. Yunus was of the Cinque and who would risk his displeasure? And who, of his own kind, would work against him?

  "The storm," he murmured again. "So old now. Who could possibly live in it? Poor Dumarest." His voice grew hard, ugly. "He certainly has paid dearly for his pleasure-you slut!"

  Chapter Twelve

  Before them something cluttered to run and crouch with watchful, wary eyes. A rodent, adapted to its environment, ready to defend itself if attacked. Dumarest ignored it as did the others. Vermin were to be expected among the sludge and garbage which was the unavoidable by-product of any city. In Harge it was collected in the Burrows; a multi-layered complex of thick walls, galleries, artificial caverns containing lakes of decaying sewage. Of necessity the city had to recycle its waste.

  But there was more in the place than the workers busy in the utilities, the rodents watching to snatch what they could find. Among the ramps and corridors, the junctions lit with cold, blue light were patches of darkness and shadowed enigma; narrow passages leading to empty spaces once used now long neglected. Areas made obsolete by the use of new, compact equipment, by-passed in lateral expansion, discovered bubbles which could not be fitted into the general plan. A world where floors and walls were slimed, thick with encrustations, mottled with pale fungi emitting a ghostly luminescence. Water seeped from spongy rock or lay in dew-like condensation on naked stone.

  A maze reflecting echoes. One which held the soft pad of cautious feet.

  Santis had caught the sound. He said, softly, "I get the impression we're being followed. An ambush?"

  Dumarest had also caught the warning signals. He halted, listening, eyes searching the gloom. To one side a patch of fungi glowed a leprous green. Others shone farther down the gallery, dotted up i
n irregular patches on the walls, some clustered to the roof high above. A narrow, wedge-shaped crack which twisted as it rose but rose only to descend again.

  "The guards?" Kemmer whispered the suggestion. "Could it be a patrol?"

  "No."

  "But-"

  "One pair of feet," said Santis impatiently. "That's all I've heard. No guard would be patrolling alone and whoever made that noise wasn't wearing boots. Quiet, now, and listen!"

  As yet they had avoided the guards and workers, not wanting to be checked or having to answer questions. Gaining time so as to move well away from the foot of the shaft down which they had descended. Time in which to rest and sleep and move on and up through the lower regions of the area. Time in which to realize they were completely lost.

  Dumarest looked at a patch of distant fungi. It had flickered as if something had passed before it. The occlusion could have been an optical image, the result of tired eyes, but he didn't think so. Someone or something was out there watching their progress.

  To Santis he whispered, "Stay here with Maurice. Pretend you are talking to me. I'm going to see what's up ahead."

  He moved forward, boots silent on the stone, stepping like a shadow from one patch of gloom to the next, halting often to merge with the stillness. The murmurs behind him faded as he pressed on, a susuration which lost form and meaning and became merely the sign of living presences. As, before him, he sensed another.

  Dumarest froze as, again, he saw the patch of fungi blacken to shine again. A guard? It was barely possible and if so the man could guide them but, if they were searched, the tranneks they carried would be confiscated as undeclared imports and they themselves would be fined or imprisoned. And, if a cyber were waiting, it would be to walk straight into his grasp.

  Again he saw the flicker of darkness, closer this time as if, whoever it was had grown impatient and was heading to where the men stood talking. Dumarest waited then followed, dodging the giveaway patches of brightness by stooping beneath them, running on his toes, hands extended, touching, folding to clamp around the figure which suddenly loomed before him.