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  "Down!" Dumarest glanced to the north, saw the sky filled with the onrushing fury of the storm, turned to look ahead, the ground below. "Down, you fool! Land while you've got the chance!"

  A chance lost even as mentioned. The wind hit them before the driver could obey, caught them, ripped the vehicle from any semblance of control. Turned it, tilted it, sent it rolling to smash in the streaming white hell below.

  Chapter Two

  Somewhere a man was crying; small sounds like the whimpering of a child, a lost, hurt and terrified sound. Dumarest heard it as he struggled from darkness, aware of cold and pain, a sticky something on his face. Cautiously he moved, felt a resistance against his leg, pressed and felt the barrier yield. Turning, he saw light.

  It came from one side; a pale luminous glow as of crushed and scattered pearls. A ghostly shine which revealed a battered shambles. Rising, he looked at a face with wide and staring eyes that rested on a head twisted at an impossible angle. The mouth was open in the parody of a smile, the lips curved in the rictus of death. One, at least, no longer had cause for worry.

  "Earl?" Vardoon calling from somewhere out of sight. "You alive, Earl? Answer me, damn you! Are you alive?"

  He was buried beneath limp bodies, his head against another, mouth pressed hard against matted hair. He groaned as Dumarest pulled him free, blinking, wincing as he touched his head. "What happened?"

  "We crashed." Dumarest looked at some of the others. Two were dead, one moaned from the pain of a broken arm, all were dazed. "Get up and help."

  He moved off as the man climbed to his feet. The raft had settled on one side, the canopy, he guessed, facing the west and the sun. A wild guess and unimportant; it was enough they had light in which to work. The driver was dead, lolling in his seat, neck broken, eyes still holding his final terror-a greedy fool who had risked too much and had lost the gamble. Flying an unfit vehicle for the sake of hire-money. Dead, he was beyond revenge.

  Dumarest pulled him from his seat and crouched before the controls. Lights winked as he touched switches but that was all. The engines remained dead as did the antigrav units. The heaters stayed cold. There was no operating radio and no emergency beacon. He knew there would be no emergency supplies.

  "Well?" Vardoon frowned as he heard the news. "No radio so no hope of rescue. So it's up to us if we hope to make it."

  "There'll be others." A man was reluctant to accept the obvious. "They'll find us."

  Dumarest said, "We must be covered in snow so how could they see us?"

  "We'll be missed. They'll come looking."

  "Like hell they will!" Vardoon boomed his contempt. "Who gives a damn about a load of scudgers from the mines? We make it on our own or we don't make it at all."

  Listening, a man said bitterly, "So what do we do, walk?"

  "We survive," said Dumarest. "That's all we can do until the storm is over. We strip the dead and get them outside and share their clothing between us. Is anyone carrying a bowl? Food of any kind? Liquor? You!" He pointed to a face streaked, like his own, with dried blood. "Find a bag of some kind, a container. Fill it with snow and bring it inside to thaw. The rest of you clean up this place. Move!"

  Later, as the light beyond the canopy dimmed and the temperature fell, Vardoon said, "What do you figure our chances, Earl?"

  "I've had less."

  "And survived, naturally, but how many of these could have done the same?" He looked from one to the other, silent shapes wrapped in clothing, huddled for mutual warmth, conserving their energy as Dumarest had advised. Some, numbed by their injuries, dozed with fitful wakenings. More were awake, engrossed with their own thoughts, eager for the escape sleep would bring but as yet unable to gain it. A few had succumbed and lay breathing with ragged echoes.

  "Well?" Vardoon asked.

  Dumarest chose not to answer. He eased his bruised leg and tried to ignore the throbbing of his lacerated temple. Small discomforts lost in the greater problem.

  There had been no food and only a small bottle of brandy recovered from the body of one of the dead. He had it now tucked beneath his robe where it would be safe. There was no other medication, no other source of aid for the cold and starving.

  "Thirty miles to town," mused Vardoon. "How far have we covered? Ten? Fifteen? Five? That driver! I wish the bastard had lived!"

  Dumarest said, "Call it five. That leaves one day's march. Call it two. Easy."

  "In snow God knows how deep. In freezing conditions. Without food or heat of any kind. With no way to guide us-Earl, why try to take me for a fool?"

  "Two days," said Dumarest. "Call it three. Once the storm is over we'll have the sun and stars to use as markers. Movement will keep us warm. There could be game-animals will be as hungry as we will be. Fur and bone will burn and we can make soup using the stomach as a pot. Have you never hunted, Hart? Used a sling? Killed and eaten a beast over a fire fueled from its body in a pot made of its guts?" He was speaking loudly, small echoes murmuring from the diaphragm of the canopy. "We'll make it easy. No trouble at all."

  Lies to soothe the listeners, Vardoon guessed, and he added his own. Not until the canopy had grown dark and the raft filled with an almost solid darkness did his lips find Dumarest's ear.

  "Have you been in a situation like this before?"

  "Yes."

  "I guessed as much. You knew just what to do. Now tell me the truth-can we make it?"

  "If you want to--yes."

  The will to survive was more important than food or fire-the determination to live which kept a man going long after he thought he would have died. Dumarest stared at the invisible canopy, remembering, knowing what was to come. Life now was measured in calories. Those carrying natural fat would have greater reserves than those who had starved-and too many had starved. The result of being stranded on a hostile world with no chance to build the price of even a Low passage. To ride doped and frozen and ninety percent dead in a casket designed for the transportation of beasts. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.

  He stirred, remembering the waking, the euphoria of resurrection. Remembering, too, the warped handlers who took pleasure in withholding the numbing drugs so as to listen to the raw screams attending the agony of returning circulation. The corpses in caskets at the end of journeys. The thin faces of those who had made it. The faces of those who had taken one gamble too many.

  In the darkness a man shifted and cried out, "Lorna! Lorna, my darling!"

  One man sleeping and one lost in dreams. Soon they would be nightmares and would come without sleep. A world of ice and freezing chill and barren emptiness-of hunger and growing weakness-but a world which had to wait until the fury of the storm had died.

  Vardoon whispered, "When, Earl? How long will the storm last?"

  "Go to sleep."

  "How long, damn you? How long?"

  It lasted eleven days.

  The wind had been kind. Toward the end it had blown snow from the wreck, allowing scudding clouds to be seen through the canopy. The snow had heaped high, providing a measure of insulation, but even so the cold had been too intense for some. As starvation had been for others. As injuries for even more.

  Of the fifteen passengers only six had survived.

  They made a small crowd on the mound at the rear of the raft. Vapor rose from their mouths to hang like thin plumes in the crystal-clear air. One called out as a fleck crossed the sky.

  "A raft! By God, they've found us!"

  It was a bird, as Dumarest had known. He stood a few yards from the others, examining the sky, the position of the sun. Iced snow made small crunching noises as Vardoon came to join him. The man's face, soiled, twisted, looked like a thing of delirium.

  "Crazy," he said, and jerked his head back toward the others. "Two are for heading back to the workings and the others want to stay here and wait for rescue. They figure on lighting a fire and making smoke. Can you talk to them, Earl?"

  "Can't you?"

&nbs
p; "I've tried but they won't listen. Those wanting to head back think they'll get a welcome if they make it. They won't believe they'll find nothing but barred doors and a bullet if they try to break in. The rest think rescue teams are out looking for them. They want to stay. The others want to go. Crazy, the lot of them."

  The result of darkness and cold, hunger and the insidious attack of delusion. The dead had been too many and too close. The dying had been too noisy. The smells, despite the cold, had been too strong. Half-dead to begin with, those who had clung to life were more than a little insane.

  One looked at Dumarest as he halted before them. "You with us to return?"

  "No! We stay!" A skeleton dressed in a mountain of rags waved a stick-like limb. "Stay and make smoke-the dead will burn. That's what you said, didn't you? Burn the bones."

  "Burn the bones and boil the flesh," said Vardoon, harshly. "That way you might just make it. Earl, I'm coming with you."

  "Any others?" Dumarest waited. "If you want to come along you're welcome but I warn you now: fall behind and I leave you. Fall down and you get yourself up or stay where you fall. No?" He gave them time to think about it. "Right I'm off."

  Vardoon fell into step beside him. He made no comment; the others, given their chance, had rejected it. He didn't even look back; there was no point. The dead would dispose of the dead and, come spring, someone might find the wreck and what was left of their bodies.

  "Slow down," said Dumarest. "You're walking too fast," he explained. "You'll sweat and the sweat will freeze and cost you body heat."

  Obediently, Vardoon slowed his pace. "Two days, Earl? Three?"

  "Why ask? You know the facts as well as I do."

  And could use them as well. Dumarest recalled some of their conversations, the hints the man had let fall, the small betrayals he had made. A mercenary, perhaps, but not for long and not where the action was most fierce. A guard at times, a bodyguard at others, an entrepreneur of a kind making a living how and when he could. The scarred face could have been repaired but surgery cost money and, perhaps, he liked to advertise. Or it could be that he just didn't care. The latter was most likely, decided Dumarest. A man too impatient to worry about trifles. One dazzled by some golden dream. If so, he wasn't alone.

  "Polis." Vardoon kicked at the snow. "What brought you here, Earl?"

  The spin of a coin, but Dumarest didn't say so. The random choice made when it became wise for him to leave a prosperous world. One too heavily populated for his liking. Once on Polis basic caution had dictated he conserve his money. The workings had provided easy anonymity.

  "Luck," he said. "All of it bad. A lying handler told me the ship was bound for Terren." Casually he added, "You know it?"

  "No. Something special?"

  "Just a place." Dumarest halted and studied the sky. "Which way now?"

  A test and Vardoon passed it. Without hesitation he lifted a hand, pointing to a low gap between hills, a little to the right of their present line of progress.

  "Through there," he said. "Then to the east a little. If we find high ground tomorrow we might be able to spot the town. Before that if a ship arrives."

  Or left, the blue shimmer of its Erhaft Field would trace a signpost in the sky.

  "And if there is no ship?"

  "Heat refraction. The damn place is sealed but no insulation is total and they have to breathe. At the right time of day we should be able to spot the rising currents."

  But first they had to get close enough. Darkness touched the sky as they neared the pass, blanked the skies as Dumarest found a declivity and burrowed into the snow. As Vardoon settled beside him, close for the sake of mutual warmth, Dumarest produced the last of the brandy.

  "One drink each," he said. "You want it now or save it for later?"

  "Now." Vardoon was emphatic. "If the skies clear we can move on. I had enough sleep back in the wreck to last me a month and if we get stiff it'll be hell easing our muscles." He took the bottle, hefted it, drank, passed it back. "I wondered if you'd have sense."

  "Equal shares," said Dumarest. He emptied the bottle. The brandy warmed but he knew better than to be hasty. Tired muscles needed time to rest. "We'll take an hour."

  Time for the sky to clear and the stars to blaze in swaths of silver glory. Brilliant points framing sheets and curtains of luminescence, the dark patches of dust clouds, the fuzz of distant nebulae. The galaxy as seen from close to the center was an awesome spectacle.

  "Worlds," mused Vardoon. "Planets of all kinds. With money you could live like a king. Good food, women, an army of your own if you wanted it. A ship to ride in-you got ambition, Earl?" He didn't wait for an answer. "All my life I've been looking for the jackpot. The one big deal which would set me up for life. As a kid I used to think it was easy but now I know better. The dream isn't enough. Knowledge isn't enough. You've got to have those you can trust. Men to stand beside you. Friends willing to take a chance. Friends !" His tone grew bitter. "Where the hell do you find them?"

  Dawn, and the pass was far behind them, the marks of their passage lost beneath the touch of a streaming wind. Ahead, snow devils rose to swirl in wild abandon while above, fragments of cloud raced across the sky. Dumarest increased the pace, careless of the sweat dewing his body. If the storm should return and catch them in the open, loss of body heat wouldn't matter. Within hours they would be dead.

  "There!" Vardoon lifted a hand, squinting against the wind which lashed at his eyes. "Over there, Earl! What is it, smoke?"

  A rising column of something, distorted by the swirling snow. A brownness against the white, twisting, rising to fall again.

  "Birds!" Vardoon swore. "Nothing but birds!"

  They grew clearer as the distance closed between them. Predators, wheeling, diving to rip at something, to soar upward, to dive again. A small flock ignoring the wind and snow in search of food. A good sign-such creatures fled for shelter at the approach of a storm. Dumarest studied them with narrowed eyes, at the point which they circled.

  "A raft!" Vardoon echoed his amazement. "A wreck. We weren't the only ones to be caught in the storm."

  It lay shattered, broken, metal glinting from the exposed engine. Dark spots surrounded it together with scraps of rag and metal. As they approached, the birds rose, wings beating the air, beaks gaping. Things standing half as high as a man with huge, leathery wings and curved claws as sharp as sickles, dulled now as were their cruel beaks.

  "Dead," said Vardoon. "They're all dead."

  Dead and reduced to bone, to grinning skulls and frozen meat. A score of bodies lying scattered around the raft where they had fallen when it crashed. Killed by the impact or hurt too badly to move. Even the barely injured would have had no chance. The raft had lacked a canopy and without shelter they would have been victims of the storm.

  As now they were food for the predators.

  Vardoon moved among them, looking, frowning as he moved on, halting to pick something from a corpse. A thin chain bearing a small locket which he tucked into a pocket. The trinket was of little value but would be worth a meal or a session in the baths. He moved on, halting to stare at a body.

  "Earl!"

  Dumarest joined him to stare at the drawn face of Wiess. He hadn't died easily; one leg was bent at an impossible angle and a film of blood coated his chin and the clothing of his chest. As yet he had been untouched but as Dumarest stooped to look closer a shadow drifted overhead, then joined by others.

  "Let's move on." Dumarest straightened and stepped from the body. Overhead the birds were circling, eyes like gems, beaks parted, the rustle of wings a thin keening in the frigid air.

  "A moment." Vardoon bent over the body, fingers searching. "He could have something of value. Check the others, Earl."

  The dead no longer had use for what they had owned. Trinkets, rings, coins, hidden wealth-all fruit for scavengers and life itself to the desperate. The birds circled lower as Dumarest moved away.

  "Earl?" Vardoon lifted his head,
scowling as he saw Dumarest leave the area. "They're dead, man," he said. "Why be so squeamish?"

  Caution had dictated the move. Dumarest looked again at the birds, at the man now centered beneath them, the predator who had joined the others. To the birds he was a rival robbing them of their prey and, starving because of the storm, they would not be inclined to yield.

  "Hart!"

  Dumarest yelled the warning as a bird dropped to attack. It fell with folded wings, a living missile, claws extended, beak closed and poised to strike. It hit as Vardoon straightened, missing his head but tearing at his shoulder, claws ripping the layers of fabric as if they had been knives. Opened, the wings hammered like flails and the beak struck to lift, to strike again.

  The blows missed the eyes but tore at the cheeks and sent blood to stain the chin, the cloth protecting the throat.

  Vardoon snarled, hands lifting, fists hammering, ducking as he avoided the beak and claws, slipping as the bird rose to wheel aside, to be replaced by another, more, a half dozen frenzied, battering shapes.

  "Earl! I- Earl!"

  Dumarest was already running, stooping as he ran, one hand dropping to the knife in his boot, rising loaded with pointed, razor-edged steel. Ducking his head he joined the other man, cutting, the blade stabbing up at a menacing shape, feeling the blow and rake of claws on his back, the rasp of a beak on his skull. Blood showered in a carmine rain as a bird rose to flap weakly aside, to fall dying on the snow. Bait for a cluster of its fellows but others remained. Dumarest heard the thrum of wings and dodged, slipping as he threw up his left arm, feeling the shock and jar as claws tore at the muffling fabric, the plastic of his clothing beneath, ripping it to reveal the metal mesh imbedded within. Protection which saved him from laceration if not from bruising.

  Recovering, he met the attack, dodging, the knife rising to send its edge against the long, scabrous throat-a cut which severed the head and sent the body flapping in a wild burst of reflex action.