"That's a joke."

"Any money at all?" With money he could buy a new hand, but who in Lowtown had money? "Any friends? Someone to look after you?"

"Just fix my hand," said the man. His eyes were dilated and he was still in shock. "Just fix me up and let me get back to work."

"Sure," soothed Wandara. "Next year, maybe. Now this is what you do: go and find the monks, tell Brother Glee that I said to fix that stump." He looked at Zopolis. "That right, Boss?"

Zopolis shrugged. "Why not? It's the best thing he can do. Better pay him off so he'll have something to buy drugs with. Count in this load." Then, to the pilot of the raft, he said, "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Weigh me in," snapped the man, "and forget that other helper. We'll split between those that are left. Hurry," he shouted as Wandara watched the injured man walk away towards the portable church. "We've got a living to earn."

It's started, thought Wandara as he checked the load and gave the man the signal to go ahead. A lopped-off hand and who could tell if it's an accident or not? Most probably it was, but who was really to blame, the man who had swung the machete, the man who had left his hand in the way, or the man who had cut the rate and so made them work all the harder?

It's all right for Zopolis. He can linger in the processing sheds where it's nice and cold and he doesn't have to check each load, sweating in the sun, driving men to the limit of their tolerance. There would be fights before the harvest was over, more men with "accidental" wounds, others who would come back screaming with the pain of searing acid or not come back at all with parasitical spores taking root in skin and lungs. They should wear their suits at all times, but how could they work like dogs dressed like that? So they took a chance and some of them paid for it.

Too many paid for it.

They paid for the greed of a company that didn't give a damn what happened as long as they made their profits.

"Don't forget what I said about that new scout you took on," said Zopolis. "Keep him at it."

"I'll do that," said Wandara. "Leave it to me, Boss."

Leave it all to me, he thought as the agent vanished into the cold interior of the processing shed. The hiring, the firing, the lot. But don't ask me to get rid of the new man, not when he paid me more than his wages to get the job.

In this life, a man's a fool not to look after himself.

Chapter Eight

The crimson shadows made it difficult to see and the sweat running into his eyes made it almost impossible. Dumarest blinked, wishing that he could remove his helmet, wipe his face and feel the soft wind from the sea. He blinked again, squinting at the stake held in his left hand. The cradled rock in his right hand seemed to weigh a ton. Slowly he lifted it and swung it against the head of the stake.

He did it slowly, because he ached with fatigue, because it was important he hit the target, and because he clung precariously to the slope and any sudden shift would send him from his hold.

If the upper stake didn't hold, both he and Clemdish would fall down to the cliff and the waiting sea.

Again he swung the crude mallet, feeling the jolt through both wrists as the dulled point bit deeper into the sun-baked dirt. When the stake was fifteen inches deep, he looped the rope around in a clove hitch.

"All right, start moving," he called to Clemdish.

Like a spider, the little man eased himself from where he sprawled against the almost sheer surface. The sound of his rock as he knocked free his stake was swallowed by the surrounding fungi, which made the descent even more perilous. Dumarest caught Clemdish by the foot as he scrabbled closer and guided it to the safety of the stake. He could hear the sound of the small man's breathing, harsh and ragged as it came through the diaphragm of his suit.

"Are you all right?"

"I'll manage," said Clemdish. He had no choice, but the pretense gave him comfort. "We're too close to go back now."

"Rest a minute," advised Dumarest. "Catch your breath and study what you're going to do next."

Move over and down to the right, he thought. Find a spot where you can halt and slam in a stake. Loop the rope around it while I follow and pass and repeat what we've done before. How often? He'd lost count. But the clump of golden spore couldn't be far now, not if the detector was correct, and there was no reason to think it was not. It was just a matter of moving like flies over the cluttered slope until they reached the haven of their destination.

Elementary mountaineering.

They had lost too many stakes; the four they had left were dull. They were both tired, too tired for safety, almost too tired to continue. But there was nothing else they could do.

Dirt and broken scraps of fungi showered as Clemdish scrabbled across the slope and downward, to where the golden spore should be. He halted and Dumarest heard the slow hammering of his rock, the silence and the call.

"All right, Earl."

The stake was stubborn and hard to shift. Dumarest left it knotted to the rope as he moved towards the little man; that way there was no danger of it slipping from his belt. He reached his partner, rested for a moment, and checked his position. The next leg would have to be almost straight down. Once he slipped and fell five feet before managing to roll into a clump of fungus. It yielded, but not before he had found new holds. He felt a tug at his waist and called for more slack. As he began to hammer in a stake, Clemdish fell.

He dropped the length of his rope and swung, hands and feet busy as they sought new holds. Before he could find them, the stake tore free.

Dumarest heard a yell and saw a shower of dirt and the plummeting figure of the little man. Fifty feet of rope separated them. When Clemdish reached the end of the slack, he would be torn from his holds. The stake was barely an inch deep, it would never support their combined weight.

Dumarest tore it free and flung himself to one side.

It was a gamble. Lower down and a little to his right, he'd seen a mound of slime which could have covered a boulder. If it did and he could get the other side of it so that the rope would hit the barrier, it could save both their lives.

He hit, rolling through yielding fungi and clawing as he rolled to gain more distance. He felt a savage jerk at his waist and then something slammed with great force against his back, almost stunning him with the impact. He managed to turn his head and saw naked rock where the rope had scraped it free of slime. The rope itself was pressed hard against the lower edge, taut as it pulled at his waist.

At the other end of it Clemdish would be suspended.

Dumarest laid his hand on the rope and felt vibration as if Clemdish were swinging or spinning. He waited until it had died and then, lining his feet, managed to get his boots against the boulder. Gently he pressed, throwing himself back so as to gain purchase on the rope, sweating for fear the boulder would suddenly rip free from its bed.

The rock held. Legs straightened, Dumarest began to haul up the rope. It was a direct pull with all the disadvantages of an awkward position. Sweat ran into his eyes as he hauled hand over hand, the muscles in back and shoulders cracking with the strain. Twice he had to pause and rest. Once he shifted positions he imagined he felt the boulder move a little beneath his feet. Finally, a suited figure appeared on the other side of the stone.

"Help me!" snapped Dumarest. "Take your weight. Quickly! If this boulder goes, we're both dead."

Clemdish lifted his hands and clawed at the dirt and the stone. Dumarest snagged the slack of the rope around his shoulders and, reaching back, managed to hammer in a stake. Looping the rope around it, he relaxed a little. Now, even if the boulder should fall, they still had a chance.