"And the Styast?" Dumarest wasn't really interested but they had to stay awake. To fall silent would be to yield to the fumes of the brandy, the lethargy which would bring the sleep preceding death. "How did you tie up with Eglantine?"

"That pig!" Arbush made a spitting sound. "A mistake, Earl. I rode on one ship too many and found I was trapped. Debts which couldn't be paid and a rut into which I fell. The wrong part of space for a minstrel to earn a living, even if he is young and good to look at. I am neither." Shrewdly he added, "As a traveler you should know the danger of taking passage on the wrong ship, of landing in the wrong world."

Planets without industry, backward worlds on which it was impossible to earn the price of a passage out; places on which the unwary could be stranded, often to starve to death. Handlers with warped minds who withheld the numbing drugs, and watched as those who had traveled Low screamed their lungs raw with the agony of resurrection. Small-minded, frustrated men trapped in the metal shells they rode between the stars, envious of those with wider horizons.

"Yes," said Dumarest bleakly. "I know."

"What makes a man do it?" mused Arbush softly. "To leave home and family and push into the unknown. I had friends, prospects; yet I left them all to follow a man who could make music with the touch of his fingers. Had I stayed there would have been wealth, girls to enjoy, ease and comfort to the end of my days. I must have been mad. All of us who drift like dust between the stars, all must be mad."

Beyond the mouth of the cave the wind gusted, sighing as if in agreement; the crude candle guttering, shadows casting thick patches on the minstrel's face, making him look suddenly old.

"Perhaps we are looking for something," said Dumarest.

"Perhaps." Arbush nodded his agreement. "Wealth, adventure, the love of women-who can tell? I wanted all those things and more. Fame, renown, the galaxy at my feet. Instead I found toil and tribulation, a stinking berth in a rotting ship. And you, Earl? What are you seeking?"

"A planet. A world called Earth."

"Earth?" Arbush sipped at his brandy. "Surely you are joking. Earth is a legend."

"No."

"But-"

"It is real," said Dumarest flatly. "It exists. I know. I was born there."

To run half-naked and half-starved, to catch his food with the aid of a sling, a thrown stone, a knife; small beasts which lurked among rocks which he had to catch or starve. A hard, bitter time in which hunger ruled, in which gentleness had taken no part.

He sipped at his brandy.

"Tell me about it," said Arbush quietly. "If we live, it could supply the material for a song."

"An old world," said Dumarest. "The surface scarred and torn by ancient wars. There is a great silver moon and the skies are blue when not fleeced with cloud. The sun is yellow, the seas a dark green when not grey. I left it as a boy, stowing away on a ship. The captain was more kind than I deserved. He should have evicted me; instead, he let me work my passage. I have been traveling ever since."

"But if you left it, Earl, you must know where it is. Surely you could take passage on a ship going that way?"

"Which way?" Dumarest was curt. "I told you that I was young and, perhaps filled with that madness you spoke of. The past was behind me, I wanted only to look ahead. For a while I rode with the captain and then he died, and I was on my own."

A bad time in which he had learned the hard way; work at anything which came to hand, fighting in the rings when there was no work, taking cuts, the scars of which he would always carry, killing when he'd had no choice. And moving, always moving, traveling from world to world; ever deeper into the galaxy, towards the center where the suns were close and planets thick. Into a region where the very name of Earth was a legend, its position unknown.

"No almanac lists the coordinates," he said. "No navigational chart shows any world by that name. You, everyone, thinks it is only a world of legend. Yet I know that it is real and, being real, it is to be found. One day I shall find it."

With the aid of clues picked up over the years; fragments of data which could, eventually, be assembled into a whole. A second name, Terra; the sun around which it circled, a G-type star; the names given to constellations seen from its northern hemisphere; the sector of space in which it must lie.

He said again, "One day I will find it."

Arbush sipped at his brandy then said, quietly, "Yes, Earl. I think that you will."

* * * * *

Dawn broke with clear skies, the storm over; the snow which had been carried on the wind now lying in a soft blanket of deceptive smoothness through which they floundered, fighting every inch of the way.

With snowshoes it would have been simple, progress fast and relatively undemanding; but they had no snowshoes and nothing from which they could be made. Blue, shivering, Arbush collapsed to roll and stare blankly at the sky.

"Earl, I'm not going to make it Maybe you'd better press on alone."

"No."

"I'm beat. My hands are frozen, my feet. I've lost all feeling in my fingers." He tried to smile, a death-like grimace which cracked the rim of ice on his lips. "What good's a minstrel who can't pluck a string? Leave me, Earl; but, before you go-"

"I'll kill you when I have to, not before." Dumarest was harsh. "Get up, you fat fool!"

"I can't!"

"You can! You will!"

Arbush closed his eyes, his head lolling from side to side, too exhausted to argue.

Dumarest stared down at him, fighting the dizziness which made snow and sky wheel in nauseating circles; the weakness of legs and body which threatened to send him to the ground. It was tempting to rest for a while; to sit and lie and cease all effort. To close his eyes and yield to the fatigue which dulled his brain. To sleep never to waken. To find the endless, eternal peace of death.

"You've got to help me. I'm in pain. I need your help to use the rest of the drugs." It was like talking to the dead.

"Get up on your feet, man. I can't make it alone. I need your help. Get up, damn you. You owe it to me."

Arbush whispered, "Sorry, Earl. Sorry. I-"

"Talk," sneered Dumarest. "The madness you spoke about. You wanted adventure, you said. Or did you take a woman who wasn't yours and had to run? Was that your courage? No wonder you stayed on the Styast. Who else would have you? A fat lying, dirty coward, full of bad music and pitiful songs. You should have died when we landed. Shalout would have had more guts than you. Even Beint, with only one hand, would have put up a better fight. You scum! You filth! Get up and act like a man!"

Anger was a good anodyne for despair, but the attempt to arouse it met with the same result as the appeal.

Only the spur of physical pain was left.

Dumarest knelt, gasping, feeling the blood in his throat and his mouth. He coughed and spat a ruby stream, dark, filled with bubbles. Resting his fingers on the cold flesh of the minstrel's face, he pressed the tips against the closed eyes. Gently, too much would blind, not enough have no effect.

Arbush moaned, writhing, one arm lifting to weakly knock the hand aside.

Dumarest coughed again and beat his hands together, steadily, relentlessly; feeling the numbed flesh begin to tingle. Warmed he sent his right hand over the fat body, feeling the swell of the rotund belly, the thickness of the thighs, the tender flesh between.

Gripping, he squeezed.

Arbush screamed like a stricken beast.

"Earl! For God's sake!"

"Up!" snarled Dumarest. "Get on your feet!"

He fumbled for the last of the drugs as the minstrel heaved himself from the snow, used them, threw the hypogun to one side.

Pointing to a ridge which cut the sky ahead he said, "There. We must reach it before we stop. Now move!"