Dumarest said, "Money—you've got no money."

  "That is correct."

  "But you have estates, fields—"

  "Wealth isn't fruit you pluck from a tree, my friend." The old, thin voice was bitter. "It comes from profit and that is wrung from the sweat of labor. And, if you have no labor?"

  "You've people." Dumarest looked at his glass, the dregs of emerald wine. "Young men and women."

  "None of whom are willing to work. Some small tasks they cannot avoid but even those they try to pass on. You wondered what took me so long to get here? To greet my niece? Perhaps you thought I didn't care." Jarvis looked at the hand lying before him on the desk, the thin fingers clenched to show the strained skin, the gleam of bone. "My own sister's child," he said quietly. "An orphan now that her mother is dead. Would you believe that she has never asked after her? After the mother who bore her— the woman she helped to kill!"

  Dumarest said nothing, waiting.

  "We searched," said Jarvis after a moment. "I looked until I could look no more and Marie drove herself too far beyond the edge of exhaustion. The word came later—she had been seen on the field just before a ship left for Cenalas. Mervin was dead and I was too old to travel and who else was willing? So there was nothing to do but wait."

  Wait and pray and hope against hope that, one day, word would come that she was alive and well and if nothing else that would have been enough. Dumarest looked again at his glass, thinking of the unthinking cruelty of youth. Was cruelty born of ignorance worse than that created by disregard? What had made the girl run?

  A question he asked as he helped himself to more wine.

  "Nothing." Jarvis spread his hands as he recognized the stupidity of the answer. "That is nothing external—she was not beaten or bullied or denied in any way. I doubt if she even ran as you are using the word. She just left when the chance presented itself. A mood. A momentary whim—God, man, can't you understand?"

  A step into an enticing parlor there to be caught by the web of circumstance. A journey to be paid for and, after the landing, food and shelter to be gained. A young and nubile girl lacking any practical skill and experience— helpless prey for waiting harpies.

  Dumarest said, "The purchase price I mentioned was to free her from her labor contract; she had been indentured to a governess to help in a managerial household. The woman who accompanied her told me she'd been working in a hospital after being admitted for therapeutic care. They indentured her to offset accumulated medical debts over and above those canceled by her labor."

  A lie which Jarvis wanted to hear. He said, "I owe you much, Earl. No—you've had enough of that wine. Here, try some of this and I will join you." He produced a bottle, sealed, containing a clear amber fluid. "Your health!"

  After the other it was tart, stimulating.

  Dumarest said, "You were born on this world?"

  "Yes." Jarvis blinked as Dumarest asked the questions he had put to Isobel. "A scholar? Someone interested in antiquities and legends? No, Earl, I know no one of such a nature, but that means nothing. I rarely leave the house and was away when you arrived only to arrange for workers to tend the harvest. Fruit," he explained. "A cross from mutated hybrids. My father put them in when a young man and each day I thank him for his foresight. It could be the last trip I shall make."

  "You give up too easily," smiled Dumarest. "You're not that old."

  "Perhaps, but age is not the only reason. The raft flew erratically as you may have noticed. The driver is working on it but repairs take time and may be impossible. In the meantime you are my guest." Jarvis sipped at his wine. "Earl, about your expenses. I can offer you a home for as long as you want it. A share in all we have. All the comforts to be gained." His tone revealed he knew of Selina's activities. "But I can't give you money. It would give me comfort to know that you understand."

  An old man clinging to his pride, watching the slow decline of his house, his family. Dumarest said, "I understand. Just arrange for me to get back to town."

  As a driver the man was bad, as an engineer he was hopeless. Dumarest looked at the raft, the covers removed from the engine and left to one side. The power unit itself hadn't been touched. How long had it been? Three days? Four?

  He frowned, trying to remember, but the need for urgency escaped him. A day, two days, what did it matter? But the mess annoyed him; no machinery should be left that way. On impulse he went in search of the mechanic. He was lying beneath a flowering bush, a girl beside him, another feeding him wine.

  He blinked as Dumarest loomed above him.

  "Earl! You want something?"

  "You said the raft would be ready today."

  "Did I?" Boyce shook his head. "I'll get around to it later."

  "When?"

  "Later." He ran a hand over the thigh of the girl at his side. "There's no hurry."

  A sentiment echoed by Selina when, later, they rested in relaxed abandon on his bed.

  "You don't have to leave, Earl. I don't want you to leave." She smiled and snuggled close. "Let the raft wait."

  As Zalman could wait. Zalman! Dumarest had forgotten the man but what did it matter? Even so the condition of the raft had annoyed him. Mtouba could be contacted and a vehicle sent out but that would mean expense and that was something he couldn't afford. The raft—it had to be the raft.

  "Tomorrow," murmured the girl when he said so. "You can look at it tomorrow."

  "Me?"

  "Boyce, then, if he gets around to it. Earl, come closer. Closer." She sighed as she pressed herself against him. "That's better. Why worry about that old raft when there are so much nicer things to do?" Her lips were moist against his own. "Like that." Her hands moved. "And like this." Flesh slid smoothly over his own. "And like this, darling. We'll fly later."

  He said, remembering, "When there is color?"

  "What?"

  "Something the Hausi said about there being color in the sky. Maybe we could see it."

  "Fly into it, you mean?" She reared from where she lay against him, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Earl, that's wonderful! I've never done that. We'll do it together. We'll go up and up and right into the colors and—when, my darling? When?"

  "As soon as the raft is ready. You'll help me?"

  "Yes! Yes! I'll offer to do all his chores if he gets it ready in time. How long do we have? Two days?" She frowned, then her face cleared. "It doesn't matter. But you'll take me with you, Earl? You promise?"

  She was a child begging a treat, smiling even wider as he nodded, bending forward to kiss him, to hide his face in the thick, dark veil of her hair. And then, all at once, she wasn't a child any longer but a grown and demanding woman.

  "Earl!"

  A thing of softness and warmth as Isobel had been— why did he think of her? She had been driven by inner hurt and aching loneliness, emotions using her body to gain relief, those same emotions converting a simple act of copulation into something verging on the mystical. An ecstasy so intense it had become a thing apart; the act itself an accompaniment rather than the nexus.

  "Earl!" Selina was demanding. "Earl—please!"

  He rose, pushing her from him, rising to cross the room and stare through the window at the night beyond. Had she regretted it? Did she now feel cheapened, ashamed? Had he been kind in leaving her as he had? Did he care?

  The night held smells; the odor of growing things, perfume from the flowers, the brine scent from the sea. Above blazed a host of stars and, even as he watched, a trail of fire crossed the heavens. A meteor—but it could have been a ship. How long had he stayed here? What had happened to the hours? The days? Why did he still remain?

  He heard a rustle from behind him and a liquid gurgling. Selina came to stand beside him, glasses in her hand. She handed him one and he saw the glint of sparkles swirling in the liquid, tiny gems illuminated by starlight.

  "Tomorrow," she whispered. "Worry about it tomorrow."

  A new day and a new resolve. The raft to be repaired and a promise to be kept. Tomorrow—or the day after— the wine coated his mouth with sweetness.

  And, after the wine, came her kisses.

  Chapter Eight

  At first there had been hope, then hurt, now there was only a dull resignation. She had loved and lost—would it have been better not to have loved at all? To have loved in a way unknown with Rudi who had always treated her as if she had been made of fragile glass. And Dumarest had surprised her. A hard, ruthless man. A trained fighter, a killer, a barbarian according to her previous standards, one whom she would have sworn would be rough and selfish, uncaring for anything other than the satisfying of his need. Yet there had been none of the assumed brutality. Instead there had been gentleness and consideration—the man had cared.

  Memory created a resurgence of desire and again she felt the touch of his skin, smelt the odor of him; the reek of a man who had fought and shed blood—a warrior male exuding basic pheromones to which she had responded. He had fought for her—how could she have denied him the fruits of victory?

  A justification and one which sent her from the bed to stand beneath the thrusting stream of the shower. A hot stream; at least the solar unit was still in working order, and she reveled in it, turning to feel its impact on breasts and buttocks, on belly and back. How could she have been so weak?

  Rudi would have had the answer and she could imagine him delivering it had he been alive and she confessing.

  "Abstinence, my dear, a simple matter of basic hunger. A starving man will eat and pay no attention to the quality of the food. You were hungry and needed to be fed. Don't worry about it."

  Don't worry, but Rudi was dead and buried in the hills and Dumarest had ignored her.

  The shower died and she, dried, returned to the bedroom. Gisel was back; a cup of tisane stood beside the bed, late but still welcome. The cook had also returned and so, no doubt, had Chell. She was not surprised; the house offered shelter, warmth, food, and protection. While she was fool enough to tolerate them they would remain even though it was on their terms.

  "Your favorite, madam." The cook set down a plate as she sat at the table. "I cooked it just as I know you like it."

  Her memory was bad; she had cooked what Rudi had liked and had done it badly. Isobel poked at the food, forcing herself to eat a little, knowing she needed the strength. And yet what good would it be? A negative attitude about which she needed no warning, but one hard to change.

  Down below Chell was sitting with his back against the wall staring at the raft. He looked at her as she entered the storeroom, making no attempt to rise. His smile was empty, inane.

  "Get on your feet!" He blinked as she snapped the order, but reluctantly obeyed. "This raft should be loaded by now. Why isn't it?"

  "Did you want it to be?" He smiled again. "I'll see to it."

  "When—next year?" Sarcasm was wasted; it simply didn't register. "Never mind. Get it done immediately. Understand?" His casual disregard infuriated her. "Listen, you! While you use my house and eat my food you do what I tell you—is that clear? Load that raft. If it isn't ready by the time I return I never want to see you again!"

  A warning which he would forget as soon as she left the room; one he probably hadn't even heard, but, at times, it was impossible for her to remain silent. At least she needn't watch and she climbed the stairs, almost running up the last few steps leading to the roof.

  The sky over the hills was, thank God, empty of devils but even as she watched a plume of color rose to the north; a twisting column of indigo which shredded to take the form of a cavorting satyr before becoming a somber mist against the bright azure. Another joined it, this time a vivid chrome, yellow merging with the blue to form a writhing combination of greens at the edges; a veil to shroud a lined and brooding face.

  For a moment the image held her so that she stood careless of the wind which ruffled the helmet of her hair, feeling her stomach constrict at the visage, the empty sockets of the eyes, the gap which formed the mouth. Rudi? Could he be restless in his sleep and now be watching her with silent accusation?

  A fantasy and one which dissolved as the face, torn by the wind, altered to form another shape which in turn joined with the indigo in spreading dissolution. Rudi was fast in the Fulden Hills while the image she had seen was to the north—yet did ghosts recognize the limitations of distance?

  And what reason could he have for accusation?

  She saw his face again against the closed lids of her eyes, the look, the horror, the knowledge frozen in the moment of death now stamped indelibly on her memory. A man knowing he was to die, feeling the pain, the shock of impending extinction.

  God—why had it happened?

  If she had forced him to stay with her for those few minutes longer—demanded his help in some small way, or if she had acted faster, joined him, been with him— need it have happened?

  Guilt, she thought. Yet why should she feel guilty? Of all men Rudi would have understood and, understanding, forgive. A matter of a simple, biological hunger, a basic need—yes, he would have understood. Then why did she feel as she did? Why was she hugging the memory of Dumarest as a sword to stab her heart?

  Why was he ignoring her?

  The reason, she knew, for her inner restlessness. The root of the need to justify and explain. There was no guilt, no need for confession, no cause to seek a dead man's absolution. She was thinking as a child, trying to shed responsibility, unwilling to accept the truth. Dumarest owed her nothing; already he had been more than kind.

  Another gust of color reared toward the sky, a twisting column of orange which painted a broad smear across the heavens, one which fanned to the impact of the wind, writhing to form an expanse of brilliant filigree. Against it, for the first time, she saw the raft.

  Selina was euphoric, radiating a burning pleasure, skin, hair, her entire body betraying an inner joy. "Look!" The lift of her hand pointed to the widening expanse of orange. "It's beautiful! And there, Earl, see?"

  A mound swelling beneath the sun, small from their present height, a point of taut membrane among the ochre rocks which studded the ground below. More ephemerae ripening to embark on the final stage of their life-cycle— Dumarest had learned the meaning of the colors which smeared the sky. Another lay a short distance from it, still more farther toward the loom of the hills.

  "I've never done this before." Selina leaned against him, softly warm, the scent of her hair a natural perfume. "Jarvis would never let us use the raft and the wind from the sea keeps the color blowing inland. He couldn't have known what it was like. Earl, it's fantastic! It's just like riding on the back of a bird."

  One crippled, old, slow to respond. Boyce had sworn the raft was as good as it would ever be and had proved it by taking the controls but, from the first, it had been erratic, veering when there was no wind, dropping when the air was steady. A bad driver or fading plates? An engine which could no longer feed a steady flow of power to the antigrav units or an unnecessary anxiety? Dumarest had shared the other's careless acceptance at first but, as they rose to fly over broken ground and rocky soil the wind had cleared his head a little.

  He said, "Maybe we should land."

  "No!"

  "We can go ahead on foot." A suggestion which he recognized as foolish even as he made it. The ground was too rough, such progress would take too long. "Or try again later." He gripped the edge of the raft as it tilted. "Boyce! Watch what you're doing!"

  "It's all right." The driver turned, smiling. "Why worry, Earl? Just hang on and enjoy the ride."

  "Hold on to me and enjoy life," whispered Selina. "Earl, darling, it would be wonderful to make love like this. To ride high above the ground and under the stars and for you to hold me and take me until the dawn came to show us where we were. Shall we do it, darling? Tonight?"

  "Maybe."

  "I mean it, Earl." She wriggled to face him. "Just you and me together. Can you fly a raft? Can you?" She relaxed as he nodded. "Tonight, then. Or we can land and leave Boyce and do it now. Among the colors, Earl. That would be wonderful!"

  A novelty which she was eager to enjoy. Dumarest shook his head, aware of a dullness, a lack of concentration. Was the raft flying as it should or was it the man at the controls? The horizon was shifting before his eyes, veering, tilting, vanishing as the prow rose to appear again as it fell. An effect which could have been caused by badly loaded cargo, but the vehicle held only themselves and the driver.

  "Earl?"

  "A moment." He moved from the girl and examined the body of the machine. It was a normal craft, one used extensively by farmers, the body fifteen feet long, five wide, the rail as high above the ground when landed. A bench ran down both sides and the driver sat at the controls facing the front. If there had ever been a protective canopy it had been removed. The paint was scratched and in spots bare metal shone; twin signs of age and neglect. Beneath the covers, as he had seen, the connections were patched, twisted when they should have been soldered, screwed when they should have been welded. "Boyce, how's the lift?"

  "You want to ride higher?" The man shrugged. "Then higher we go."

  In turbulent air it was safer to ride high; the greater distance from the ground lessened the effect of rising thermals as well as providing more scope to regain control should the raft hit pockets of less density. But Dumarest hadn't wanted to rise higher but to check on the mechanical efficiency of the vehicle.

  It rose slowly, more slowly than when they had left the house, tilting as Boyce manipulated the controls.

  "The trim's not what it should be," he said casually. "But it's nothing to worry about."

  Maybe, and he could be right, the emergency power should enable them to land should the main plant go. But if the raft should tilt too far there was a danger of being thrown out.

  "Earl?" Selina moved away as he tried to lash her fast with the straps running along the bench. "What are you doing?"