But, as had happened the two previous times, there was also the feeling that the city, not the farm, was his natural habitat.

  The street before them seemed familiar, though he knew he had never been in Galveston before. It stretched far out of sight, bordered on both sides by low, square, old houses and brightly-colored shops. Hawkers yelled stridently in the roadway, peddling fruits and vegetables and here and there some comely wench's favors.

  Van Alen pointed toward a rickety building on their

  right and said, "There's a hotel. Let's room up for the night."

  "Good enough," Kesley agreed.

  The proprietor of the hotel was a short man in his early fifties, chubby and prosperous-looking, with an oily stubble of beard darkening his face. His bald head gleamed; it had been newly waxed.

  "Hail, friends. In search of lodgings?"

  "Indeed we are," van Alen said. "My friend and I are tired, and can use some rest."

  The hotelman chuckled. "One room?”

  "Suitable," van Alen said.

  A thick eyebrow lifted. “Will you boys be needing a double bed?"

  "What the hell do you mean—” Kesley began hotly, but van Alen cut him off and said in a calm voice, “Twin beds will be fine, if you've got them."

  "Of course,” the proprietor said. "Beg pardon.” He reached behind him and fumbled on a board laden with keys, mumbling cheerfully to himself. Finally he decided on an appropriate room and unhooked the keys.

  "Three-fifty," he said.

  Van Alen placed four one-dollar pieces face upward on the desk. The hotelman looked at the coins, grinned, and scooped them up, putting a fifty-cent piece in their place. Van Alen ignored it, and after a moment the hotelman scooped that up as well.

  "Come this way, please."

  He showed them to a room on the third floor, which was the topmost. It was a boxy, green-walled room with a single naked fluorescent running along its ceiling. Kesley had vaguely hoped that the room would have floor-to-ceiling luminescence, as some of the oldest city hotels were reputed to have, but no such luck. This one had been built since the Blast; no fancy trimmings here.

  There were two beds, both without spreads. The part of the sheet that was visible at the top was gray and frayed, though apparently clean. A slatted screen stood folded between the beds.

  “Cozy, isn't it?” the proprietor asked. He seemed to be oozing filth. “It’s one of our best doubles.”

  “Glad to hear it,” van Alen said. “We've traveled far. We're tired/'

  “You'll rest well here,” the hotelman said, and backed out the door.

  “A greasy customer,” Kesley commented when he was gone.

  “No more so than usual,” said van Alen. “They seem to be a breed. He means well, though.” The Antarctican shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over a chair. Casually he unfolded the screen, dividing the room in half.

  “Economy calls for a single room,” he explained. “But privacy is still a fine thing.”

  Kesley shrugged. He had no intention of violating any of van Alen's personal crotchets. Approaching his own bed, he turned down the sheet, slipped off his clothing, and climbed in.

  He discovered he had no desire to sleep. After tossing restlessly for a while, he rolled over on his back and sat up. “Van Alen?”

  “What is it, Kesley?”

  “How big is Galveston?”

  “About a hundred thousand people,” van Alen said. “It’s a very big city.”

  “Oh.” After a pause: “Bet New York was much bigger, wasn't it?”

  “Cities were bigger in the old days. Too big. It drove people mad to live in them. That’s why the cities were destroyed. Your Dukes make sure the same thing doesn’t happen again by building walls around the cities. Galveston won't ever get any bigger than it is.”

  “Is that the Way things are in Antarctica, too?”

  “You’ll find out about Antarctica when you get there. Go to sleep—or at least let me sleep.”

  Van Alen sounded irritated. The Antarctican was a queer duck, Kesley thought, as he lay awake in the silence. Van Alen was a slick operator, calm and self-assured, but there were strange chinks in his armor. He blew up, occasionally, lost his temper—not often, but sometimes. And there were

  many questions he would not answer, and others that seemed to disturb him more than they should.

  He conducted himself strangely, too-doing things almost without motivation, it seemed, though Kesley felt that deep calculations lay behind the seemingly gratuitous acts. Such things as picking the first hotel they saw, or tipping the proprietor a needless half dollar. They stood out sharply against the fabric of reality. They were unnecessary actions— or were, they?

  Kesley didn't know. And Kesley resolved, in that moment, not to try to find out. He would abrogate all responsibility, let happen what might. It was the only way to ward off the terrors of unanswerable questions. Away from his home, away from the farm, he simply was not equipped to act independently— yet. He decided to sit tight, ask no questions, and look for no answers.

  They left Galveston early the next morning, via the Snowden, a creaky old second-class freight-steamer, carrying eight other passengers and a small herd of cattle on their way to Cuba. Van Alen had made all the traveling arrangements; Kesley, having no idea how such things were managed, had done nothing.

  The ship docked at Havana, discharged its load of kine, and moved unsteadily southward. From Havana to Merida, in Yucatan; from Merida to Panama. The charred wreckage of the old canal was gauntly visible as they steamed past the Isthmus.

  Skirting the east coast of South America, the Snowden pulled into port at Bahia Blanca, in Argentina Province—and here, van Alen and Kesley disembarked.

  "This is as far south as any ship goes,” van Alen said, as the^ tug drew them toward the dreary harbor. "The rest of the trip is overland.”

  "To Antarctica? How?”

  Van Alen smiled. "Overland through Argentina, at any rate, and down into Patagonia. There'll be transportation waiting for us there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were waiting at the customs

  shed for their horses. A bored-looking little customs official in blue shorts and gold brocaded jacket approached them, clutching a clipboard and a stubby pencil.

  "Where are you from?” His voice was thickly accented

  but understandable.

  "North America,” van Allen said. "We’re vassals of His Liege Duke Winslow.”

  The customs man scribbled something on his clipboard. "You are now in the lands of His Highness Don Miguel, Sovereign Ruler and Duke of South and Central America. Entrance fee to His Highness’ lands is for you ten dollar American. You have?”

  Kesley scowled but produced the fee without question. Van Alen handed money over as well. The customs officer smiled coldly and nodded.

  "Very well. You may enter. There will be no inspection of your belongings.”

  "Trusting fellow, isn’t he?” Kesley asked, as they saddled their animals. "No customs inspection.”

  "They’re very trusting down here, especially when you give them ten dollars too many. Don Miguel’s Dukedom isn’t particularly noted for its high ethical standards, Kesley. Everyone’s fantastically loyal to the Duke, but they stay loyal to themselves as well. See?”

  "You know, you’ve spent more cash in bribes on this trip than I’ve ever seen in my life,” Kesley said.

  "A well-greased road makes for a smooth journey,” van Alen intoned. "Another important lesson for you.”

  Kesley smiled and goaded his horse on. The road out of Bahia Blanca was a long and winding one; from this vantage-point, Argentina Province looked limitless. The air was cold and clear, down in this continent where winter came in July. Kesley let the constant rhythm of his galloping horse lull him into a veiled patience; he rode impassively, listening to the repeated clickety-clack of well-shod hooves coming from van Alen’s Old-Kind horse, and the less distinct, thumping sound of his own mutant steed's three-toed paws pounding the roadway. The sounds tended to hypnotize him. At

  any rate, they kept him from thinking too seriously about the unknown destination that lay ahead.

  The journey continued. By evening of the next day they had left the city far behind and had ridden into the heart of a broad, apparently endless, green plain covered thickly with coarse, matted grass and dotted with short, heavy-boled trees. Conversation between the two men had long since dwindled to a mere interchange of grunts.

  But the monotony of the journey was short-lived. Near midnight, from over a slight rise in the plain, eight men appeared, riding lowslung mutant ponies. They were heading straight for van Alen and Kesley.

  Kesley saw them first. He nudged van Alen.

  "Bandits,” the Antarctican said immediately. "Let’s split up. You go to the east; I’ll head the other way.”

  "And how do we get together again?”

  "I’ll find you afterward. Get going!”

  Kesley dug in his spurs and the horse leaped forward. The bandits bore down on them as the . two men rode in opposite directions. And, to Kesley's horror, he saw the bandit group splitting in two.

  Instantly, van Alen doubled back and beckoned to Kesley to do the same. If the bandits had detected the maneuver and were sweeping off to intercept them, there was nothing gained by dividing. They stood a better chance back-to-back.

  Together, then, they struck out along a side-path toward a thick copse. Kesley’s hand slipped down from the bridle to feel the comforting hilt of his knife at his waist. He glanced at van Alen, and saw that the Antarctican’s blaster gleamed dully, ready for use, in the man’s hand.

  "The eight bandits drew up in a tight phalanx facing the copse. They were swarthy, dark-skinned men with heavy mustaches.

  "Off your horse,” van Alen whispered.

  Kesley slipped to the ground and began to tether the mutant to a low-hanging branch.

  "No,” the Antarctican said harshly. "Let the animals roam free. Their noise will confuse the bandits.”

  "Right.”

  He released his grip on the reins and slapped the beast affectionately. The swaybacked mutant began to amble off into the depths of the copse, crashing down on fallen branches as it went. Van Alen's horse struck out in another direction. Kesley grinned suddenly; the sight of his clumsy old horse thrashing away into the darkness was utterly ludicrous.

  Then Kesley glanced back at van Alen. The Antarctican was kneeling in a soft mossbank, aiming his blaster.

  He squeezed the firing stud. A bright beam of light licked out. The horse of the leading bandit whinnied and looked down in amazement at the pastern that was no longer there, and then toppled, dropping its rider.

  Van Alen fired again and a second horse went down. At that the bandits scattered. The two men on foot hit the ground; the other six rode off around the copse.

  A loud report sounded from the left, followed by an agonized neigh of pain. Kesley stiffened. They shot my horse, he thought. For some reason, hot tears of rage came to his eyes. The awkward-looking mutant horse had been a good friend for four years. Kesley felt as if his last bond with Iowa Province had just been severed.

  He yanked out his knife. Pale moonlight flickered on the polished blade. Van Alen tapped Kesley's arm, shook his head cautioningly. Kesley saw the Antarctican aim the blaster.

  Another spurt of light. The smell of singed leaves, sharp and acrid—and then, the smell of singed human flesh. A dull groan.

  “That's one," van Alen muttered. “Seven to go."

  Branches rustled behind them. Kesley whirled and raised his knife, but it was only van Alen's horse returning to its master. At a gesture from van Alen, Kesley slapped the steed's rump and sent it roaming again. Overhead, hoarse-voiced birds chattered their angry commentary on the conflict below.

  The blaster spurted again, and in its sudden light Kesley saw a shadowed figure outside the copse char and fall.

  Kesley began to perspire. There were still six bandits at large out there, and eventually van Alen’s blaster would run out of charges.

  Another bullet came whistling through the woods and thunked into a tree overhead.

  “They’ve spotted the source of the beam,” van Alen said. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere. We’ve got to misdirect them. I’ve only got two charges left.”

  Again came the rustling of branches behind them. Van Alens horse again, Kesley thought, but this time he was wrong. The bandits were upon them.

  All six at once—making a suicide charge on the man with the blaster. They came piling into the copse on foot, swarming around Kesley and van Alen, leaping and clawing and punching.

  Van Alen’s blaster spurted once, and a sharp-featured bandit took the charge in his stomach. He pitched forward on the Antarctican, who tried desperately to wriggle out from under the corpse. He did—but not before another bandit had seized the hand that held the blaster. There i was a bright flare overhead suddenly, and the birds shrieked^ wildly. With an angry curse at having wasted the last charge, van Alen broke free of the man and hurled the useless blaster away.

  Meanwhile Kesley found himself busy. His knife dripped red; he had slashed it into one man’s arm, then ripped downward. Another had seized his wrist as he drew back for a second thrust.

  Kesley grimaced and groped for the other man’s eyes. In the darkness of the copse not even the moon aided vision; it was impossible to see more than a foot or so, and Kesley contended with half-seen shapes rather than men.

  The bandit twisted upward sharply. A bolt of pain shot through Kesley’s arm. Numbed, he let the knife slip from his grasp. It vanished underfoot.

  “Dale?” The half-grunt came from van Alen, somewhere to the left. “The blaster’s dead.”

  “And I’ve lost my knife!”

  “Try to get free. If we can slip through them and outside the copse, we can grab their horses and—”

  “We also speak English, norteamericano" a wry voice said suddenly. “Your strategy is no secret.”

  Kesley turned and jammed a fist into someone’s stomach. He felt arms groping for his arms, and shrugged himself free. He stepped back, kicking out with his heavy boot.

  His foot struck—but as it did, someone else hit him from behind and knocked him off balance. He slipped, rolled over and tried to pull himself up. Three men were on him in an instant, pinioning him.

  He heard the click of a gun’s safety going off, and a quiet voice said, “Hold fast or we will explode your head.” Instantly Kesley stiffened. “I’m holding fast,” he said. He saw no point in resisting, not with three men squatting on him and a gun pointed at his head.

  A short distance away the sound of struggle could still be heard. Good for van Alen, Kesley thought.

  A knife flashed suddenly. A man howled: “Ricardo, you have cut me!” Angrily, in Spanish.

  Spanish? Where did I learn Spanish? Kesley wondered. He heard van Alen’s ironic chuckle. “How are you doing, Kesley?”

  “I’m caught. They’re sitting on me.”

  A pause. Then: ‘“Too bad, Dale.” Van Alen’s deep voice sounded distant and troubled now. “I’m going to have to—” His voice broke off abruptly. After a moment of silence,

  Kesley heard footsteps pounding rapidly away through the

  forest. Van Alen running away? Why?

  One of the bandits fired. The forest was illuminated briefly

  by the flash of gunpowder, and Kesley thought he heard

  something like a grunt of pain, followed by a frantic threshing

  in the underbrush.

  “I got him,” a voice said*

  “What of the other one?”

  "We have him here.”

  “Muy bien! Don Miguel will be glad to see him.” Kesley was lifted to his feet. Dimly, he saw five men

  guarding him, and a sixth crouched a few feet away with his hand clapped to a raw knife-wound in his shoulder. Efficiently, the bandits roped his arms to his sides.

  I have a safe-conduct from Duke Miguel,” Kesley protested, as they hustled him out of the copse.

  One of the bandits snorted derisively. “Safe conduct? Pah! Don Miguel gives no safe conducts I

  “But

  They were in the open now. There was no sign of van Alen or of van Alen's horse.

  The six small ponies of the bandits were grazing in a wide circle; near the edge of the copse lay the two horses van Alen’s blaster had brought down, and a few feet away were the sprawled, blackened corpses of the two dead bandits.

  The night was silent. Even the birds had ceased their harsh noise. Kesley tensely allowed himself to be tethered to a pommel.

  “Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

  The bandit leader chuckled, showing a set of gleaming teeth. “Buenos Aires. The capital of Duke Miguel, no? Miguel is collecting norteamericanos this week!”

  III

  As well as being the chief city of Argentina Province, Buenos Aires was a Ducal capital—the first such city Kesley remembered having entered.

  He knew the names of the others: Chicago, Tunis, Johannesburg, Stockholm, Canberra, Strasbourg, Kiev, Hankow, Calcutta, Manila, Leopoldville. They were strange and alien names; to him, abstract symbols of Ducal power rather than concrete geographical localities.

  It was easy to see that this was Miguel’s abode. The

  walls of the city bristled with dark-skinned riflemen in blue shorts and gold brocade, zealously guarding their Immortal’s city against armed attack. Standing outside the city walls, Kesley could see, looming above the blocks of low, grubby buildings, the arching sweep of Don Miguel’s palace. A gleaming spire almost a hundred feet high topped the vaulted building, which looked down upon the nest of small houses clustered around it as a giant would upon worms.

  There seemed to be a jam-up at the gates. Traffic was heavy at a Ducal capital. All around him, swarthy men on burros or horses or stubby piebald mutant beasts waited patiently to be admitted. Most of them were clad in broad-brimmed sombreros and colorful serapes; Kesley grinned wryly at that. South America was an unchanging microcosm. Beneath the friendly sky, life, frozen always in a stasis of todays, moved on slowly, with manana never quite arriving.