"Your ears need attention, my girl," he said. "Such a noise would earn you a beating if it woke your man." He caught her frown, the pucker of her lips. Irony was wasted here. "It was too loud," he said pointedly. "Far too loud. It could be heard all over the house."

  "I am sorry, master."

  "Sorrow mends no dishes," he said. "See that it does not happen again."

  "Yes, master."

  He hesitated, a little ashamed of his reluctance, then stepped to the open inner door and peered within. Nothing but the gloom and the solitary lamp glowing like an emerald in the shadows. At least she was still alive, and if he did not see her, he could cling to the illusion aroused by the music. The memory of love and beauty and wonderful grace. An illusion that a light now would totally destroy.

  Sighing, he turned away and heard the signal bell announcing the arrival of his brother and their guest.

  * * *

  Kramm lifted his goblet, drank deep, slammed it down and wiped the froth from his upper lip. A litter of gnawed bones lay on the plate before him. In Kramm the barbarian lurked very close to the surface. He snapped his fingers at a serving girl and helped himself to pastry. His laughter rolled as he held out his goblet for more beer.

  "Good food, good drink," he said. "What did I promise you, cyber? That and more, yes?" He drank, not waiting for an answer. "A warm room and a soft bed. Something to fill it and life is complete."

  "For some, perhaps, my lord," agreed Mede. He sat upright at his place, the remains of a frugal meal on his plate, his beer untouched. His cowl rested on his shoulders, its protection unnecessary in the heat of the room. In the light his shaven head had the appearance of a skull.

  "For all," insisted Kramm. The beer had edged his tongue. "Fill the man's belly, keep his body cool, his mind calm and you have a contented soul. You now—picking at your food, sipping water instead of good, wholesome beer—think of what you miss." He waved his goblet at the cyber. "But it's your loss, not mine. A toast," he roared. "To our guest. To the Cyclan!"

  A dozen goblets rattled empty to the board. Komis rose from his seat at the head of the table. "Many of our ways are without polish," he said to Mede. "But our welcome is from the heart."

  Mede bowed. "You are gracious, my lord."

  "We are grateful," corrected Komis. He resumed his chair. "For the help which you so freely offer and which we could never afford." He paused and the cyber picked up the bait.

  "Solis is a world with high potential, my lord. It may be possible to realize that potential. If so, it may be that the rulers of this place would be eager to retain the services of the Cyclan."

  It seemed logical enough and it was foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth, but Komis wished that the cyber had betrayed more of the human weakness inherent in men. He was too cold, too remote, too like a machine. But that, of course, the head of Klieg reminded himself, was exactly what the cyber was.

  When young he had been chosen. At early adolescence, after a forced puberty, he had undergone an operation on the emotional center of the brain. He could feel no joy, no pain, no hate, no desire. He was a coldly logical machine of flesh and blood, a living robot—detached, passionless. The only pleasure he could ever know was the mental satisfaction of having made a correct deduction, of seeing his predictions fulfill themselves.

  "Tell me, Mede," he said, more to put the guest at ease than from real interest. "You chose to ride to Klieg. Did you see anything which could be improved?"

  "I lack true data to make an accurate prediction, my lord Komis," said Mede smoothly. "But I would venture to say that the depredations of the threns grow at a worrying rate of increase. It would be a safe prediction to state that, unless circumstances alter, your herds have reached their maximum possible numbers. In fact, they are already on the decrease."

  "How did you know that?" Kramm roared from where he sat at the table. "How could you know?"

  "Your range is wide, your men few, the predators many. Any life-form given a continual and easily obtainable source of food will increase to the maximum numbers that food will support. Using the primitive weapons you do, it is impossible to kill them in sufficient quantities to control their numbers. They breed faster than they can be killed. You admitted that you could not destroy their breeding places," the cyber reminded the purpling Kramm. "The prediction then is simply a matter of extrapolation. Overbreeding will increase the attacks of the thren on your herds. Larger numbers will make them at first vulnerable, but those same numbers will cause greater depredations among your cattle. The numbers will thin and a balance be struck. But, always, the advantage lies with the predators. You simply cannot afford enough men to watch the skies. Only when the herd is small enough for your men to protect will the curve level out."

  "And how large will the herd be then?" asked Komis.

  Mede hesitated. "I lack data," he admitted. "The final size, however, depends on the number of men available for guard duty which, in turn, depends on the profit-ratio between horse and keep. If it takes the profit from ten beasts to keep one man then only one man at most can be available for guard. In fact the ratio is less than that because a man must sleep, be fed, housed, supplied with equipment. The ratio is usually two to one—two men working to keep one in the field."

  Komis nodded as Mede fell silent. The figures in the books lying on the desk in his study told the same grim story. Rising costs against lowered income and the more one rose, the lower the other fell.

  Kramm managed to find his voice. "Primitive weapons!" he shouted. "I can pick the eye from a thren at a hundred yards. More. You object to my using a rifle?"

  Mede's voice remained the same even modulation. "I do not object, my lord. I do not oppose. I do not aid. I take no sides. I am of value only while I remain detached. I advise; nothing more."

  Komis waved his brother to silence. "What do you suggest we do?"

  "The life cycle of the thren should be thoroughly checked to see that it is not essential to the ecology of the planet. If it is not, then radioactive dusts should be scattered on the nesting sites."

  Kramm snorted. "Radioactive dusts cost money, cyber."

  "The outlay would be recovered by stock not lost, my lord. By men not wasted in searching the clouds."

  Komis rose, ending the discussion. "It is late," he announced. "You have ridden far and must be tired. Kramm, show our guest to his room."

  He was alone when Kramm returned, sitting at the head of the table, staring thoughtfully into space. He rose and together they mounted the stairs to where the sea-sound and sea-scent swept through the pillars of the open-sided room. Kramm glanced at the closed door behind which a girl sat in attendance.

  "The same?"

  Komis nodded.

  "I would go in but—" Kramm shook his head. "On the way here," he said, "riding through the valley, I thought of her. It used to be her favorite place." His hands closed, knotted. "Keelan," he said. "Our sister."

  Leaning on the parapet, he stared down into darkness, down to where the surge and suck of waves washed the granite teeth of the rocks far below.

  Chapter Six

  A VEINED DISC shattered, became eyes, nose, a mouth and graduated chins. A voice like the shrill squeak of slate dragged over a nail. "… teach you to obey! You ain't no kid of mine, so don't go thinking you are! Young varmint! Take that… and that… and…"

  The woman vanished. Light splintered into a new visage: rheumy eyes, slack mouthed, spittle drooling from a slimy beard. "… never been right since his folks died. Shouldn't have taken him in but figured give him chance to earn his keep. Only thing now is to thrash sense into him or sell him to farm. Sell… sell… sell."

  The impact of blows, the pain, the rising red tide of murderous anger. Scenes jumped like a tape skittering in its guide: red desert, white moonlight, the yellow flicker of dancing flame. Taste sensations: the sting of spines, the sweetness of water, the rich soup of blood, the stringy chewsomeness of freshly killed meat. Mental emotion images: loneliness and fear and constant alertness. Physical discomfort. Fear. Hunger. Pain. Fear. Loneliness. Hunger. Fear. Hunger. Hunger.

  A spaceship like a glittering balloon dropping from the skies.

  Furred beasts. Rabbits. Rats. Snarling dogs. Scaled things: lizards, snakes, creatures which spat. Spiders and beetles and things that scuttled and lurked beneath stones.

  Hunger. Thirst. Hunger. Thirst. Hunger. Hunger. Hunger.

  Another ship falling like a spangled leaf.

  "No!" said Dumarest. "No!"

  Hands gripped his shoulders, hard, firm; stroboscopic light flashed into his eyes. The tang of something acrid strutted his reeling senses.

  Dumarest gasped. "What—?"

  "You were dreaming," said a voice. "You are all right now."

  The hands fell away, the flashing died, a cabin swam into view. Metal and crystal and sterile plastic. Cabinets and familiar machines. A man with a smooth round head and a tunic of medical green neatly closed high around his throat. He smiled as Dumarest struggled to sit upright.

  "You can relax now," he said. "You've got nothing to worry about. A little disorientation but that will pass. Will you answer a question?"

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Your dreams. They were of the past, when you were very young. Right?"

  Dumarest blinked his surprise at the question. "Yes."

  "It's always the same," said the man. "You had prepared for death," he explained. "Logically you could expect nothing else, but you have a strong survival factor and your ego, in trying to avoid extinction, sought escape in the past." He shrugged. "It happens all the time. The ones I worry about are those who don't dream at all."

  "Then don't worry about me," said Dumarest. He looked around the room. "Where is she?"

  "The girl?" The medic pointed to a screen. "She's taking her time about rejoining the human race, but she'll make it." He caught Dumarest by the arm as he stepped toward the screen. "I said that she'd make it."

  Dumarest jerked free his arm and swept aside the screen. Kalin lay supine, the light gleaming from her golden tunic, glowing warm in the mane of her hair. For a moment he thought she was dead, then he saw the slow rise of her chest, saw the pulse of blood in the great arteries of her throat.

  "I told you that she was all right," said the medic. "She's just a little slow in snapping out of it." He reached forward and gently slapped her cheek. "How much sleepy-dope did you give her?"

  " How do you know I gave her any ?"

  "I saw you brought in. There were empty ampules by your hand and, anyway, who else would have given her medication?" The medic's voice held impatience. "Well, how much did you give her?"

  "A couple of shots."

  "And quick-time?"

  "A regular dose."

  "That's what I figured. Well, a little stimulation won't do any harm." The medic triggered his hypogun. Eyelashes lifted from pearl-like cheeks as the green eyes opened. They were blank windows without expression or recognition.

  "Kalin!" Dumarest stooped over her, his shadow darkening her face. "It's all right," he said. "We've been picked up and we're both alive and well."

  She blinked and opened her mouth as if to scream. Then, suddenly, the eyes snapped to full life. She lifted her arms and closed them around his neck.

  "Earl, darling! Earl!"

  "Steady," he said gently. "Steady."

  She blazed with the joy of resurrection, the realization that she was alive and safe and had nothing to fear. He knew how she felt. How everyone traveling Low felt when the needles bit and the eddy currents warmed and the caskets opened like a reluctant grave.

  A buzzer sounded from a speaker set high against a wall. A warm, lilting voice followed the discordant note. "Medical?"

  The medic looked at the instrument. "Sir!"

  "How are your patients? Are they recovered yet?"

  "Almost, sir."

  "Send them to me immediately they are able to walk."

  The medic shrugged as he met Dumarest's eyes. "You heard the man."

  "I heard him." Dumarest helped the girl from the couch, gripped her hand as she stood at his side. "Are you going to tell us what happened or do you want to leave it to the boss?"

  "As you say," said the medic dryly. "He's the boss."

  * * *

  He wore blue and green with touches of yellow and points of scarlet. A slim, long-faced man with jet black hair and fingers richly crusted with gems. He lounged in a chair behind a wide desk made of shimmering crystal: on the surface of it mechanical chessmen went through the maneuvers of a recorded game.

  He looked a little like a clown, a dandy, a spoiled darling of a favored world. He smiled as they entered and gestured to chairs. "Be seated," he said. "My name is Argostan. Yours?"

  Dumarest gave them.

  "You are curt," said Argostan. "You give me your names and nothing more. Have you no home? No family? No business?"

  "We are travelers," said Dumarest. "Of no settled world."

  "You perhaps," said the gaudily dressed man. His eyes glowed as he looked at the girl. "You bear the mark of a hundred suns, but Kalin? She is no traveler. A gypsy, perhaps. A star gypsy. Have you known each other long?"

  "Long enough," she said, and gripped Dumarest by the arm.

  Argostan smiled. "So you have formed an attachment? That is good. I like to see people who have a meaning for each other. Life is barren unless there is someone to share its pain and pleasure. You will join me in wine?" He passed them glasses without waiting for an answer and lifted his own. "A toast," he said. "Let us drink to the combination of favorable circumstances known as luck. Good luck," he emphasized. "Let us drink to that."

  The wine was sweet, slightly astringent, delicately flavored.

  "If you took all the luck that is due to a normal man," mused Argostan, "multiplied it by a factor of ten to the tenth power and then doubled it to embrace you both, you would have used it all in one go. Can either of you imagine the odds against having been rescued?"

  "Yes," said Dumarest flatly. "I can."

  Argostan looked at him sharply. "Tell me what happened," he said. "Omit no detail." He blinked when Dumarest had finished and slowly poured them all more wine.

  "There was an accident," he said. "The engineer managed to give warning that the engines were about to explode. You were fortunate in that you were being shown the emergency sac by the steward. Before you knew it, he had thrust you inside and tripped the release."

  "We were lucky," said Dumarest.

  "More than you can possibly realize." Argostan sipped a little wine. "Had I been in your position, I would have chosen to remain with the vessel. At least it would have been a quick death. To drift, sealed in that plastic bag, aware of the incredibly hopeless chance of rescue—" He shook his head. "You made a brave decision."

  "We had no chance to make any decision at all," corrected Dumarest sharply. "As I told you, the steward acted on his own volition." He lifted his own glass, sipped, set it down. "It is needless for me to express our thanks to you for having saved our lives. You must know how we feel. Nothing could ever express our appreciation."

  "Nothing?" Argostan lifted his eyebrows. "Well, perhaps not." He finished his wine and stared somberly at the maneuvering chessmen. "My captain caught the signal of an explosion on his instruments. He reported it and I was curious. I ordered a search. The beacon of your' sac registered and we found you." He smiled. "Put like that, how simple it seems. But how many million cubic miles of space did we comb? The time wasted we can calculate, the expense, but never those reaching miles of emptiness. A less patient man would have abandoned the search long before you were found."

  A silence fell, broken only by the small sounds made by the mechanical chessmen. A bishop swept toward a rook and took its place. A pawn left the board. A knight sprang into a new position. The black queen moved relentlessly toward the white king.

  "You are trying to say something," said Dumarest. "I fail to discern what it is."

  "Really? I would not have taken you to be an obtuse man." The dandy delicately touched his lips with a scrap of lace. "I am in business," he said. "I buy and I sell, and if I cannot buy, I take. We are heading for Chron. Need I say more?"

  Kalin sensed the tension. The grip of her fingers matched the urgency of her voice. "Earl. What does he mean?"

  "Chron is a mining world," said Dumarest shortly. "Only some factors and supervisors go there willingly. There are some stranded travelers. The rest are slaves."

  He heard the sudden intake of her breath, the hiss of comprehension.

  "That's right," he said. "Our rescuer is a slaver."

  "It is a business," said Argostan. For him the word held no insult. For those needing labor on Chron, the same. It was, as he said, a simple matter of supply and demand. "And I am sure you can appreciate my position. You are worth money." His eyes rested on the girl. "Much money. I cannot neglect the opportunity. And do not be so unfair as to begrudge me a share of your good fortune. If it were not for me, you would be dead. Dust among the stars. Logically, then, surely your lives are mine?"

  Dumarest restrained the impulse to throw himself at the dandy's throat. He would be lucky to reach the desk. Automatic weapons would be trained on where he sat. Instead he forced himself to smile. "As a man of business I assume that you are open to an offer?"

  Argostan smiled. "A philosopher! This is an unexpected pleasure!"

  "I am a realist. How much would you charge me for two High passages to Chron?"

  The slaver pursed his lips. "You are strong," he said. "The girl is desirable. Pay me what you would fetch and you arrive free. I keep my word," he added. "You need have no fear of that."

  Dumarest rose, stripped off his tunic, bared his left arm. "You have a banking machine?"

  It was a foolish question. Any man in Argostan's trade would need instant banking facilities. The desk opened, revealing a machine with a panel and a gaping hole. Without hesitation, Dumarest thrust his arm into the orifice. Clamps seized the limb; electronic devices scanned the metallic inks of the tattoo set invisibly below the skin. A forgery would have resulted in a gush of incinerating flame. That tattoo was genuine. A signal lamp flashed green on the panel as figures showed the amount of credit signified by the brand.