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  "All right," said Dumarest. "I'll take your word for it."

  "They're good," insisted the boy. "Odd, maybe, but good. You just don't know."

  Dumarest smiled. "I'm a little edgy and maybe too criti shy;cal. You know them better than I do. How long before we leave?"

  The steward glanced at his wrist. "A couple of hours. Nimino will be back a good hour before then. Like to make a little bet?"

  "Such as?"

  "Even money that Claude doesn't come back empty-handed. Five stergols. Is it a bet?"

  "It's a bet." Dumarest looked around the cabin. "Now, maybe, you'd better leave me to check my gear."

  Alone, he tore the photographs from the walls, frowning at the lighter patches they left behind. A cabinet held a uniform and a suit of rough, protective clothing such as was worn by field loaders. Both were in stretch material, neither were as clean as they could have been. The uniform cap was battered, the visor cracked, and the sweatband stained and thick with grease. The late handler had not been a finicky man.

  Other cabinets showed a pile of books in plain covers.

  Dumarest flipped one open and listened to the soft ob shy;scenities whispering from the illustrated pages. Both voice and moving illustrations died as he closed the book and reached for another. They were all of the same type. A stack of recordings held cazenda music. A three-dimensional jig shy;saw lay in scattered pieces beside a chessboard and men. The pieces were of lambent crystal, intricately carved and of obvious worth. The board was an electronic instrument for the replaying of recorded games. A box held a few items of personal significance: a ring, a locket containing a curl of hair, a certificate issued by the medical council of Octarge, a pair of dice fashioned from animal bone, scraps and frag shy;ments of a man's entire life.

  Dumarest looked further. A small compartment held a hypogun-the butt worn and the instrument almost cer shy;tainly poorly calibrated. Boxes held ampules of drugs which could be blasted by air pressure through clothing, skin, and fat directly into the bloodstream; quicktime, slowtime, anti shy;biotics, compounds for the relief of pain, the bringing of sleep, and the ease of tension. A shabby case held gleaming surgical instruments, and a thick book was an illustrated medical manual. Obviously, on this vessel, the handler was expected to double as physician.

  Taking a handful of disposable tissues, Dumarest soaked them with sterilizing solution and swabbed the neck, wrists, and crotch of the uniform and protective clothing. Taking fresh tissues he wiped the sweatband of the uniform cap until it was free of dirt and grease.

  Satisfied, he stripped off his tunic. The light from the over shy;head glowtube shone on the hard whiteness of his skin, throwing thin lines of scar tissue into prominence over chest and arms. The hilt of a knife showed above the waistband of his pants, the nine-inch blade gleaming as he threw it beside the tunic on the bed. The pants followed, and he stood naked aside from snug shorts.

  Dressed in the uniform, he took up his own things, folded them, and stuffed them into a cabinet. Carefully he adjusted the uniform cap until the cracked visor shielded his eyes and then, after a final inspection, left the cabin and made for the section of the ship which was his responsibility.

  Like the cabin, it was as he'd expected. The banks of sterilizing ultraviolet lamps showed dark patches where units needed replacing. The caskets in which livestock were transported showed obvious signs of lengthy disuse, and several of the cargo restraints were inoperative. He paused beside the crates of machine patterns, checking the temperature against the thermostat setting. There was a three-degree difference on the wrong side and he changed the setting hoping that the cargo had not suffered damage.

  Thoughtfully he made his way to the salon. Here the passengers, if any, would spend their recreational time- which meant all of it on short journeys-drawing their ra shy;tion of basic from a spigot on the wall. That, at least, was functioning as it should and he drew a cup of the thick mixture, sipping the warm compound of glucose, protein, and vitamins as he studied the furnishings.

  "Pretty rough, aren't they?" Dumarest turned and looked at the man who had silently entered the salon. He was middle-aged, his face thin beneath his uniform cap, his eyes startlingly direct. The insignia on collar and breast was that of a navigator. "My name's Nimino." He held out his hand. "You're Earl Dumarest. The captain told me we had a new handler. Welcome aboard."

  His handclasp was firm, the skin dry and febrile. "Well, what do you think of the Moray?"

  She was a bad ship in bad condition. Five men were too few to crew such a vessel, small though she was. Main shy;tenance suffered and the outward dirt was a sure sign of inner neglect. Dumarest took another sip of basic and said, "I've seen ships in worse condition."

  "In a scrapyard," agreed Nimino. "So have I. But as operating vessels in space?" He shrugged. "There could be worse tucked away in some forgotten corner of the galaxy, but I doubt it. Certainly there are none in the Web. Each time we commence a journey we take a gamble with death and our profit, if any, is earned with tears of blood."

  "Then why stay with her?"

  "Why not? If death is waiting to claim a man-what dif shy;ference where he may be? And then again, my friend, per shy;haps, like you, I have little choice." The navigator glanced at the cup in Dumarest's hand. "Hungry so soon?"

  "No."

  "The habit of a traveler then," said Nimino, smiling. "Eat while there is food available for you never can be certain as to when you may have the opportunity to eat again. If nothing else, Earl, it tells me what you are."

  Dumarest finished the contents of the cup and dropped it into the receptacle provided. "And you?"

  "I am a weird, didn't Lin tell you that? I believe that there is more to the scheme of things than a man can per shy;ceive with his limited senses. Electro-magnetic radiation for example. Can a man see infrared or ultraviolet? Tell the presence of radio waves, of magnetism, of the ebb and flow of the energies of space without mechanical aid? Of course not. And yet still men deny that there could be higher realms of existence than those we know. You are interested in such things?"

  "No."

  "Then you also think that I am a weird?"

  "I don't give a damn what you are," said Dumarest blunt shy;ly. "Just as long as you're a good navigator."

  Nimino laughed. "At least you are honest, my friend. Have no fear, I know my trade. And I know the Web, which is a thing few men can say without boasting. As long as the generators do not fail, I can take the Moray where we want her to go. Unless fate decides otherwise," he added. "Against fate what chance has limited man?"

  "In my experience those who talk of fate usually do so to provide themselves an excuse for failure," said Dumarest. The banality of the conversation was beginning to annoy him. The navigator's place was on the bridge, for until he gave the word the ship could not leave. "And it is wrong to rely on superior powers. Even if they existed, it would be wrong. Wrong and foolish. I do not think you are a foolish man."

  "And I do not think you are wholly what you seem." Nimino smiled again, his teeth flashing in the cavern of his mouth, startlingly white against the rich darkness of his skin. "Certainly you are not a common traveler, and few handlers trouble themselves with philosophical concepts. But enough of this wrangling. We are shipmates for good or ill and we both have our duties. Until later, my friend. I anticipate many pleasant hours."

  Fifty-seven minutes later they left Aarn, rising on the magic of the Erhaft field from the ground, through the at shy;mosphere, and up into space where their sensors quested for target stars.

  Twenty-six minutes after that, Dumarest paid five stergols to the steward.

  Lin had won his bet. Claude had found them a passenger.

  II

  he was a round, sleek, yellow-skinned man of indeterminate age, who smiled often and spoke at length. Gems glittered on his pudged hands and soft fabric of price clothed his rotund body. His hair was a cropped stubble on the ball of his skull and his eyes, slanted like almonds, were
as watchful as a cat's. His name was Yalung and he claimed to be a dealer in precious stones.

  Dumarest thought about him as he worked on the caskets. Carefully he checked each connection and tested each seal, measuring the degree of chill established by the refrigera shy;tion, counting the seconds as the eddy currents warmed the interior of the coffin-like boxes. Several times he made adjustments, knowing that a human life could depend on his skill. Animals had a wider tolerance than men, but animals did not always fill the caskets.

  Claude entered the region as Dumarest straightened from the last of the caskets.

  "All finished?"

  "Yes." Dumarest handed the engineer the meters he had borrowed. "I'll check the rest of the equipment later. Can you make some more restraints for the cargo?"

  "Why bother? We don't carry much and what we do won't come to any hurt."

  "Can you make them?"

  "Later." The engineer leaned against the curved metal of the wall and blinked his bloodshot eyes. He had been drink shy;ing and his broad, mottled face was heavy with the red mesh of burst capillaries. "You worry too much, Earl. Elgart never used to worry like you do."

  "Maybe that's why he's dead," said Dumarest dryly.

  "He died because he was a perverted swine," said Claude dispassionately. "I've no objection to a man being a lecher, but he was worse than that. Once when we carried some animals he-well, never mind. He's dead and good rid shy;dance. Like a drink?"

  It was wine: thin, sharp with too much acid, the flavor indistinguishable. Dumarest sipped and watched as the en shy;gineer gulped. Behind him, squatting on thick bed-plates, the generators emitted a quivering ultrasonic song of power, the inaudible sound transmuted by the metal of the hull in shy;to a barely noticed vibration.

  "Swill," said Claude as he lowered his empty glass. "Some cheap muck I bought on Aarn. They don't know how to make wine. Now on Vine they make a wine which would wake the dead. Thick and rich and with the color of blood. A man could live on the wine of Vine. Live and die on it and never regret wasted opportunities."

  Dumarest said softly, "As you do?"

  "I was there once," said the engineer as if he had not heard the interjection. "At harvest time. The girls carried in the grapes and trod them beneath their bare feet. The juice stained their legs and thighs, red on white and olive, thick juice on soft and tender flesh. As the day grew warmer they threw off all their clothes and rolled naked among the fruit. It was a time of love and passion, kissing and copulating in great vats of succulent grapes, the juice spurt shy;ing and staining everyone so that all looked like creatures of nature."

  Dumarest took a little more wine, waiting for the engineer to extinguish his dream.

  "There was a girl," whispered Claude. "Soft and young and as white as the snows found on the hills of Candaris. We trod the grapes together and joined bodies as we mated in the juice. For a week we loved beneath the sun and the stars with wine flowing like water and others all around laughing and singing and laving their bodies with the juice. The harvest on the following season must have been excep shy;tional if what they believed was true."

  "Fertility rites," said Dumarest. "I understand."

  "You understand." The engineer poured himself more of the thin wine. "I did not. I thought she loved me for myself alone, not because she thought that a stranger would bring fresh seed to the mating, new energy to the fields. For a week she was mine and then it was over." He gulped the wine and stared broodingly into the glass. "Often I wonder if my grandsons tread the grapes as I did, if my grand shy;daughters yield themselves as did she."

  "You could find out," suggested Dumarest. "You could go back."

  "No. That is a thing no man should ever do. The past is dead, forget it, let us instead drink to the future."

  "To the future," said Dumarest, and sipped a little more wine. "Tell me about our passenger."

  "Yalung?" Claude blinked as he strove to focus his atten shy;tion. "He is just a man."

  "How did you meet?"

  "In a tavern. I was looking for business and he approached me. He had money and wanted a High passage to the Web."

  "It's just as well he didn't want to travel Low," said Dumarest. "He would never have made it."

  "The caskets?" Claude shrugged. "We rarely use them; the journey between planets is too short. Even on the longer trips Sheyan usually adjusts the price and lets any passengers ride under quicktime. The Web is compact," he explained. "Stars are relatively close. Anyway, we don't often cany passengers."

  "Let's talk about the one we have now."

  "What is there to talk about? He wanted a passage and could pay for it. He approached me. What else is there to know?"

  "He approached you." Dumarest was thoughtful. "Didn't you think it strange? A man with money for a High passage wanting to travel on a ship like this?"

  Claude frowned, thinking. "No," he said after a while. "It isn't strange. Not many ships head for the Web and those that do only go to established planets, the big worlds with money, trade, and commerce. From there shuttle ves shy;sels take freight and passengers to the other planets. Yalung wants to roam the Web and this is the best way for him to do it."

  "So he intends to stay with us?"

  "That's what he said." Claude chuckled as he looked at Dumarest. "He hasn't really any choice. I told you that ships are few in the Web. You could be stranded on a planet for months waiting for a vessel, and then you'd have to go where it took you. That's where we come in. Charter, special freight, speculative trading, things like that. We could may shy;be touch a score of worlds before landing at one of the big termini." His smile grew wider as he saw the other's expres shy;sion. "Didn't Sheyan tell you?"

  "The details? No."

  "He wouldn't. He needed a handler more than he needed to teach the innocent. But it isn't so bad. We'll get along and could even have a little fun. You'll get used to it, Earl. You might even get to like the life."

  "Like you?"

  Claude lost his smile as he groped for the bottle. "No, Earl, not like me. But then you don't have to be like me. No one does."

  No one, thought Dumarest as he left the engineer to his anodyne. Not Nimino who found his refuge in religion, or Sheyan who had his command if nothing else. Not Lin who carried a headful of stars and who looked on danger as a spice to living instead of the constant threat to existence it really was. No one needed to hit the bottle-but some shy;times it could help.

  Dumarest washed and changed from the protective cloth shy;ing he had worn while working on the caskets, changing into his uniform and the cap with the cracked visor. His soft shoes were soundless on the worn flooring as he made his way towards the bridge. At the salon he halted and looked inside. Yalung, the sole occupant, sat before a table on which were spread a handful of variously colored crystals. He held a pair of tweezers in one pudgy hand and his eyes were narrowed as if to increase his vision.

  He didn't move. Not even when Dumarest entered the compartment and stood at his side. Still he sat like a man of stone, not even his eyelids flickering, unconscious of the man at his side. He looked dead but he was far from that. He was living at a reduced tempo, the magic of quicktime slowing his metabolism and time-awareness to a fraction of normal. They had left Aarn two days ago, but to the passen shy;ger it was less than an hour.

  Gently Dumarest reached out and touched the pudgy hand, gently, for the relative speed of his hand could deal a savage blow. The skin was firm, more youthful than it seemed, the small indent vanishing as soon as he removed the pressure.

  Stooping he examined the scattered gems, noting the trapped fire smoldering within their crystalline depths, the perfection of facets and polish. They, at least, were genuine -as was probably everything else about the passenger. Yalung could be exactly what he claimed and his presence on the ship due to nothing more than sheer coincidence.

  Dumarest straightened and left the salon, making his way to the bridge. He knocked and entered when Sheyan growled a summons. The captai
n was alone, sitting in the big control chair, surrounded by instruments which did what no ordinary man could ever do. He looked very small in the confines of the chair, the box on his lap somehow seem shy;ing to accentuate his diminution. It was of metal, strongly chased and fitted with a combination lock. It could, prob shy;ably, be smashed open but never rifled without leaving trace. He clung to it as if finding warmth and comfort from the decorated metal.

  "You want something?"

  "The caskets are now fully operational," said Dumarest. "Some minor work remains to be done on the cargo re shy;straints, but that is all. Aside from a complete cleaning," he added. "I can't say anything about the rest of the ship."

  "That's right." Sheyan twisted his head so as to stare at his handler. "Your job is to look after the cargo, not to tell me what needs to be done. And a little grime never killed anyone yet."

  "That depends," said Dumarest, "on just where the grime is. I wouldn't care for it in an open wound, for example."

  "The Moray is not an open wound."

  "It isn't a very efficient ship either," said Dumarest blunt shy;ly. He looked about the control room. "Shouldn't the naviga shy;tor be on duty?"

  Sheyan reared up in his chair. "I decide who shall be on duty!" he snapped. "I am the captain. If you choose to for shy;get it just remember what will happen if I decide you are insubordinate." He sank down again, his anger dissolving as rapidly as it had come. "You don't understand," he said. "You're thinking of the big ships with their big crews and the spit and polish they use to run them. The Moray isn't like that. A little dirt doesn't matter as long as the generators aren't affected. More crew means smaller shares and they are small enough as it is. Just ride along with us as we are and you'll be all right. Try fighting and it will get you nowhere."

  Dumarest frowned, thinking of the man he had first met in the captain's office, comparing him with the man who now sat in the control chair. Physically they were the same, but somehow there was a difference. He had deliberately tried to ignite anger and had received, instead, a near apology. It was as if Sheyan had been cowed by something, his spirit crushed so that he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Looking at the vision screens Dumarest could guess what it was.