Dumarest said, dryly, "Now tell me something I do not already know."

"The future?" Arbush glanced up, his eyes intent. "There is danger, that is plain. Relentless enemies and- other things."

"Such as?"

"Death. With you it is very close. A familiar companion. And luck, more than your share. I think it would be wise to reconsider my invitation to play."

"Then let us talk." Dumarest pulled his hand free from the other's grip. "Tell me what you know of the Original People."

A veil fell across Arbush's eyes. "I do not understand."

"You mentioned them. The men of old who left the planet of their birth. You want the pure source?" Dumarest's voice deepened to hold the rolling echoes of drums. "From terror they fled, to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."

"An intriguing concept, Earl, but obviously a barren one. How could all the peoples of the galaxy ever have lived on one world? Think of the numbers, the differences, it doesn't make sense."

"A world can be populated by a handful of settlers," reminded Dumarest. "And mutations could have caused the changes."

"True, but-"

"Terra," said Dumarest softly. "Another name for Earth. Tell me about Earth."

"A legendary world."

"So Shalout told me. I think you know better. How did you learn of the name? Why make a point of mentioning it?"

"For effect." Arbush leaned back, his eyes clear, calm in his composure. "The fabric of a song, no more. A device to titillate the sense of adventure. I picked up the name- somewhere, I forget just where. The fragment of legend also. Perhaps at a lecture I attended when young. Something overheard from a private conversation. Sit in any tavern and your ears will be assailed with rumors." He reached for a deck of cards. "Shall we play?"

"Later."

"I have disappointed you, but that cannot be helped. Ask what I know and the answers are yours. How Beint hurt his arm, for example. You have seen the engineer's hand. He was careless one night and was attacked in a dark alley by someone who carried a poisoned blade. The nerves are gone."

"The damage could be repaired."

"True, a regrowth, obtained on any decent world--with money, Earl. Beint does not have the money." Arbush turned over a card, the jester. Quietly he added, "He would do a lot to get it."

"And Shalout?"

"Beyond hope by now. The fungoid is eating itself into his brain. But he could spend what remains of his life in luxury-if he had the money."

"And you!"

Arbush turned over another card, the lady. He followed it with the lord. "Men, women and fools," he murmured. "And which one is you? Not the woman and not, I think, the fool." Riffling the deck he said, blandly, "Shall we play?"

* * * * *

The cabin had a door which didn't fit; a lock which now, for some reason, failed to work. The ventilator carried sounds of metallic impact, an off-center fan or one with a broken blade; sound enough to disguise the whisper of voices. Dumarest listened, then jumped down from the bunk to the floor. On the cot lay the hypogun he had already used; his system normal, the effects of quick-time neutralised.

When they made their move, he would be ready for them.

And the move would be made, the message had been plain. Arbush, for reasons of his own had betrayed the captain, reenforcing Dumarest's own suspicions. A wreck of a ship, a man who obviously wanted to hide, the hints they could have picked up on Tynar-the Styast had become a trap.

A trap which was about to close.

Dumarest heard the scuff of boots in the passage, a sudden sonorous chord, a muffled curse in Eglantine's voice.

"Tell that damned minstrel to be quiet!"

An order to Shalout, perhaps, but Beint would be the better choice. Hampered by his withered hand, he would be of less use in a struggle. Not that Eglantine expected one; as far as he knew Dumarest was locked in quick-time, a helpless prey.

In which case, why move now?

The radio, he decided. Eglantine had tried to use it and found it ruined. It would stay ruined, the components had been destroyed; no word could be sent ahead as to his coming.

Dumarest eased open the door.

Outside the passage was empty. If Beint had gone to join Arbush in the salon, then Shalout must be towards the right at the end of the passage leading towards the engine room. And Eglantine?

He caught the scrape of movement, the shift of air; he spun, one hand dropping towards the knife in his boot, the hand freezing as he saw the captain, the laser he held in one pudgy hand.

"Hold! Move and I fire!"

The gun was steady, the muzzle aimed low to sear legs and groin, the knuckle white over the trigger. A fraction more pressure and it would vent its searing beam; energy to burn clothes, skin, muscle and bone. To cripple if it did not kill.

Dumarest said, blankly, "Captain! Is there something wrong?"

"Shalout! To me!"

The knuckle had eased a little, no longer white; the captain more certain of his command of the situation. He stood in a cabin, the door barely open; the gap just wide enough to show his face, the weapon he held. As the navigator came running down the passage from the engine room Eglantine said, sharply, "That's close enough. Watch him. Burn his legs if he tries anything."

Shalout, like the captain, held a laser. He halted, twenty feet from Dumarest.

He said, puzzled, "He's riding Middle like the rest of us."

"Yes." Eglantine opened the door wide and stepped into the passage. "Proof of what I suspected, if I needed proof at all. Why should an honest man suffer the tedium of a journey when there is no need?"

Dumarest said, "Your drugs are old, Captain. They lack effectiveness. I woke and was riding Middle. I was about to obtain more quick-time from the cabinet. Now, perhaps, you will tell me what is wrong."

"The radio is ruined. You must have done it. Where are the components?"

"You need guns to ask me that?"

"They could be in his cabin," said Shalout. "Shall I search?"

For a moment Eglantine hesitated, then shook his head. He had the advantage and wanted to retain it. With the navigator in the cabin he would be left alone with Dumarest. "No. He will tell us where they are." The laser moved a little, menacing. "You will tell us."

Dumarest said, "Here?"

The passage was narrow, with an armed man at front and rear; he would be caught in the cross fire if he tried to attack. In the salon, perhaps, he would stand a better chance, even with Beint present. Arbush would, he hoped, be neutral if not an ally.

As if the man had caught his thoughts the sudden thrum of a gilyre rose from the compartment to send echoes along the passage; a stirring, demanding sound, hard, imperious.

A voice rode with it, bland, more than a little mocking.

"Are we to be left alone, my friend? Were you sent here to keep us out of the way? Does the Styast now carry two crews, when it used to carry one? Are secret deals being made and fortunes promised? If the trap has been sprung, where is the victim?"

Eglantine shouted, "Arbush! Shut your mouth!"

As the gilyre fell silent, Beint loomed at the end of the passage.

"So you've got him," he rumbled. "Good. Bring him in here so we all can listen to what he has to say."

He backed as they passed, his withered left hand rucked into his belt, his right holding a short club of some heavy wood. It made little slapping sounds as he struck it against his thigh. Arbush sat on the table, the gilyre on his lap, blunt fingers idly stroking the strings; tapping the wood so as to produce a soft thrumming interspersed with the whisper of simulated drums.

He said, "Captain, you could be making a mistake."

"No mistake." snapped Eglantine. "The radio proves that. Why should a man want to ruin the instrument?"