The steward came to distribute quicktime, the drug easing the tedium of the journey. Beneath its influence the metabolism was slowed so that days became subjective hours.

"Where do you want it? Wrist? Throat? Where?"

"Wrist." Romar extended his hand, watched as the steward aimed and fired his hypogun. At the blast he froze, turning into a statue, all movement slowed to a fraction of normal.

"Throat." Bone and sinew in the wrist could slow the quick absorption of the drug. Dumarest felt the touch of the hypogun, heard the sharp hiss as the drug was blasted through skin, fat and muscle into his bloodstream. The lights flickered, then all seemed as before, but, on the next deal, the cards vanished from his hand to reappear immediately on the table.

After an hour Romar had lost enough. He rose from the table, stretched, crossed the salon to where a faucet yielded a thick, opaque fluid. Basic, the standard food of spacers. Rich in protein, sickly with glucose, laced with vitamins, tart with citrus. A cup provided nourishment for a day. A heating element in the base of the cup kept the fluid warm.

"If I can do anything for any of you don't hesitate to ask," Romar said. "I've a good selection of analogues and symbiotes which will give you really interesting experiences. I've also pills, sensitapes and some other things you'd find of interest."

Anjuli said, "Sensitapes? What kinds?"

"You name it, I've got it."

The other man said, "I'm interested in those analogues. All subjects?"

He followed Romar to buy the experience of being something other than human. Yusef and his partner trailed after him for sensitapes by which they would enjoy erotic dreams. Alone Dumarest pocketed his cards and left the salon.

Like the cabins the corridor was cramped, soiled, dimly lit. A brighter glow spilled from the partly open door of a cabin at the far end of the passage where the steward took his rest. Closer the hum of voices came from where the others bargained with Romar over his wares. The door of Zehava's cabin was closed. Dumarest opened it, looked inside, saw the empty compartment, the vacant cot.

Silently he moved to his own cabin and quietly opened the door.

Zehava was kneeling beside his bunk, a heavy satchel resting before her. She was busy working at the lock.

"Earl!" She looked up, startled, as he entered the cabin. "I was -"

"Go ahead. Open it." He closed the door behind him as he gave her the combination. "Take a look at what's inside."

Two hundred cylinders packed snugly in a stout container, the whole making a compact but heavy load.

"They belong to my stolen cargo," he explained. "Think of them as firing pins."

"For the weapons?"

"They were packed separately for obvious reasons. Without them the cargo is nothing but rubbish. Without the cargo these are nothing but scrap. That's why I'm carrying them. They'll be useful when I finally get to where we're going – if I ever do."

"You doubt me?"

He looked at the open satchel.

"I was feeling lonely," she said. "I came to see if you'd retired then I saw the satchel and wanted to find out what you were carrying. You can't blame me for that. You've got all the money and without you I'm helpless. I was curious and afraid. Earl! You must believe me!"

He said, dryly, "You should have locked the door."

"I tried. The lock doesn't work." She stared her defiance. "All right. So you caught me. I lied. I knew you wouldn't be in the cabin. You came back too soon. But I needed to know."

"Because you don't like operating in the dark?"

"Yes."

"That makes two of us. Exactly where are we headed?"

"I told you."

"You gave me a name. This time I want the truth." As she hesitated, he said, "We've left Arpagus so you're safe. I can't stop you running, but remember I've all the money. I also have what makes the cargo you stole worth more than junk. You could leave me and get by, but without these components the weapons are useless. How will they welcome you when you get back home?"

"Not with open arms," she admitted. "Damn you, Earl! Do you always win?"

"Where are we heading?"

"Kaldar."

"In the Lonagar Drift?"

"The Drift, yes. How did you know?" She relaxed as he told her. "Rumor – there are a dozen of them. Think nothing of it. Anyway it takes a special kind of skill to navigate through the Drift. Those who have it work for us."

And those who didn't stood little chance of hiring out their skills. No one would risk a vessel without good reason. No group would operate unless there was profit to be won. Zehava had been overly cautious. The raiders could have shouted out the name and location of their home world for all to hear and it wouldn't have changed a thing. The man he had hoped to question had died for nothing.

Dumarest turned on the cot, restless, unable to sleep. Zehava had acted as he had expected and was now in her cabin, curiosity satisfied, confident he trusted her. He had changed the combination on the lock so she would have no chance to steal the contents of the satchel. The money was in his belt. She could run but what would she gain? What else could she do but take him to her home world?

To Kaldar, the cargo, the chance she had offered. The ship which would carry him home.

To the world he had left long ago when a boy, stowing away on a strange vessel, hiding until inevitably discovered. The captain had been kind, instead of evicting him into the void he had allowed Dumarest to work his passage. Carrying him deep towards the center of the Galaxy where stars were thick and Earth had become nothing but a legend, a world of myth and dazzling promise.

One he had searched to find. Gathering hints, clues, scraps of information from a host of sources until he had found the essential coordinates engraved on stone in gleaming symbols of precious metals in a temple now nothing but dust.

The golden figures of Earth!

He turned again on the cot, drifting into a world filled with fire and searing brilliance and sleeting death. One on which the figures glowed with livid configurations as if incised on his brain. The secret he had searched so hard to find.

A companion to one he had been given by a woman he would never forget.

Kalin with hair of flame who had more than saved his life. Gone now as so many others were gone, victims to the relentless pursuit of those who wore the scarlet robe. The Cyclan which had hunted him from world to world. Which would still hunt him unless remaining convinced he was dead.

"Earl?" Zehava was at the door, wearing a thin robe, eyes widening as he rose to face her, knife in hand, his body naked but for shorts. "Earl, something's wrong, the noise -"

It came from down the passage, a low, snarling growl as if a predator was worrying a kill. Romar stepped from his cabin as they moved towards it.

"It's nothing to worry about," he said. "Just someone enjoying an analogue.

Dumarest remembered the man in the salon. "Anything dangerous?"

"No. I don't carry anything big or vicious and I wouldn't sell them on a ship if I did. Don't let the noise bother you. He'll be all right. After it's over he'll just fall asleep."

Zehava shook her head as she followed Dumarest back into his cabin.

"The things people do. Taking dope to pretend they are beasts. Smelling the things they do, tasting, feeling, acting as if they are no longer human. Have you ever taken an analogue, Earl?"

"Have you?"

"We don't need them on Kaldar. Life's exciting enough as it is." She stepped closer to him, eyes bright with invitation. "You'll find that out, darling. You won't need chemical diversions. Not while you have me."

"Is that a part of our deal?"

She smiled, not answering, moving even closer and he could smell her perfume and feel the radiated warmth of her body. A woman fighting with her own weapons as he had with his. Lifting a hand she touched his chest, ran her fingers over the scars marring the hard, muscular surface.