Marta grunted as they left the salon. "The girl's a fool. She is selling herself too cheaply."

"How can you know that?" Kemmer dealt cards and turned one over. "A jester. Match, beat or defer?" He watched as they made their bets, small amounts as to whether their own cards could show a value equal, higher or lower than the one exposed. A variant of High, Low, Man-In-Between. "You win, Carl. Well?" He looked at the woman. "How do you know?"

"I've ears. He paid her passage and has promised her an apartment on Fendris. Promises!" She echoed her contempt.

"So they come to nothing," said the trader. "But she has still earned passage."

"And could gain more." Santis scowled at his card lying face down on the table. "A settlement, perhaps. Even marriage. On a journey like this a girl could make a man her own. Mettalus is young and impressionable despite his cultivated air of sophisticated indifference, and the girl has charm."

"But no brains." Marta thinned her lips as, again, she lost. "And you're mistaken about Mettalus. He's older than he seems. Right, Earl?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Don't lie to me. You'd know and so would you, Carl, if you took the trouble to look. I can spot it-the way he stands, moves, walks. The way he acts. Young? He's old enough to be her father!"

"And so would make a better prize." Kemmer smiled as he dealt a new round. "There is no fool like an old fool and I speak from experience. But what are a few years between lovers? Age brings experience and a certain degree of tolerance. Matched to youth it can have a beneficial effect. Some cultures realize that. On Richemann, for example, no girl is permitted to marry a man less than twenty years older than herself and no man a woman less than twenty years younger. That way all gain the benefit of both worlds; when young you match with age, when old you enjoy youth. Sometimes I think I will settle there."

"Why don't you?"

"The journey is long and I not too fond of unripe fruit."

"You degenerate swine!" Her words were hard but she smiled as she spoke them and Dumarest knew she was joking. Knew too that she and the trader had both found comfort in each other's arms.

He said, "Have any of you made this journey before?"

"From Elgish to Fendris?" Kemmer shook his head. "Marta? How about you, Carl?"

"Once-some time ago now." The mercenary frowned, thinking, remembering. "It seemed shorter than this."

"Shorter? You think something is wrong?" Marta Caine was genuinely afraid. They were in the Rift and in the Rift danger was always close. "Maurice! Earl! Carl-are you sure?"

"No, how can I be?" He bridled beneath her urgency. "It was years ago. But if you're worried I'll ask the steward."

"No," said Dumarest. "We'll ask the captain."

Frome matched his ship, a small, hard man with filed teeth over which his lips fitted like a trap. He scowled as he came to the door leading into the control room.

"You're off limits. Return to the salon at once."

"Willingly, Captain, as soon as you have eased our minds." Dumarest kept his voice casual. "We are a little concerned about the delay. Is something wrong with the ship?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear it. The ladies were anxious. Then it's true we are being diverted? The steward mentioned-"

"What he shouldn't have done." Unthinkingly the captain fell into the trap. "The fool should have known better than to relay ship business to passengers."

Dumarest said, flatly, "Our business too, Captain. Where are we heading?"

"Harge."

"Harge?" Carl Santis thrust himself forward, his face ugly. "I booked to Fendris. I can't afford the delay."

"You leave the ship on Harge. You all leave it."

Dumarest dropped his hand to the mercenary's arm, feeling the tense muscle as he restrained Santis's lunge. Frome was armed, a laser holstered at his waist, one hand resting close to the butt-an unusual addition to any captain's uniform and a sure sign that he anticipated trouble. The navigator too was armed. He stood back in the control room, his weapon aimed at the group beyond the door.

Kemmer snapped, "That isn't good enough. I demand an explanation."

"Demand?" Frome bared his pointed teeth. "Demand?"

The trader had courage. "A deal was made, passage booked, money handed over. A high passage to Fendris. That's what I paid for and that's what I want."

"What you paid for was passage to my next planet of call and that's exactly what you're getting."

"You-"

"It should have been Fendris," said Dumarest quickly. Kemmer was about to lose his temper and, once antagonized, the captain would tell them nothing. He might even use his laser-Frome was the type. "But in space things can happen," continued Dumarest evenly. "The unexpected and the dangerous and the more so when in the Rift. Is that what happened, Captain? Some danger you had to avoid?"

"A warp," said Frome after a moment. "We hit one and it created strain in the generator. To proceed to Fendris would be to take too big a risk. That's why I headed for Harge." He added, "We'd have landed by now if it hadn't been for the storm."

The girl was careless, setting down the cup with too great a force so that the delicate china rang and a little tisane slopped from the container to puddle in the saucer. A puddle she quickly removed with the hem of her dress but the damage had been done and the very act of cleaning the mess had been an affront. To use the hem of her dress! The action of a common strumpet in a low tavern or of a slut from the Burrows!

"My lady, will that be all?"

"Yes." Even the thick tones of the girl created irritation. "No! Take the cup away. The saucer too, you fool! And change into a clean dress."

And, she thought, for God's sake learn how to act like a product of civilization instead of an ignorant, stupid peasant. Words she left unsaid as the girl picked up the tisane and hurried it from the room. Alone Ellain Kiran stared at the window.

A swirling brown grayness stared back.

An illusion, of course, the dust didn't possess eyes but always when looking at the wind-blown grains she could see them; the eyes of the dead, the eyes of those who would die and were even now dying. And other eyes, less human, those of the inimical forces which created the storms, the dust, the death it carried. The hatred of nature for man and his works. The eyes of a thing bent on destruction.

And yet, still, it held a strange and tormented beauty.

It drew her closer, naked feet padding over the tufted carpet, her gown rustling as the fabric dragged over the surface of a low table, small chimes spilling from disturbed bells. A tintinnabulation she ignored as, halting, she stared at the smooth curve of the plastic, the fury of the storm beyond.

The air, the dust, all were joined in seething turmoil. Winds sweeping from the distant mountains, lifting sands from the deserts, catching them, driving them in a composite whole. Grains of silica, basalt, granite, manganese. Crystalline particles formed of minute rubies, agates, diamonds, emeralds. The detritus of ancient cataclysms which had taken the mineral wealth of Harge and pulverized it and spread it wide and far to be the sport of surging winds. Crystals each facet of which were knives, each point a needle. Carried by the winds at fantastic velocities, they scoured the world.

Nothing unprotected could live a moment in such a blast. Even the toughest suit and thickest pane would fret and wear and shred into particles. Cracks would form, widen, open to expose the skin and flesh and muscle beneath. A moment and it would be ripped away by the ravening fury of countless minute teeth. Even now men lost in the storm could be dying, screaming as the acid of the blast flayed them raw, turning them into grinning parodies of men before even bone and teeth vanished with the rest.