"No!" Clemdish was emphatic.

Dumarest sighed. "Be reasonable. What's the good of money to a dead man?"

"We won't be dead," said Clemdish. He rose, trembling. "No," he said again. "I mean it, Earl. I'm your partner, and I've a right to my say. That golden spore is ours!"

Dumarest remained silent.

"We can't afford to deal with a trader," said Clemdish earnestly. "You know what will happen. He'll work on a contingent basis. Even if he believes you and makes a deal, it will be all his way. First he'll charge for the cost of harvesting, then he'll want his cut and more. If we get a fifth of its value we'll be lucky. That's a tenth each, Earl."

"I could make a better deal than that," said Dumarest.

"I doubt it. The traders have formed themselves into a combine so you have to play the game their way. But even if you did up the percentage, that's all it would ever be-a part when you could have the whole. Why should we give money away?"

Dumarest stared at his partner. "We won't be giving money away," he reminded. "Well be collecting some trouble-free cash."

"The cost of a few high passages," said Clemdish bitterly. "And, when that's gone, what then? No, Earl. This is my chance to get rich, and I'm not letting any fat slob of a trader cash in on it. Well get the stuff if I have to crawl naked down the side of a mountain."

He was shouting, the metal walls vibrating to his vehemence, his face ugly with passion.

"Calm down," said Dumarest.

"That golden spore is mine!" shouted Clemdish. "Half of it anyway. We're partners, and don't you forget it!"

"I'm not forgetting it," snapped Dumarest. "Now, calm down. You want everyone to know our business?"

"I-" Clemdish gulped, suddenly aware of his stupidity. "I'm sorry, Earl. It's just that I can't let that spore go. It's the chance of a lifetime, and I've got to take it."

"All right," said Dumarest.

"It's the thing I've dreamed about," said Clemdish, "the one real chance to make a break."

Dumarest nodded, suddenly feeling the constriction of the walls, the cramped confines of the little room. A bed, a locker and tier of drawers both fitted with thumb-print locks, a metered entertainment screen and a single chair were the entire furnishings of the cubicle. To Clemdish it was luxury. How could he be blamed for wanting to break free?

"Get some sleep," said Dumarest quietly. "Soak up as much water as you can; eat some decent food, and keep quiet," he added. "What's done is done, but there's no sense in making things worse."

He left before Clemdish could answer, striding from the little room, down the echoing passage and out into the open air. The sun hit like the blast of a furnace and he blinked, pulling the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes. Dust swirled from beneath his boots as he walked from the dormitory. To one side, on the edge of the landing field, someone had erected a wide awning. Shouts rose from a group of men as they watched two others wrestle. They were crewmen from the waiting space ships, mostly, finding relaxation in primitive sport.

Wandara grinned with a brilliant flash of teeth as Dumarest approached the processing sheds. "Hello there, Earl, you come looking for work?"

Dumarest shook his head.

"That's a real pity. You'd make a good boss for one of the rafts, or would you like to go scouting? Top rates, and I won't bear down if you take time out to do some personal harvesting." The overseer winked. "Just as long as you remember old friends."

Dumarest smiled. "No thanks. I've got too much to do to work for basics. Ready for harvest yet?"

"Almost." Wandara turned to where a mass of fungi lay on a wide bench. Picking up a machete he hacked off a mass of liver-colored sponginess. "Brown glory," he said. "Tell me what you think."

Dumarest bit into the mass and chewed the succulent pulp. "Too early," he said. "The flavor still has to develop."

The overseer nodded. "Now this."

It was a mass of convoluted velvet spotted with blue and cerise. The texture was that of soft cake, the taste of a mixture of tart and sugar.

"About right," said Dumarest. He looked past the overseer to where the main processing shed stood closed. "Got all your staff yet?"

"We don't start them until we need them," said Wandara. "You know that. But Brother Glee is passing the word." He turned back to his bench, his machete glittering in the sun as he chopped the collected fungi to pieces for examination.

This batch was for testing and disposal. The rest would be for slicing and dehydrating by a quick-freeze process which kept the flavor intact. It would be packed for the markets of a hundred worlds. Gourmets light years apart would relish the soups and ragouts made from the fungi harvested on Scar.

Dumarest turned away and headed for the awning. A man called as he approached.

"Try this delicious confection, sir, spun sugar touched with the juice of rare fruits!"

Another said, "See the mating dance of the Adrimish. Feel the sting of their whips, the touch of their nails: full sensory recording."

A stooped crone was next. "Cold drinks, my lord, iced to tantalize and tease the tongue."

The small-time entrepreneurs of Scar were taking full advantage of the boredom attending late summer. A man sidled close and spoke in a whisper.

"A half share in a clump of golden spore, yours for the cost of a high passage."

From one side a man droned as he stooped over a crystal ball filled with minute and swarming life.

"See the epic struggle of the sharmen as they battle with alien spores. Watch as they turn into mobile balls of destructive vegetation. The next show about to commence. Two places yet to be filled."

A woman laughed as she danced to the dull thudding of a drum, coins scattering around her naked feet.

A roar lifted from the center of the crowd. A man rose, stripped to the waist, struggling against the hands which gripped hip and shoulder. He spun, twice, then was dashed to the ground.

"Brother!"

Dumarest turned to face the monk, looked at the lined face beneath the shielding cowl. "Brother Glee, how can I help you?"

"Not I, brother, but one who claims to be a friend of yours, a woman of Lowtown. She has a scarred cheek and neck."

"Selene?" Dumarest frowned. "She sold me food and shelter."

"Even so, brother. She asked for you."

"Why? Is something wrong?"

The monk nodded. "Of your charity, brother, will you come?"

* * *

She looked very small huddled on her bed of rags. The scar was hidden and, with her cropped hair, she seemed more like an adventurous boy than a mature woman who had seen too much of the hard side of life. Then she turned and Dumarest could see the rags and blood and the damage done to the side of her head.

"Earl?"

"Here." He found her hand and gripped it. "What happened?"

"Earl." Her fingers tightened. "I'm frightened, Earl. It's so dark, and it shouldn't be dark, not in summer, not like this."

Dumarest raised his head and looked at the monk standing on the other side of the bed. Brother Glee spoke before his junior could answer Dumarest's unspoken question.

"We were selecting those for work in the sheds of agent Zopolis. Men and women in the greatest need. Selene was one. We entered and found her lying in a pool of blood; she had been struck down."

"Why?"

"I do not know, brother," said the monk quietly. "But it was rumored that she had money hidden away."

Dumarest turned, looking at the interior of the hut. The corner which had held his bed was a jumbled mess. The chests had been wrenched open; scraps of fabric littered the floor. Even the plastic fragments lining the sagging roof had been torn down. Someone had searched the place with a furious desperation.

"Earl." Her voice was a fading whisper. "It's so dark, Earl, so dark!"