She felt the urgings of her body and was shaken by the sudden realization of the power of nature's dominance. Was this how a primitive woman had chosen her mate? Giving herself to the strongest so as to gain his favor? Bearing his children? Continuing his line?

She said, "There's been talk, Earl. Discussion leading to argument about how you intend leading us all to the Event. Some think you plan to shift Zabul but we know that isn't possible."

"So?"

"They want to know, Earl. The committee and others. They have the right."

"When the time comes they will."

"Some think the time is now."

"And others?" He provided the answer. "How many are beginning to think it would be better not to go at all?"

"A few," she admitted. "And their numbers are growing. You can't blame them, Earl. They are old and afraid and see no reason to change. And others are willing to wait a little longer."

"You?"

"I'm not sure," she said slowly. "Up until now it was easy to long for the Event. It was so remote it didn't matter. But now you've made it immediate and people are beginning to have second thoughts. Some people," she added. "And, yes, you could include me among them."

"Life," he said. "You're afraid of life."

"Afraid of what it could bring," she corrected. "After we reach Earth-what then?"

Change and that was fearsome enough to those born and bred in a static society. The need to make constant decisions. The fear that, perhaps, the fabled world wasn't as claimed. Doubt and the terror of insecurity. The need to grow from child into an adult.

"Earl? Don't you understand? I'm afraid of losing you."

He turned away from her, aware of her nearness, the radiated femininity of her body. Rising, he headed toward the shower, there to let ice-cold water drum on his head and over his body. Stung with chill he dried himself and returned to the bedroom to see the woman still hunched as he had left her. Even as he watched the light changed to simulate a dawn.

It grew from the walls, the ceiling, a warm suffusion of red and gold, amber and orange, pink and russet. A birth which turned the room into a miniature world and the woman into a thing of flame. Hair, skin, mouth, nails, the membrane within her nostrils and beyond her parted lips-all warm and redolent of summer heat.

"Earl!" She leaned back lifting her arms toward him. "Earl, my darling! Earl!"

Then her arms were around him, the heat of her passion filling his world.

The uniform was grey, fashioned after his own clothing; the blouse long-sleeved, close at the wrists and the collar high around the neck, the pants thrust into knee-high boots. The armband bore the device of a quartered circle.

"The symbol of Earth," explained Erik Medwin. "What do you think, Commander?"

Dumarest said, "I've been promoted?"

"You're the boss as far as we're concerned. The man we intend to follow. What do you think of the uniform?"

Medwin stood still as Dumarest examined it. The material was fabric coated with flexible plastic, giving some protection but nothing like the metal mesh buried within his own. The cut could be improved and red chafe-marks showed at the young man's neck.

"Who made it up?"

"Giselda Mapron and her friends. This is a sample and it'll be altered if needed. I just wanted to show you and get your approval. Will it do, Commander?"

"With adjustments, yes. Remember a uniform is something you may have to fight in so it must be comfortable as well as tough. That collar's too tight; when you fight your neck will swell and you don't want to choke yourself. Make it looser here and here." Dumarest touched the neck and chest. "Stiffen the material over the shoulders and include protective plates if you can. They'll prevent a broken clavicle if anyone comes at you with a club and strikes the shoulder. Stiffen the boots too-a kick in the shin can cripple a man if he isn't protected. The same for the groin. And you'll need a hat of some kind, but make it strong enough to withstand a blow. One with a face-visor would be best."

"To protect the eyes," said Medwin. "I hadn't thought of that. Volodya's guards don't wear them."

"They aren't going where we are."

"True," mused Medwin. "And how can you salute without a hat? How about insignia of rank?"

"Learn about that from where you learned about saluting," said Dumarest. "And remember to thank Vera Jamil for her trouble."

"You know?"

"Where else would you get the information?" Dumarest smiled to soften his comment. "How are you getting on?"

"The first class are now instructing and we've tripled the intake. A mixed batch, the girls insisted on joining in on equal terms."

"Training?"

"Basic. Synchronized movement with practice using knives and staves. Unarmed combat too." He added, "We've had some injuries but the medics have taken care of them."

"And you've been to see them?"

Medwin hesitated. "Well, what with one thing and another, I guess I've been too busy."

"A leader must take care of his men," said Dumarest. "If he wants authority without responsibility then he isn't worthy of his command. Remember that. The people you train now could save your life later on. If you treat them like dirt they may not be too eager to do that. Those injured people got hurt because they tried to please you. Let's go and see how they're getting on."

A medic met them as they entered the ward, lifting his eyebrows at the sight of Medwin in his new uniform, turning to Dumarest as if knowing he was the leader of the pair. He frowned as he heard the request.

"See them? All eleven?"

"If you can arrange it. Are they badly hurt?"

"Broken bones, a lost eye, two with punctured lungs, one with a smashed kneecap, another with a ruptured spleen." He added dryly, "Your new ideals seem to encourage the young to be violent."

They lay in a small room, bandaged, some in traction. All were conscious, even the one who had lost an eye. He waved as Dumarest entered followed by Medwin.

"You've come to see us? Well, what about that! Did you hear what happened to me?"

"You lost an eye," said Dumarest. "In combat that makes you a liability. Are they giving you a new one?"

"Sure. It's growing now. In a few days I'll be as good as new."

As would they all. Zabul didn't lack for trained doctors and expensive drugs; slow time alone would promote quick healing, the metabolism accelerated to turn seconds into hours. Sedated, fed by intravenous injection, the most badly injured would wake healed if hungry.

Dumarest led the way down the line, speaking to each in turn, waiting as Medwin did the same. Back at the door he turned and lifted an arm in a farewell salute.

"You've done well," he said. "All of you. You've shown courage and you've accepted your misfortune. But I hope you've learned from it. Like I said earlier, an injury makes a combat soldier a liability. In actual conflict some of you would have had to be abandoned. Just remember that the next time you want to take a chance-sometimes the odds aren't worth it."

As they neared the exit Dumarest said, "You go ahead, Erik. Get those uniforms adapted as I suggested. And we want no more injuries, understand?"

"Yes, Commander!"

"Off you go then."

Dumarest returned the vague salute and went in search of the infirmary's biological technician. The man was in his laboratory, his face intent, as he examined the projected image of a slide.

"From one of the young fools who tried to get themselves killed," he explained. "An unsuspected infection which must be dealt with."

"A mutation?"

Sneh Thome nodded. He was a round man with a face normally placid but now creased in lines of concentration.

"It could well be that. I'm trying a wide range of antibiotics so as to effect a cure without recourse to surgery but if the infection becomes too widespread we'll have to remove the affected area and grow a replacement from uncontaminated tissue." He snapped off the projection and straightened, easing his back. "What we really need, of course, is a general-purpose antibiotic which will destroy all objects foreign to the basic DNA cellular imprint."