To wake, rising through layers of ebon chill to light and the stimulating warmth of the eddy currents . . . the scream shy;ing agony of returning circulation without the aid of drugs to numb the pain so that throat and lungs grew raw with the violence of shrieking torment.

Sheyan said quietly, "You've traveled Low?"

"Yes."

"Often?"

Dumarest nodded, thinking of a skein of barely remem shy;bered journeys when he'd traveled doped and frozen and 90 percent dead. Riding in the bleak cold section in caskets meant for the transport of livestock, risking the 15 percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. Risking, too, the possibility of a sadistic handler who reveled in the sight and sound of anguish.

"So Elgart's dead," mused Sheyan. "You could be right in what you assume, but he didn't play his tricks with me. Even so, he came from one of the big ships and a man doesn't do that without reason. You want his job?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I want to leave Aarn," said Dumarest. "Working a pas shy;sage is better than traveling Low."

Anything, thought Sheyan, was better than traveling Low; but Aarn was a busy world and a hard worker would have little trouble in gaining the cost of a High passage.

He leaned further back in his chair, shrewd eyes study shy;ing the figure standing before him. The man was honest, that he liked, and he was an opportunist-few would have acted so quickly to fill a dead man's shoes. He looked at the cloth shy;ing, at the spot above the right boot where the plastic caught the light with an extra gleam. The hilt of a blade would have caused such a burnishing and it was almost certain that the knife was now tucked safely out of sight beneath the tunic.

His eyes lifted higher, lingering on the hard planes and hollows of the face, the tight, almost cruel set of the mouth. It was the face of a man who had early learned to live without the protection of house, guild, or combine. The face of a loner, of a man, perhaps, who had good reason for wanting a quick passage away from the planet. But that was not his concern.

"You have had experience?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. "I've worked on ships before."

Sheyan smiled. "That is probably a lie," he said mildly. "Those who ride Middle rarely do anything else. But could you perform a handler's duties?"

"It was no lie," said Dumarest. "And the answer is yes."

Abruptly Sheyan made his decision. "This is a rough ship. A small ship. Snatching the trade others manage without. Short journeys, mostly, planet hopping with freight and such, heavy loads and hard work. You'll be paid like the rest of us, with a share of the profit. Sometimes we make a pile, but mostly we break even. At times we carry passengers who like to gamble. If you accommodate them I get a half of the profit."

"And if I lose?"

"If you can't win then don't play." Sheyan leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk. "Work hard, be willing, and cause no trouble. That way we'll get along. Questions?"

"When do we leave?"

"Soon. You'll find a uniform in Elgart's cabin." The captain looked curiously at his new handler. "Aren't you interested as to where we are bound?"

"I'll find out," said Dumarest, "when we get there."

The steward guided him to the cabin. He was young, recent to space with a voice which had barely broken, but already his eyes held a flowering hardness.

"Elgart was a pig," he said as he led the way from the captain's office. "Mean and close and hard to get along with. I'm glad he's dead."

Dumarest made no comment. Instead he looked at the walls and ceiling of the passage down which they passed. The plastic carried a thin patina of grime and was marked with a mesh of scratches. The floor was heavily scuffed, un shy;even in places, and showing signs of wear and neglect.

"My name is Linardo del Froshure del Brachontari del Hershray Klarge," said the steward as they reached the cabin door. "But everyone calls me Lin. Will it be all right for me to call you Earl?"

"I've no objection." Dumarest pushed open the door of the cabin and passed inside. It was as he'd expected: a bare room fitted with a bunk, a chair, a small table. Cabinets filled one wall; the others bore lurid photographs of naked women. A scrap of carpet, frayed, covered the floor, and a player stood on the table. He switched it on and the thin, piping strains of cazendal music filled the air.

"Elgart was a funny one," commented Lin. "That music and this other stuff." His eyes moved to the photographs. "A real weird."

Dumarest switched off the player. "How many in the crew?"

"Five. You've met the captain. Nimino's the navigator and Claude's the engineer. Both are out on business, but you'll meet them later. Nimino's another weird and Claude likes the bottle." The steward's eyes dropped to Dumarest's left hand, to the ring on his third finger. "Say, that's quite a thing you've got there."

"The ring?" Dumarest glanced at it, the flat, red stone set in the heavy band. "It was a gift from a friend."

"Some friend!" Lin was envious. "I wish I had friends like that. You're wearing the cost of a double High passage at least." He leaned forward so as to study the ring more closely. "My uncle's a lapidary," he explained. "He taught me something about gems. That was before my old man got himself killed and I had to earn a living. I think he wanted me to join him in the business, but what the hell! Who wants to spend their lives stuck in a shop? My chance came and I grabbed it while it was going. Another few years and I'll become an officer. Then for the big ships and the wide-open life."

"Is that what you want?"

"Sure. What could be better?"

It was the defiance of youth, but Dumarest knew what the youngster didn't. The wide-open life he dreamed of was nothing but an endless journeying between the stars, con shy;stantly bounded by the monotony of imprisoning walls. The years slipping past broken only by planetfalls and brief dis shy;sipation. Those who rode Middle lived lives of incredible restriction despite the journeys they made. Too often they found refuge in strange diversions and perverted pleasures.

"So you haven't been very long on the Moray?"

"No," Lin admitted. "But it's the best kind of life a man could have. Moving, traveling, seeing new things all the time. Always gambling that the cargo you're carrying will be the one to hit the jackpot. At least," he amended, "it is in the Web."

"Is that where you're from?"

"Sure. Laconis. You've heard of it?"

"No," said Dumarest. He looked thoughtfully at the stew shy;ard. The boy was eager to enhance his stature by imparting information. It would do no harm to encourage him and perhaps do some good. "Tell me about it."

Lin shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. It's just a place. Some agriculture, a little industry, some trading. Mostly we mine the ridges for rare metals and gems, but that's for prospectors, mostly. The yield is too low for a big operation. There's some fishing, but nothing special. It's just a place like most of the Web worlds. You'll see."

Dumarest frowned. "Is that where we're bound? The Web?"

"Didn't you know?"

"It's a long way from here. What's the Moray doing on Aarn if it's a Web trader?"

The engines went on the blink." Lin was casual. "The old man managed to get a cargo and decided to have a refit. The stuff barely paid for the energy to haul it, but at least we got here for free. And you don't get Erhaft genera shy;tors as cheap as you can get them on Aarn."

"New generators?"

"Hell, no!" Lin was disgusted. "We could have got those in the Web. Reconditioned-but they'll do the job. Claude checked them out and he's satisfied. After all, it's his neck too."

"Yes," said Dumarest dryly. "Let's hope that he remem shy;bered that."