A GRILLE of bars and metal wire was down across the entrance of
the outer court. When they reached it their captive snickered. He
had snapped out of his first panic-surprise, and though he was
quite helpless in Kimber's hands, the voice with which he asked a
question now was entirely self-possessed.
"How do you propose to get past this?"
The pilot met that demand almost jauntily. "I suppose that this
is equipped with a time lock?"
The Laurel Wearer did not reply to that, he had a second demand:
"Who are you?"
"What if I should say a rebel?"
But that was the wrong answer. The man's lips thinned to a
single cruel line.
"So—" his half-whisper was soft but it promised deadly
reprisals, "Lossler dares this, does he? Lossler!"
But Kimber had no time for that. He shoved the captive into
Dard's ready hands before he applied a black disc to the grille's
lock. There was a crackle, a shower of spitting sparks. Then Kimber
struck the barrier with his shoulder and it yielded. Taking the
prisoner with them, they went out into the freedom of the
night.
The town was in darkness, a dark broken only by a scattering of
street lights. The full moon picked out light and shadow in vivid
black and white across the snow on roofs and yards.
"March!" Kimber pushed the captive before him in the direction
of the 'copter park. Dard trotted behind, nervously alert, not yet
daring to believe that they had been successful.
Before they came onto the crumbling concrete of the takeoff
Kimber had instructions for the Laurel Wearer.
"We're going to take a 'copter," he explained—bored— as if he
were discussing a dull report. "and, once we do that, we shall have
no more use for you, understand? It remains entirely up to you in
what condition you shall be left behind—"
"And you can tell Lossler from me," the words came slowly,
ground out one by one between teeth set close together, "that he is
not going to get away with this!"
"Only we are getting away with it, aren't we? Now step right
ahead—we are all friends—in case there is a guard on duty . You
shall see us off and we will trouble you no more."
"But why?" protested the other. "What did you want here?"
"What did we want? That is a minor problem and you shall have
all the rest of the night to solve it—if you can. Now, where's the
guard?"
When the man made no answer Kimber's hand moved and brought a
gasp of pain from the captive.
"Where—is—the—guard?" repeated the pilot, his patience iced
by frigid promise of worse things to come.
"Three guards—gate and patrol—" came the gritted return.
"Excellent. Try to answer more promptly next time. You shall
escort us through the gate. We are being sent by you on a special
mission."
Just as Dard saw the black and white coat at the entrance the
command snapped out:
"Halt!"
Kimber obediently brought their procession of three to a
stop.
"Speak your piece," he whispered.
"Pax, brother."
Dard was alert—waiting for some warning to that sentry. But
Kimber must have taken precautions, for the voice of the Laurel
Wearer sounded natural.
"Laurel Wearer Dawson on special business of the Company—"
The guard saluted. "Pass, Noble Dawson!"
Dard closed in on the heels of Kimber and Dawson with all the
military bearing he could muster. He held the pose until they were
passing along the row of idle 'copters. Then Kimber spoke to his
fellow conspirator.
"There's the little matter of fuel. Climb into that baby and
check the reading on the top dial in the row directly before the
control stick. If it registers between forty and sixty—sing out.
If it doesn't, we'll have to try the next."
Dard crawled into the seat and found the light button.
Between between forty and sixty! White figures danced crazily until
he forced his nerves under control. "Fifty-three," he called out
softly.
What Kimber intended to do with Dawson Dard never learned. For,
at the moment, the Laurel Wearer gave a sudden heave, throwing
himself down and trying to drag the pilot with him. At the same
time he shouted, and that cry must have carried not only across the
field, but into the Temple as well.
Dard hurled himself at the door of the 'copter. But before he
could get out he saw an arm rise and fall in a deadly blow. A
second scream for help was cut off in the middle and the pilot
jumped for the machine. Dard found himself face down while the
pilot scrambled over him to the controls. The 'copter lurched, the
open door banging until Kimber was able to pull it to. They were
airborne, and not a moment too soon as the whip crack of a shot
testified.
The boy pulled up on the seat, trying to see behind them. Was
that another 'copter rising? Or would they have more of a start
before pursuit would be on their tail?
"Couldn't expect our luck to last forever," Kimber murmured.
"How about it, kid? Do they have anything up yet? Evasive action
right now would be tough."
There was an ominous wink of red light now in the sky.
"Someone's coming up—wing lights showing."
"Wing lights, eh? Well, well, well. aren't we both the forgetful
boys though." Kimber's hand went out to snap down a small
lever.
From the corner of his eye Dard saw their own tell-tale wing-tip
gleams disappear. But the pursuer made no move to shut his off—or
else he did not care if he betrayed his position.
"I have now only one question," the pilot continued half to
himself. "Who is Lossler and why did our dear friend back there
expect trouble from him? A split within the ranks of Pax—it smells
like that. Too bad we didn't know about this Lossler complication
sooner."
"Would such a split make any difference in your plans?"
"No, but we could have had a lot more fun these past few months.
And playing one group against the other might have paid off. Like
tonight—this Lossler may take the blame for us, and no one will
come nosing around the Cleft for the crucial time we have left
here. What the—!"
Kimber's body strained forward, he was suddenly intent upon the
dials before him. Then he reached out to rap smartly on the very
indicator he had told Dard to check before they had taken the
'copter. The needle behind the cracked glass remained as stationary
its if it were painted across the numbers it half obscured. A line
drew Kimber's brows together. Again he struck the glass, trying to
jar loose the needle. Then he settled back in the seat.
"Dear me," he might have been remarking on the brightness of the
night, "now we do have a problem. How much fuel? Is the tank full
part full, or deuced near empty? I thought this was all a little
too smooth. Now we may have to—"
The smooth purr of the motor caught in a cough, and then picked
up beat again. But Kimber shrugged resignedly.
"It is now not a question of 'may have to,' that cough was a
promise that we are going to walk. How about our friend
behind?"
"Coming strong," Dard was forced to admit.
"Which makes the situation very jolly indeed. We could do with
less of this blasted moonlight! A few clouds hanging about would
help."
The engine chose that moment to cough again and this time the
pickup was delayed longer than before.
"Three or four drops more, maybe. Better set her down before we
have to pancake. Now where're a lot of nice dark shadows?
Ha—trees! And there's only one 'copter behind us—sure?"
"Sure." Dard verified that point before he answered.
"So, we have to do it the hard way. Here we go, m'lad."
The 'copter came down a field away from the road they had
followed, landing heavily in a sizable drift. On the other side of
a low wall was a clump of trees. And—Dard was pretty sure—he had
sighted the outline of a house beyond.
They scrambled out and jumped the wall, struggling out off the
soft snow into the grove. From behind came the sound of the other
'copter. Those in it must have sighted the machine on the ground at
once, they were heading unerringly toward it.
"There's a house that way," Dard panted as Kimber plowed ahead
with the determination of breaking beyond the thin screen of
trees.
"Any chance of finding some transportation there?"
"None of the landsmen have surface cars any more. Folley had a
double A rating, and Lotta said his application for one was turned
down twice. Horses—maybe . . ."
Kimber expelled a snort. "Horses, yet," he addressed the night.
"And me not knowing which end of the animal is which!"
"We'd get away faster mounted," Dard sputtered as he slipped on
a piece of iced crust and fell into the spiky embrace of a bush.
"They'll probably put hounds on us—we're so near to town."
Kimber's pace slowed. "I'd forgotten those pleasures of
civilization" he observed. "Do they use dogs a lot in
tracking?"
"Depends on how important the tracked are."
"And we're probably number one on their list of public enemies
now. Yes, nothing like being worthy of dogs and no meat to throw
behind us! All right, let's descend upon this house and see how
many horses or reasonable facsimile of same we can find."
But when they reached the end of the grove they stopped. Lights
showed in three house windows and they reached far enough across
the snow-crusted road to reveal a 'copter there. Kimber laughed
without any amusement at all.
"That bird by the machine is waving a rifle."
"Wait!" Dard caught at the pilot as Kimber started out of fine
brush.
Yes, he had been right—there was another 'copter coming! He felt
Kimber tense in his hold.
"If they have any brains at all," the pilot whispered, "they'll
box us up! We've got to get out."
But Dard held him fast.
"You're trying for the road," the boy objected.
"Of course! We daren't get lost now—and that is our only guide
back. Or do you know this country well enough to go skating off
into the midst of nowhere?"
Dard kept his hold on the other. "I know something— that this
is the only road leading to the mountains, yes. But we can't take
it unless . . ."
He took his hands from Kimber and pulled up the edge of the
jacket he wore—the black jacket trimmed in white. With numb fingers
he pulled buttons roughly out of holes and stripped off the too
large garment. He had been right! The black fabric was completely
lined with the same white which made the deep cuffs and the
throat-fretting stand-up collar. And the breeches were white, too.
With frantic haste he thrust sleeves wrongside out. Kimber watched
him until he caught on and a minute later the pilot was reversing
his own coat. White against white—if they kept in the ditches—if
dogs were not brought—they still had a thin chance of escaping
notice. They half fell, half plunged into the ditch beside the road
just as a second 'copter came to earth. Dard counted at least six
men fanning out in a circle from it, beginning a stealthy prowl
into the grove they had left. Neither of the fugitives waited
longer, but, half crouched, scurried along between the dry brush
which partly filled the ditch and the ragged hedges walling the
fields. The skin between Dard's shoulder blades crawled as he
expected momentarily to feel the deadly impact of a bullet. Tonight
death was a closer companion than the pilot whose boots kicked snow
into his sweating face.
Some time later they reached the curve of a farm lane and dared
to venture out in the open to skim across it. The cold pinched at
them now. As warm as the uniform had seemed when they rode in the
heated 'copter cabin, it was little defense against the chill cut
of the wind which powdered them with scooped-up puffs of snow. Dard
watched the moon anxiously. No clouds to dim that. But clouds meant
storm—and they dared not be caught in the open by a storm.
Kimber settled down to a lope which Dard found easy to match.
How far they now were from the Cleft he had no way of knowing. And
how long was it going to take them to get back? Did Kimber know the
trail after they had to turn off the road? He himself might be able
to find the path which led from the farm. But where was the
farm?
"How far was your farm from that town?"
"About ten miles. But with all this snow—" Dard's breath made a
white cloud about his head.
"Yes—the snow. And maybe more of it later. Look here, kid, this
is the important part. We haven't too much time—"
"They may wait until morning to trail us. And if they bring
dogs—"
"I don't mean that!" It appeared to Dard that Kimber waved away
the idea of pursuit as if that did not matter.
"This is what counts. The course the Voice set for us—I asked
before we left how long it was good for. The answer was five days
and two hours. Now I figure we have about five days and forty-five
minutes. We have to blast off within that time or try a second
visit to the Voice. Frankly, I think that would be hopeless."
"Five days and forty-five minutes," Dard echoed. "But, even if
we have luck all the way it might take two—three days to reach the
Cleft. And we haven't supplies—"
"Let us hope Kordov has kept things moving there," was Kimber's
only comment. "And waiting here now isn't adding to our time.
Come on."
Twice through the hours which followed they took to cover as
'copters went over. The machines ranged with an angry intentness in
a circle and it hardly seemed possible that the fugitives could
escape notice. But maybe it was their white clothing which kept
them invisible.
The sun was up when Dard caught at the end of a rime-eaten post
projecting from the snow, swinging around to face the track it
marked.
"Our farm lane," he bit off the words with economy as he rocked
on his feet. To have made it this far—so soon. The 'copter must
have taken them a good distance from town before it failed.
"Sure it is your place?"
Dard nodded, wasting no breath.
"Hmm." Kimber studied the unbroken white. "Prints on that are
going to show up as well as ink. But no help for it."
"I wonder. The place was burnt—no supplies to be found
there."
"Got a better suggestion?" Kimber's face was drawn and gaunt
now.
"Folley's."
"But I thought—"
"Folley's dead. He ran the place with three work slaves. His son
was tapped as a Peaceman recruit a month ago. Suppose we were to
smarten up and just tramp in, Say that our 'copter broke down in
the hills and we walked in to get help—"
Kimber's eyes snapped alive. "And that does happen to these lame
brains often enough. How many might be at the farm?"
"Folley's second wife, his daughter, the work slaves. I don't
think he got an overseer after his son left."
"And they'd be only too willing to help Peacemen in distress!
But they'll know you—"
"I've never seen Folley's wife—we didn't visit. And
Lotta—well, she let me go before. But it's a better chance than
trying to get into the mountains from here."
They tramped on, in the open now. And, at the end of Folley's
lane, they reversed their jackets, shaking off what they could of
the snow. They were still disheveled but a 'copter failure should
account for that.
"After all," Kimber pointed out as they climbed the slight rise
to the ugly farmhouse, "Peacemen don't explain to landsmen. If we
ask questions and don't volunteer much we'll only be acting in
character. It all depends on whether they've heard about the
chase—"
Smoke arose from the chimney and Dard did not miss the betraying
twitch at one of the curtains in a window facing the lane. The
arrival was known. Lotta—everything depended now upon Lotta. He
shot a glance at Kimber. All the good humor and amusement were
wiped from that dark face. This was a tough—very tough muscle-boy,
a typical Peaceman who would have no nonsense from a landsman.
The door on the porch which ran the side length of the house
opened before they had taken two steps along the cleaned boards. A
woman waited for them, her hands tugging smooth a food-spattered
apron, an uneasy half-smirk spreading her lips to display a missing
front tooth.
"Pax, noble sirs—Pax." Her voice was as fat and oily as her body
and sounded more assured than her expression.
Kimber sketched a version of the official salute and rapped out
an answering "Pax—" in an authority-heavy tone. "This is—?"
Grotesquely she bobbed in an attempt at a curtsey. "The farm of
Hew Folley, noble sir."
"And where is this Folley?" Kimber asked as if he expected the
missing landsman to spring up before him.
"He is dead, sir. Murdered by outlaws. I thought that was why—But come in, noble sirs, come in—" She waddled back a step leaving
the entrance to the kitchen open.
The rich smell of food caught at Dard's throat, until, for a
second, he was almost nauseated. There were thick dishes on the
stained table, and congealed grease, a fragment of bread, a half
cup of herb tea, marked the remains of a late breakfast.
Without answering the woman's half-question Kimber seated
himself on the nearest chair and with an outstretched arm swept the
used dishes from before him. Dard dropped down opposite to the
pilot, thankful for the support the hard wooden seat gave his
trembling body.
"You have food, woman?" Kimber demanded. "Get it. We have been
walking over this forsaken country for hours. Is there a messenger
here we can send into town? Our 'copter is down and we must have
the repair crew."
She was busy at the stove, breaking eggs, real eggs, into a
greasy skillet.
"Food, yes, noble sirs. But a messenger—since my man is dead I
have only the slaves, and they are under lock and key. There is no
one to send."
"You have no son?" Kimber helped himself to a piece of
bread.
Her nervous smirk stretched to a smile. "Yes, noble sir, I have
a son. But only this month he was chosen by the House of the Olive
Branch. He is now in training for your own service, noble sir."
If she expected this information to unbend her visitors and
soften their manners she was disappointed for Kimber merely raised
his eyebrows before he continued:
"We can't walk to town ourselves, woman. Have you no one at all
you can send?"
"There is Lotta." She went to the door and called the girl's
name harshly. "With Hew gone she must see to the cows. But it is a
long walk to town, noble sir."
"Then ride—or how do you get there when you go woman?" Kimber
slid three eggs onto his plate and pushed the still-laden platter
over to Dard, who, a little dazed by the sight of such a wealth of
food, made haste to help himself before it vanished.
"There is the colt. She might ride," the woman agreed
reluctantly.
"Then let her get to it. I don't intend to sit out the whole of
this day waiting for help. The sooner she goes, the better!"
"You want me?"
Dard knew that voice. For a long moment he dared not look up.
But that inner compulsion which made him always face danger
squarely raised his eyes to meet those of the girl standing in the
half-open door. His fingers curled around the handle of the fork
and bent it a trifle. But Lotta's stolid expression did not change
and he could only hope that his own face was as blank.
"You want me?" she repeated.
The woman nodded at the two Peacemen. "These gentlemen—their
'copter broke down. They want you should take a message to town for
them. Git the colt out and ride."
"All right." The girl tramped out and slammed the door behind
her.
A GRILLE of bars and metal wire was down across the entrance of
the outer court. When they reached it their captive snickered. He
had snapped out of his first panic-surprise, and though he was
quite helpless in Kimber's hands, the voice with which he asked a
question now was entirely self-possessed.
"How do you propose to get past this?"
The pilot met that demand almost jauntily. "I suppose that this
is equipped with a time lock?"
The Laurel Wearer did not reply to that, he had a second demand:
"Who are you?"
"What if I should say a rebel?"
But that was the wrong answer. The man's lips thinned to a
single cruel line.
"So—" his half-whisper was soft but it promised deadly
reprisals, "Lossler dares this, does he? Lossler!"
But Kimber had no time for that. He shoved the captive into
Dard's ready hands before he applied a black disc to the grille's
lock. There was a crackle, a shower of spitting sparks. Then Kimber
struck the barrier with his shoulder and it yielded. Taking the
prisoner with them, they went out into the freedom of the
night.
The town was in darkness, a dark broken only by a scattering of
street lights. The full moon picked out light and shadow in vivid
black and white across the snow on roofs and yards.
"March!" Kimber pushed the captive before him in the direction
of the 'copter park. Dard trotted behind, nervously alert, not yet
daring to believe that they had been successful.
Before they came onto the crumbling concrete of the takeoff
Kimber had instructions for the Laurel Wearer.
"We're going to take a 'copter," he explained—bored— as if he
were discussing a dull report. "and, once we do that, we shall have
no more use for you, understand? It remains entirely up to you in
what condition you shall be left behind—"
"And you can tell Lossler from me," the words came slowly,
ground out one by one between teeth set close together, "that he is
not going to get away with this!"
"Only we are getting away with it, aren't we? Now step right
ahead—we are all friends—in case there is a guard on duty . You
shall see us off and we will trouble you no more."
"But why?" protested the other. "What did you want here?"
"What did we want? That is a minor problem and you shall have
all the rest of the night to solve it—if you can. Now, where's the
guard?"
When the man made no answer Kimber's hand moved and brought a
gasp of pain from the captive.
"Where—is—the—guard?" repeated the pilot, his patience iced
by frigid promise of worse things to come.
"Three guards—gate and patrol—" came the gritted return.
"Excellent. Try to answer more promptly next time. You shall
escort us through the gate. We are being sent by you on a special
mission."
Just as Dard saw the black and white coat at the entrance the
command snapped out:
"Halt!"
Kimber obediently brought their procession of three to a
stop.
"Speak your piece," he whispered.
"Pax, brother."
Dard was alert—waiting for some warning to that sentry. But
Kimber must have taken precautions, for the voice of the Laurel
Wearer sounded natural.
"Laurel Wearer Dawson on special business of the Company—"
The guard saluted. "Pass, Noble Dawson!"
Dard closed in on the heels of Kimber and Dawson with all the
military bearing he could muster. He held the pose until they were
passing along the row of idle 'copters. Then Kimber spoke to his
fellow conspirator.
"There's the little matter of fuel. Climb into that baby and
check the reading on the top dial in the row directly before the
control stick. If it registers between forty and sixty—sing out.
If it doesn't, we'll have to try the next."
Dard crawled into the seat and found the light button.
Between between forty and sixty! White figures danced crazily until
he forced his nerves under control. "Fifty-three," he called out
softly.
What Kimber intended to do with Dawson Dard never learned. For,
at the moment, the Laurel Wearer gave a sudden heave, throwing
himself down and trying to drag the pilot with him. At the same
time he shouted, and that cry must have carried not only across the
field, but into the Temple as well.
Dard hurled himself at the door of the 'copter. But before he
could get out he saw an arm rise and fall in a deadly blow. A
second scream for help was cut off in the middle and the pilot
jumped for the machine. Dard found himself face down while the
pilot scrambled over him to the controls. The 'copter lurched, the
open door banging until Kimber was able to pull it to. They were
airborne, and not a moment too soon as the whip crack of a shot
testified.
The boy pulled up on the seat, trying to see behind them. Was
that another 'copter rising? Or would they have more of a start
before pursuit would be on their tail?
"Couldn't expect our luck to last forever," Kimber murmured.
"How about it, kid? Do they have anything up yet? Evasive action
right now would be tough."
There was an ominous wink of red light now in the sky.
"Someone's coming up—wing lights showing."
"Wing lights, eh? Well, well, well. aren't we both the forgetful
boys though." Kimber's hand went out to snap down a small
lever.
From the corner of his eye Dard saw their own tell-tale wing-tip
gleams disappear. But the pursuer made no move to shut his off—or
else he did not care if he betrayed his position.
"I have now only one question," the pilot continued half to
himself. "Who is Lossler and why did our dear friend back there
expect trouble from him? A split within the ranks of Pax—it smells
like that. Too bad we didn't know about this Lossler complication
sooner."
"Would such a split make any difference in your plans?"
"No, but we could have had a lot more fun these past few months.
And playing one group against the other might have paid off. Like
tonight—this Lossler may take the blame for us, and no one will
come nosing around the Cleft for the crucial time we have left
here. What the—!"
Kimber's body strained forward, he was suddenly intent upon the
dials before him. Then he reached out to rap smartly on the very
indicator he had told Dard to check before they had taken the
'copter. The needle behind the cracked glass remained as stationary
its if it were painted across the numbers it half obscured. A line
drew Kimber's brows together. Again he struck the glass, trying to
jar loose the needle. Then he settled back in the seat.
"Dear me," he might have been remarking on the brightness of the
night, "now we do have a problem. How much fuel? Is the tank full
part full, or deuced near empty? I thought this was all a little
too smooth. Now we may have to—"
The smooth purr of the motor caught in a cough, and then picked
up beat again. But Kimber shrugged resignedly.
"It is now not a question of 'may have to,' that cough was a
promise that we are going to walk. How about our friend
behind?"
"Coming strong," Dard was forced to admit.
"Which makes the situation very jolly indeed. We could do with
less of this blasted moonlight! A few clouds hanging about would
help."
The engine chose that moment to cough again and this time the
pickup was delayed longer than before.
"Three or four drops more, maybe. Better set her down before we
have to pancake. Now where're a lot of nice dark shadows?
Ha—trees! And there's only one 'copter behind us—sure?"
"Sure." Dard verified that point before he answered.
"So, we have to do it the hard way. Here we go, m'lad."
The 'copter came down a field away from the road they had
followed, landing heavily in a sizable drift. On the other side of
a low wall was a clump of trees. And—Dard was pretty sure—he had
sighted the outline of a house beyond.
They scrambled out and jumped the wall, struggling out off the
soft snow into the grove. From behind came the sound of the other
'copter. Those in it must have sighted the machine on the ground at
once, they were heading unerringly toward it.
"There's a house that way," Dard panted as Kimber plowed ahead
with the determination of breaking beyond the thin screen of
trees.
"Any chance of finding some transportation there?"
"None of the landsmen have surface cars any more. Folley had a
double A rating, and Lotta said his application for one was turned
down twice. Horses—maybe . . ."
Kimber expelled a snort. "Horses, yet," he addressed the night.
"And me not knowing which end of the animal is which!"
"We'd get away faster mounted," Dard sputtered as he slipped on
a piece of iced crust and fell into the spiky embrace of a bush.
"They'll probably put hounds on us—we're so near to town."
Kimber's pace slowed. "I'd forgotten those pleasures of
civilization" he observed. "Do they use dogs a lot in
tracking?"
"Depends on how important the tracked are."
"And we're probably number one on their list of public enemies
now. Yes, nothing like being worthy of dogs and no meat to throw
behind us! All right, let's descend upon this house and see how
many horses or reasonable facsimile of same we can find."
But when they reached the end of the grove they stopped. Lights
showed in three house windows and they reached far enough across
the snow-crusted road to reveal a 'copter there. Kimber laughed
without any amusement at all.
"That bird by the machine is waving a rifle."
"Wait!" Dard caught at the pilot as Kimber started out of fine
brush.
Yes, he had been right—there was another 'copter coming! He felt
Kimber tense in his hold.
"If they have any brains at all," the pilot whispered, "they'll
box us up! We've got to get out."
But Dard held him fast.
"You're trying for the road," the boy objected.
"Of course! We daren't get lost now—and that is our only guide
back. Or do you know this country well enough to go skating off
into the midst of nowhere?"
Dard kept his hold on the other. "I know something— that this
is the only road leading to the mountains, yes. But we can't take
it unless . . ."
He took his hands from Kimber and pulled up the edge of the
jacket he wore—the black jacket trimmed in white. With numb fingers
he pulled buttons roughly out of holes and stripped off the too
large garment. He had been right! The black fabric was completely
lined with the same white which made the deep cuffs and the
throat-fretting stand-up collar. And the breeches were white, too.
With frantic haste he thrust sleeves wrongside out. Kimber watched
him until he caught on and a minute later the pilot was reversing
his own coat. White against white—if they kept in the ditches—if
dogs were not brought—they still had a thin chance of escaping
notice. They half fell, half plunged into the ditch beside the road
just as a second 'copter came to earth. Dard counted at least six
men fanning out in a circle from it, beginning a stealthy prowl
into the grove they had left. Neither of the fugitives waited
longer, but, half crouched, scurried along between the dry brush
which partly filled the ditch and the ragged hedges walling the
fields. The skin between Dard's shoulder blades crawled as he
expected momentarily to feel the deadly impact of a bullet. Tonight
death was a closer companion than the pilot whose boots kicked snow
into his sweating face.
Some time later they reached the curve of a farm lane and dared
to venture out in the open to skim across it. The cold pinched at
them now. As warm as the uniform had seemed when they rode in the
heated 'copter cabin, it was little defense against the chill cut
of the wind which powdered them with scooped-up puffs of snow. Dard
watched the moon anxiously. No clouds to dim that. But clouds meant
storm—and they dared not be caught in the open by a storm.
Kimber settled down to a lope which Dard found easy to match.
How far they now were from the Cleft he had no way of knowing. And
how long was it going to take them to get back? Did Kimber know the
trail after they had to turn off the road? He himself might be able
to find the path which led from the farm. But where was the
farm?
"How far was your farm from that town?"
"About ten miles. But with all this snow—" Dard's breath made a
white cloud about his head.
"Yes—the snow. And maybe more of it later. Look here, kid, this
is the important part. We haven't too much time—"
"They may wait until morning to trail us. And if they bring
dogs—"
"I don't mean that!" It appeared to Dard that Kimber waved away
the idea of pursuit as if that did not matter.
"This is what counts. The course the Voice set for us—I asked
before we left how long it was good for. The answer was five days
and two hours. Now I figure we have about five days and forty-five
minutes. We have to blast off within that time or try a second
visit to the Voice. Frankly, I think that would be hopeless."
"Five days and forty-five minutes," Dard echoed. "But, even if
we have luck all the way it might take two—three days to reach the
Cleft. And we haven't supplies—"
"Let us hope Kordov has kept things moving there," was Kimber's
only comment. "And waiting here now isn't adding to our time.
Come on."
Twice through the hours which followed they took to cover as
'copters went over. The machines ranged with an angry intentness in
a circle and it hardly seemed possible that the fugitives could
escape notice. But maybe it was their white clothing which kept
them invisible.
The sun was up when Dard caught at the end of a rime-eaten post
projecting from the snow, swinging around to face the track it
marked.
"Our farm lane," he bit off the words with economy as he rocked
on his feet. To have made it this far—so soon. The 'copter must
have taken them a good distance from town before it failed.
"Sure it is your place?"
Dard nodded, wasting no breath.
"Hmm." Kimber studied the unbroken white. "Prints on that are
going to show up as well as ink. But no help for it."
"I wonder. The place was burnt—no supplies to be found
there."
"Got a better suggestion?" Kimber's face was drawn and gaunt
now.
"Folley's."
"But I thought—"
"Folley's dead. He ran the place with three work slaves. His son
was tapped as a Peaceman recruit a month ago. Suppose we were to
smarten up and just tramp in, Say that our 'copter broke down in
the hills and we walked in to get help—"
Kimber's eyes snapped alive. "And that does happen to these lame
brains often enough. How many might be at the farm?"
"Folley's second wife, his daughter, the work slaves. I don't
think he got an overseer after his son left."
"And they'd be only too willing to help Peacemen in distress!
But they'll know you—"
"I've never seen Folley's wife—we didn't visit. And
Lotta—well, she let me go before. But it's a better chance than
trying to get into the mountains from here."
They tramped on, in the open now. And, at the end of Folley's
lane, they reversed their jackets, shaking off what they could of
the snow. They were still disheveled but a 'copter failure should
account for that.
"After all," Kimber pointed out as they climbed the slight rise
to the ugly farmhouse, "Peacemen don't explain to landsmen. If we
ask questions and don't volunteer much we'll only be acting in
character. It all depends on whether they've heard about the
chase—"
Smoke arose from the chimney and Dard did not miss the betraying
twitch at one of the curtains in a window facing the lane. The
arrival was known. Lotta—everything depended now upon Lotta. He
shot a glance at Kimber. All the good humor and amusement were
wiped from that dark face. This was a tough—very tough muscle-boy,
a typical Peaceman who would have no nonsense from a landsman.
The door on the porch which ran the side length of the house
opened before they had taken two steps along the cleaned boards. A
woman waited for them, her hands tugging smooth a food-spattered
apron, an uneasy half-smirk spreading her lips to display a missing
front tooth.
"Pax, noble sirs—Pax." Her voice was as fat and oily as her body
and sounded more assured than her expression.
Kimber sketched a version of the official salute and rapped out
an answering "Pax—" in an authority-heavy tone. "This is—?"
Grotesquely she bobbed in an attempt at a curtsey. "The farm of
Hew Folley, noble sir."
"And where is this Folley?" Kimber asked as if he expected the
missing landsman to spring up before him.
"He is dead, sir. Murdered by outlaws. I thought that was why—But come in, noble sirs, come in—" She waddled back a step leaving
the entrance to the kitchen open.
The rich smell of food caught at Dard's throat, until, for a
second, he was almost nauseated. There were thick dishes on the
stained table, and congealed grease, a fragment of bread, a half
cup of herb tea, marked the remains of a late breakfast.
Without answering the woman's half-question Kimber seated
himself on the nearest chair and with an outstretched arm swept the
used dishes from before him. Dard dropped down opposite to the
pilot, thankful for the support the hard wooden seat gave his
trembling body.
"You have food, woman?" Kimber demanded. "Get it. We have been
walking over this forsaken country for hours. Is there a messenger
here we can send into town? Our 'copter is down and we must have
the repair crew."
She was busy at the stove, breaking eggs, real eggs, into a
greasy skillet.
"Food, yes, noble sirs. But a messenger—since my man is dead I
have only the slaves, and they are under lock and key. There is no
one to send."
"You have no son?" Kimber helped himself to a piece of
bread.
Her nervous smirk stretched to a smile. "Yes, noble sir, I have
a son. But only this month he was chosen by the House of the Olive
Branch. He is now in training for your own service, noble sir."
If she expected this information to unbend her visitors and
soften their manners she was disappointed for Kimber merely raised
his eyebrows before he continued:
"We can't walk to town ourselves, woman. Have you no one at all
you can send?"
"There is Lotta." She went to the door and called the girl's
name harshly. "With Hew gone she must see to the cows. But it is a
long walk to town, noble sir."
"Then ride—or how do you get there when you go woman?" Kimber
slid three eggs onto his plate and pushed the still-laden platter
over to Dard, who, a little dazed by the sight of such a wealth of
food, made haste to help himself before it vanished.
"There is the colt. She might ride," the woman agreed
reluctantly.
"Then let her get to it. I don't intend to sit out the whole of
this day waiting for help. The sooner she goes, the better!"
"You want me?"
Dard knew that voice. For a long moment he dared not look up.
But that inner compulsion which made him always face danger
squarely raised his eyes to meet those of the girl standing in the
half-open door. His fingers curled around the handle of the fork
and bent it a trifle. But Lotta's stolid expression did not change
and he could only hope that his own face was as blank.
"You want me?" she repeated.
The woman nodded at the two Peacemen. "These gentlemen—their
'copter broke down. They want you should take a message to town for
them. Git the colt out and ride."
"All right." The girl tramped out and slammed the door behind
her.