"All?" She shrugged. "What else is insanity but a different set of values? An inability to accept what the majority regard as the norm? Tell me, my friend, when I use the words 'breaking point,' do you know what I mean?"

"The point at which any material, under stress, can no longer resist the pressure."

"Or the pull of opposing forces."

"Yes. You are precise, my dear."

"I'm a fool." She poured him wine and handed him the glass, refilling her own and gulping it down. As she again tilted the decanter she said, "I'm drinking too much, but what the hell? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."

"Your analogy escapes me."

"As do so many other things."

He said, to change the subject, "I saw Vivien and Dras in the pool. They're going to have a child."

"I know."

"And Rhun asked me to bring you to the chess match. He made a point of it."

"So?"

"You still have friends, Eloise. You're not alone."

"That is a matter of opinion." Immediately she softened. "I'm sorry, Adara, I know you and the others mean well, but-why the hell can't you understand?"

A question he had asked himself many times in the years he had known her. He had tried and, at times, imagined that he had succeeded. Then, as now, she would change into something almost alien.

He reached towards her where she stood, turned away from him, her face towards the window, Her hair was soft with a delicate sheen: yielding tactile pleasure to his questing hand, his stroking fingers.

"Adara!"

His hand fell from the tresses, a coldness at his heart, but she hadn't rejected him.

It was something else.

High in the sky something glowed; a cloud of vivid blue, bright against the darkening night. A lambency which flickered, died, flared again as it swept across the heavens.

"A meteor," he said. "A big one, by the look of it. It should land fairly close."

"A meteor?" Her voice rang high, excited. "Hell, that's no meteor! It's a ship!"

Chapter Six

There were clicks, sighs, the rasp of yielding metal; a host of tiny sounds which had replaced the grating roar, the crush and fury of destruction. Dumarest heard them all around, a whispering threnody which echoed in his ears; fading even as he listened, to die with solemn murmurs. The dirge of a dying ship.

He tried to move and felt clamping restrictions. Opening his eyes he stared at the black faces of the screens, the material scarred and splintered in a cobweb of lines. Weight dragged him sideways and he realized the control room was tilted; what had been the deck was now a wall to which the chair was fastened.

For the moment it was enough.

He sagged, breathing deeply, conscious of the ache in his chest; ribs bruised or broken by the straps which held him. His lips and chin were wet and sticky with blood which had come from burst capillaries, the vulnerable cells of his nose. His head throbbed and he felt as if he had been beaten all over with clubs.

But he was alive.

Incredibly, he was alive!

After a while he moved, one hand lifting to hit the release; the straps opening to spill him onto the side of the hull which was now the deck. A short fall but one which sent spears of agony through his chest; which caused bright flashes to fill his vision. The corner of some broken instrument had dug into his temple, and fresh blood ran down his face to join the rest.

And it was cold. Cold!

The sting of it was like fire, the metal under his hands burning with frigidity. The air itself stung as he breathed it, the sharpness acting as a spur. Again he moved, turning, rising to his knees, to slip and fall with one hand outstretched.

It landed on something soft; a ball with contours and convexities. A face.

Shalout was dead.

He lay, a crumpled heap against the instruments which had once been his charge. His mouth was open, saliva thick on his chin; the eyes open and filled with the consuming terror he had known. The head lolled at a peculiar angle, the neck broken, death reenforced by the impact which had crushed the lower side of his skull.

Rising, Dumarest caught the tilted shape of the chair to steady himself. Crystal grated beneath his boots as he made his way to the door, the passage beyond. That too was tilted, frost gleaming on the soiled metal, the vapor of his breath a plume carried before him.

Stumbling, slipping, he crawled towards the steward's room, to the medical cabinet it contained. By a miracle the door had not sprung open; instead it was jammed. He tore at it with his bare hands, then, remembering, made his way to the salon.

Something had ripped open the side admitting frigid air, and a pale luminescence which accentuated the weak glow of the indestructible emergency bulbs. In it, the body of Eglantine looked like a discarded bundle of rags tossed into a corner; rags stained with blood and internal liquids among which he found his knife.

Back at the cabinet, he thrust the blade into the crack of the jammed door and heaved. Sweat dewed his face, metabolic heat combating the cold as he strained against the hilt, fighting the waves of pain which threatened to engulf him. A snap and the door was open, the knife falling as he searched what it contained. Vials of drugs, a hypogun, old and with poor calibration; antibiotics, some instruments, plastic sprays, hormone-enriched dressings, and a small box containing what he wanted.

With numbed fingers he loaded the hypogun and fired it three times, into his neck.

Relief was almost instantaneous. Dumarest straightened, taking a deep breath, careless of the damage shattered ribs might be doing to internal tissues. It was enough for now that the drugs had killed his pain. With the reflex of old habit, he picked up the knife and slipped it into his boot.

Then it was time to examine the ship.

The Styast was ruined, that he had known. Somehow the impact of landing had twisted the foremost part in a ninety degree angle, breaking the structure just beyond the salon to leave the rest upright. At the point of strain the hull had ripped open to reveal a dully shining wall of ice, a jagged prominence thrusting its way into the vessel, a heap of splintered fragments almost reaching to the roof at the far side of the break. Brushing them aside, Dumarest jerked open the door and made his way to the engine room.

Like the rest of the ship, it was a ruin.

Globules of metal made bright sparkles on the floor, the inner components of the generators which had failed just before impact; released energies fusing the interior and venting it through the ripped casings in showers of molten rain.

Beint was dead, his face plastered on the panel, his withered hand outflung in a mutely appealing gesture.

Arbush was still alive.

He lay at one side of the room, his bulk trapped beneath a clutter of metal, a beam nipping his rotund bulk. His eyes were closed, a thin rim of ice crusted on the fabric of his blouse, the jagged edge of torn metal inches from his face.

As Dumarest touched his cheek he opened his eyes.

"Earl!" he whispered. "Thank God-I thought I was alone."

"Can you move?"

"No. I've tried. The crash knocked me out, I guess, but I wasn't out for long. At least I don't think so."

"Try again."

Arbush tensed, the effort mottling his face; then relaxing he said, "It's no good, Earl. It feels as if my back's broken. If it is-"

"You'll die easy," promised Dumarest. "But let's make sure."

Rising from where he knelt he threw aside scraps and sheets of metal, pipes and the essentials of the life-support apparatus, the bulk of a ventilator. The beam was a main stanchion, thick and heavy, creasing the body where it held the minstrel. Dumarest gripped it at the upper end and strained.