I must be getting paranoid, he decided. Forget it.

But he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The girl moved again, slightly. He moved his eyes about, and through the darkness he could make out the darker outline of her whips on the wall. He winced. Him staring down on all that from the wall. A fake holy picture in a brothel. It amused him and hurt him at the same time. Again the buoy, and the night air coming more chill. A flash, a bit of thunder, the rain. Again. The play of brass butterflies upon the ceiling, the walls ...

He must have dozed, for he was aware of coming awake once more, with the touch of her hand upon his shoulder.

"Malacar?"

"Yes?"

"I'm cold. May I come closer?"

"Sure."

He moved his arm and she was beside him. She clung to him as though he were floating and she were not. He put his arm about her shoulders, drew her head onto his chest and returned to sleep.

In the morning, they breakfasted at a place several doors up the street from the brothel. Malacar noticed a group of women at a far table who kept darting glances in his direction.

"Why do those women keep looking at me?" he asked softly.

"They work where I do," she told him. "They are wondering about the fact that you spent the entire night with me."

"This doesn't happen very often?"

"No."

Returning, they obtained cartons and Malacar helped her fill them with her belongings. She was silent as they packed, as silent as she had been most of the morning.

"You are afraid," he said.

"Yes."

"This will pass."

"I know," she said. "I thought that I would feel many things if this day ever came, but not afraid."

"You are leaving something that you know for something unknown. It is understandable."

"I do not want to be weak."

"Fear is not a sign of weakness." He patted her shoulder. "You finish packing now. I'll call the port and arrange for them to pick up your stuff and hold it."

She drew away.

"Thanks," she said, returning to her packing.

I hope she leaves the picture and those damned whips, he thought.

After he had made arrangements for a messenger pickup, he had his call transferred to the flights controller's office. He kept the screen blanked.

"Can you tell me," he inquired, "whether the jump-buggy which landed last night during the storm was a Service ship?"

"It was not," came the reply. "It was a privately owned vessel."

Which means nothing, he told himself. If the Service asks for secrecy, they get cooperation. I might as well push this as far as I can, though.

"Would you identify the vessel for me?"

"Surely. It is the _Model T_, out of Liman, Bogotelles. Signor Enrico Caruso is logged here as master and owner."

"Thank you."

He broke the connection.

It still proves nothing, he decided. Except, there is the fact that the Service has always been quite open when it comes to following me about. A warning, actually, when they do it. I must be getting paranoid. No sense checking on this Caruso. If he is real, nothing. If he is not, it will take too long to pierce his disguise. Furthermore, I should not really care. Unless he is an assassin. But even then ...

"I'm ready," she said.

"Good. Here is some money. Count it and tell me if there is enough. I'll wait here for the messenger while you get us mounts and equipment."

"There is more than enough," she said. "Malacar ..."

"Yes?"

"When should I tell them that I am quitting?"

"Right now, if you want. Or write them a note if you don't want to talk with them."

She brightened.

"I'll write them a note."

That afternoon, they moved into the hills, pack animal trailing behind, tethered to Jackara's saddle. She drew rein and turned to regard the city below them. Malacar halted his mount also, but he watched her rather than Capeville. She said nothing. It was as if he were not present.

Her eyes were narrow and her lips pressed so tightly together as to be all but invisible. Her hair was bound with a ribbon and he watched the wind play with its ends. She sat so for perhaps half a minute. He felt as if a wave of pure hate were passing, flowing down the slopes, breaking upon the city. Then it was gone, and she turned and her mount moved forward once again.

I see the dream, Jackara, he said to himself. The one that Morwin would do you ...

All that afternoon they rode, and he saw the opposite shore of the peninsula where the waters were lighter in color and there was no city. He made out a few shacks on the distant shore, but between their beach and the hills rose a tangle of green, where runners like grapevines crossed from tree to tree and dark birds fluttered and lit, fluttered and lit, among the leaves. The sky was half overcast, but the sun occupied the other half and the day was still bright. The trail remained damp, tacky from the previous night's rain, and they muddied clear puddles as they passed. He noted that his mount's hoofprints were triangular in shape, and it occurred to him that the beast he rode could be a vicious fighter. Far below, there were some whitecaps on the water, and he saw that the trees were moving.

The wind has not hit this high yet, he thought. But it will probably rain again tonight, judging from those clouds. Tarps might have been better than those flimsies she bought if the winds get bad up here ...

They halted before dusk and took a meal. By then, Capeyule was out of sight. Shind sprang down from the pack mount he had been riding and sat with them. Jackara smiled. She seemed to have taken a liking to the Darvenian. This pleased Malacar, who decided, She hates all the people she has known so much that it is probably easier for her to be friends with an alien.

He ate his food while the sky darkened. It was now completely overcast, and the night was near. Occasional gusts of wind struck them.

"Where should we camp, Jackara? And how soon?"

She raised a finger, swallowed, then said, "About six more miles and we will come to a place sheltered on two sides. We can pitch our flimsy there."

By the time they reached the site it was already raining.

Lying there, still wet, listening to the movements of the _kooryabs_, feeling the wind and sometimes the rain, hearing both, holding her, looking up the walls of gray stone at their bridge, night, he planned ahead, selecting worlds for death. He conceived a master plan then, turned it over in his mind, decided it would work, filed it for future implementation. He was ready. Two more days and they would reach the Mound. Beside him, Jackara made small noises in her chest.

_Good night, Shind_.

_Good night, Commander_.

_Is she having a nightmare?_

_No. Her dream is pleasant_.

_Then I shan't awaken her. Sleep well_.

_And yourself_.

He lay there for a long while listening to the night, and then he joined it.

They departed the peninsula late the following morning, turned to the northwest, headed inland. Their way continued as a gradual ascent until they reached a tableland which they crossed that afternoon. This brought them to the foot of another line of hills. Within these lay the Mound, Jackara told him. They would sight it before nightfall.

Nor was she incorrect. They topped a rise, she gestured, he nodded. A gigantic, flat-topped mass of rock lay a few miles away. Between themselves and the mesa was a wide canyon through which they must pass to achieve it. The kooryabs picked their way almost casually among the boulders.

By nightfall, they had crossed and were ascending an easy trail that began at the southern foot of the Mound and worked its way westward and up. By then, Malacar had grown at ease with his mount, and trusting its hoofs beneath stars was not difficult.