"No." Benson retreated a little. Dumarest caught his arm.

"I booked for Broome," he said coldly. His hand tightened. The handler winced. "Did you lie?"

"No!" Benson had courage. "You booked the usual," he said. "A passage to the next port of call. I thought it was Broome. It was Broome until we got that charter."

"And now?"

"We're three days flight from Gath."

Close your eyes, hold your breath, concentrate. On Gath you can hear the music of the spheres!

So claimed the admen and they could have been telling the truth—Dumarest had never wanted to find out. Gath was for tourists with a two-way ticket. It was an "attraction" with no home industry, no stable society in which a traveler could work to build the price of get-away fare. A dead, dumb, blind-alley of a world at the end of the line.

He stood at the edge of the field looking it over. He wasn't alone. Down past the leveled area, crouched in the scoop of a valley running down to the sea, squatted a huddle of ramshackle dwellings. They reflected the poverty which hung over them like a miasma. They gave some shelter and a measure of privacy and that was all.

Further off and to one side, on some high ground well away from the danger of the field and the smell of the camp, sat a prim collection of prefabricated huts and inflatable tents. There sat the money and the comfort money could provide—the tourists who traveled High, doped with quick-time so that a day seemed an hour, a week a day.

Those in the camp had traveled like Dumarest—Low. Those who rode Middle stayed with the ships which were their home. They would stay, so Benson had said, until after the storm. Then they would leave. Others would return for the next storm. On Gath that was about four months. An age.

Dumarest walked from the field, thrusting his way past a handful of men who stared at the ships with hopeless eyes, feeling his boots sink into the dirt as he left the hardened surface. It was hot, the air heavy, the humidity high. He opened his collar as he entered the camp. A narrow lane wound between the dwellings, uneven and thick with dust. It would lead, he knew, to a central area—common to all such encampments. He was looking for information. He found it sooner than he hoped.

A man sat before the open front of one of the dwellings. It had been clumsily built from scraps of discarded plastic sheeting supported by branches, weighted with rocks. The man was bearded, dirty, his clothing a shapeless mess. He stooped over a boot trying to mend a gaping rip in the side. He looked up as Dumarest approached.

"Earl!" The boot and scraps of twisted wire fell aside as he sprang to his feet. "Man, am I sorry to see you!"

"Megan!" Dumarest's eyes probed the dirt, the beard, the shapeless clothing. "As bad as all that?"

"Worse." Megan stooped, picked up his boot, swore as he thrust a finger through the hole. "Just arrived?"

"Yes."

"How was the handler on your ship?" Megan was too casual. "A decent type?"

"Couldn't be better. Why?"

"Decent enough to trust a man?"

"He isn't a fool." Dumarest sat down before the hut. "You know the rules, Megan. No cash, no ride. How long have you been stuck here?"

"Over a year." Viciously he flung down the damaged boot. "Four times I've seen the ships come in and four times they've left without me. If I don't get away soon I won't be able to get away at all. Even now I'd be taking more than a normal risk."

He was optimistic. Beneath the dirt Megan was gaunt, his clothes hanging from a skeletal frame. For him to travel Low in his condition was suicide. He looked enviously at Dumarest.

"You're looking fit," he said. "For a man who's just landed."

"I had luck," said Dumarest, and smiled at the memory. "The handler stepped out of line and got himself disciplined. He woke me three days early for the sake of company. He wanted someone to talk to. I let him talk."

"And got well fed for listening." Megan scowled. "I bet he wanted to know all about being a traveler."

"You know?"

"It happens all the time. Damn yokels! They can't understand that it takes guts to operate on your own. They get to hate us for being what they can't and they vent their spite any way they can. Damn them all to hell!"

He sat down, lacking the strength for sustained anger.

"I got here by mistake," he said quietly. "A lying handler said the ship was bound for Largis. I didn't know he'd lied until I was outside the ship. At first I wasn't too worried. I'd heard about Gath and was curious. I wanted—well, never mind that. I even had a little money to tide me over before settling down to earn a stake. That's when it hit me."

"No work," said Dumarest. "No loose money lying around. I know how it is."

"You were always smart," said Megan dully. "I remember you talking about it that time on Shick. The worlds a traveler had to stay away from if he didn't want to get stranded. Well, what good did it do you?"

"None," said Dumarest flatly. He explained how he came to be on the planet. Megan nodded, moodily examining his boot.

"I saw the party land. Big, well-armed, enough stuff to stock a store."

"They've got money," agreed Dumarest. "Maybe they came here to hunt."

"Then they're wasting their time." Megan spat his disgust. "There's no game on this planet—not here at least. And people don't visit Gath to hunt."

"Then the guns must be for something else." Dumarest was thoughtful. "A big party, you say?"

"That's right. They didn't look like a bunch of tourists and didn't act like ones. More like a military detachment than anything else. Female guards everywhere, tough as nails and as ugly as sin. They've set up their tents in Hightown." Megan picked up the scraps of wire and began to fumble with his boot. His hands were shaking. "I offered to carry some of their stuff. One of them pushed me aside. That's how I ripped my boot. I tripped and almost busted an ankle." He pursed his lips. "Nice people."

"I know the type." Dumarest reached out and took the boot and wire. "Here, let me do that."

Megan didn't object. He sat watching, trying to pluck up his courage. "Earl. I—"

"Later," said Dumarest quickly. "After I've finished this you can show me where I can get us something to eat." He didn't look at the other man, concentrating on the repair. "Now let me see," he mused. "The problem is to last it tight enough not to yield but leave it flexible enough to give."

But that wasn't the real problem.

THERE WAS no cycle of night and day on Gath. Always the swollen ball of the sun glowered over the horizon, tinting the leaden sea the color of blood. To the east there was darkness, cold, mysterious. Between light and dark ran a strip of bearable temperature but only here, on this waterlogged world, did it touch both land and ocean. The accident of distribution had helped to make the planet unique.

"A dying world," said a voice. It was soft, carefully modulated. "Angered at the knowledge of its inevitable end. A little jealous, a little pathetic, very much afraid and most certainly cruel."

"You are speaking of Gath?" Seena Thoth, ward of the Matriarch of Kund, stayed looking through the window set into the wall of the tent. There was no need for her to turn. She had recognized the voice. Synthosilk rustled as the tall figure of Cyber Dyne stepped to her side.

"What else, My Lady?"

"I thought it possible you spoke in analogy." She turned and faced the cyber. He wore the scarlet robe of his class; beneath its cowl his face was smooth, ageless, unmarked by emotion. "The Matriarch is also old, perhaps a little afraid, most certainly cruel—to those who oppose her will."

"To be a ruler is not an easy thing, My Lady."