To reach the port, to dive inside, to find a nook in which to crouch. To wait, dozing, as the unaccustomed warmth gave a false security, to jerk to awareness, to doze again.
To wake heart pounding with terror at the touch of a hand, the sight of a startled face, another which scowled.
"By God, look what we have here! A damned stowaway."
"A kid."
"Still a stowaway. That's what you are, boy. Know how we treat scum like you? Into the lock and out, that's how. Dumped into the void. Your eyes'll pop out and your lungs will become balloons frothing from your mouth. You'll look like raw meat- ruined but still alive. A hell of a way to go."
"Don't make a meal of it." The other man was uneasy. "You don't have to gloat. Anyway, it's up to the skipper to decide."
The captain was old, his face lined, graced with tufted eyebrows, his nose pinched and set above a firm mouth.
"How old are you, boy? Ten? Eleven?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, what? Eleven?"
"Twelve, I think, sir. I'm not sure." The face before him blurred, jarred to clear focus. "Sir?"
"I could dump you but I won't. You can ride with us, working your passage. A hard life but better than what you've known." Again the blurring. "Food, warmth, security-but you'll earn it all."
"Sir? I-sir?"
But the face had gone and he looked at a glittering strand and the girl to which it led while, from the circle of which he was a part, came the groans and wails of those who had tasted an evil fruit.
"Wine?"
Kamala was beside him with her tray of beakers and Dumarest bought and sipped while retaining his place. The moment had been too short; memories revived and speeded by subjective time so that he had lived an hour, more, in a few minutes. Or was it simply that? Did the moment of terror, once experienced, form the whole of the incident?
He had been a boy again, back home on Earth, and only the ship and the captain's kindness had saved him from death. But there had been other moments of terror; times when through ignorance he had known the fear of a trapped animal. One augmented by the threats of sadistic members of the crew who had taken a perverse delight in relating stories of dreadful punishments inflicted for small wrongs.
Of burnings, beating, maiming, blinding-things which his experience had told him were all too possible.
Time had negated them; the savagery he had known had no place in any civilized community, but, until he had learned, terror had been a close companion.
"My lord?" Kamala again, looking at his barely touched wine, the spool still held in his free hand. "Is something wrong?"
Dumarest realized that he alone was left of the circle. Finishing the wine, he handed the woman the empty beaker. He followed it with coins.
Kamala refused them with a shake of the head.
"No, my lord, it would not be wise. I warned you against hearing the song again so soon. Yield again to terror and-"
"I won't go mad."
"So you say and it could well be true but others have made the same boast and failed to live up to it. I want no trouble."
Dumarest said, flatly, "I've the money and I'm in position. Rattle your chimes, woman, and stop wasting time."
"No."
"You want a higher fee? Double, then. Triple. Damn it, name your price!"
"No!" She backed from the anger blazing in his eyes, one hand lifting, steadying, the massive ring she wore on the index finger glowing with a metallic sheen. A weapon he recognized. "Baatz is a peaceful world," she said. "But a woman would be a fool to be without protection on any world and, my lord, I am not a fool. It would be best for you to leave now."
Advice he was reluctant to take. Pressed, he could negate the threat of the weapon, moving before she could discharge its darts, reaching her, twisting hand and wrist so as to obtain the ring. But if he used his superior speed and strength he would ensure her enmity. It was better to master his impatience.
"My lady, I must apologize." A smile replaced the anger which had frightened her. "I mean no harm and want no trouble. It was just that-well, I'm sure you understand."
"You're holding the spool."
"Is that bad?"
"Release it."
"Of course." He let it fall and watched as it moved toward the girl, the reel climbing the strand to hang at her belt. "I would like to talk business." He added, as she frowned, "At least let me make the offer."
"Melome sings no more today." Kalama was adamant. "She is tired and soon it will be dark. Not even for two hundred kobolds will she sing."
Twice what she would earn in a session; a score of spools hung at her waist. But if he should offer more? Dumarest decided against it; as Kalama had said, the girl was tired and the sky held the hint of coming darkness. In the softening light Melome stood like a broken animal, one which had been ridden too hard and too far. The lowered face was ghastly in its pallor, the bruised eyes ugly smears.
He said, "I understand, but I want her to sing for me again. A private performance-it can be arranged?"
"Perhaps." The lifted hand wavered a little, fell as, again, he smiled. "You want to buy her?"
"Hire her."
"For an hour, a day, a week?" Her lips twisted in a cynical lewdness. "It will not be as you hope. Those in the grip of terror make poor lovers."
Dumarest said, patiently, "I want her to sing and that is all. To sing to me alone and to keep on singing if I ask. Once may be enough. One song-two hundred and fifty?"
"Not tonight," she said quickly. "One song, you said. If you should want more?"
"Five hundred for as many as I want. For a session to end when I say so."
"Five songs only-and she stops if the strain is too great." Again her mouth displayed cynical distrust. "You have no objection to me being present?"
"None."
"And my instrumentalists?"
"I want her to sing," said Dumarest. "Nothing else." He jingled coins from one hand to the other. "Here is fifty as proof of my good faith. At dawn?"
"At midday. Be at the house of the Broken-no, better we visit you." Kalama nodded as he gave the address of the room he'd hired. "At noon then, my lord. Be patient in your waiting."