Eloise

"No almanac lists the coordinates," he said. "No navigational chart shows any world by that name. You, everyone, thinks it is only a world of legend. Yet I know that it is real and, being real, it is to be found. One day I shall find it."

With the aid of clues picked up over the years; fragments of data which could, eventually, be assembled into a whole. A second name, Terra; the sun around which it circled, a G-type star; the names given to constellations seen from its northern hemisphere; the sector of space in which it must lie.

He said again, "One day I will find it."

Arbush sipped at his brandy then said, quietly, "Yes, Earl. I think that you will."

* * * * *

Dawn broke with clear skies, the storm over; the snow which had been carried on the wind now lying in a soft blanket of deceptive smoothness through which they floundered, fighting every inch of the way.

With snowshoes it would have been simple, progress fast and relatively undemanding; but they had no snowshoes and nothing from which they could be made. Blue, shivering, Arbush collapsed to roll and stare blankly at the sky.

"Earl, I'm not going to make it Maybe you'd better press on alone."

"No."

"I'm beat. My hands are frozen, my feet. I've lost all feeling in my fingers." He tried to smile, a death-like grimace which cracked the rim of ice on his lips. "What good's a minstrel who can't pluck a string? Leave me, Earl; but, before you go-"

"I'll kill you when I have to, not before." Dumarest was harsh. "Get up, you fat fool!"

"I can't!"

"You can! You will!"

Arbush closed his eyes, his head lolling from side to side, too exhausted to argue.

Dumarest stared down at him, fighting the dizziness which made snow and sky wheel in nauseating circles; the weakness of legs and body which threatened to send him to the ground. It was tempting to rest for a while; to sit and lie and cease all effort. To close his eyes and yield to the fatigue which dulled his brain. To sleep never to waken. To find the endless, eternal peace of death.

"You've got to help me. I'm in pain. I need your help to use the rest of the drugs." It was like talking to the dead.

"Get up on your feet, man. I can't make it alone. I need your help. Get up, damn you. You owe it to me."

Arbush whispered, "Sorry, Earl. Sorry. I-"

"Talk," sneered Dumarest. "The madness you spoke about. You wanted adventure, you said. Or did you take a woman who wasn't yours and had to run? Was that your courage? No wonder you stayed on the Styast. Who else would have you? A fat lying, dirty coward, full of bad music and pitiful songs. You should have died when we landed. Shalout would have had more guts than you. Even Beint, with only one hand, would have put up a better fight. You scum! You filth! Get up and act like a man!"

Anger was a good anodyne for despair, but the attempt to arouse it met with the same result as the appeal.

Only the spur of physical pain was left.

Dumarest knelt, gasping, feeling the blood in his throat and his mouth. He coughed and spat a ruby stream, dark, filled with bubbles. Resting his fingers on the cold flesh of the minstrel's face, he pressed the tips against the closed eyes. Gently, too much would blind, not enough have no effect.

Arbush moaned, writhing, one arm lifting to weakly knock the hand aside.

Dumarest coughed again and beat his hands together, steadily, relentlessly; feeling the numbed flesh begin to tingle. Warmed he sent his right hand over the fat body, feeling the swell of the rotund belly, the thickness of the thighs, the tender flesh between.

Gripping, he squeezed.

Arbush screamed like a stricken beast.

"Earl! For God's sake!"

"Up!" snarled Dumarest. "Get on your feet!"

He fumbled for the last of the drugs as the minstrel heaved himself from the snow, used them, threw the hypogun to one side.

Pointing to a ridge which cut the sky ahead he said, "There. We must reach it before we stop. Now move!"

They made the ridge, another beyond it, a third over which they heaved themselves to rest; gasping, looking back over their trail. It wound like the path of a drunken snake; twice the length necessary had they been fit, able to surmount the mounds and hummocks around which it wended. Something moved at the far end.

"They're after us," wheezed Arbush. "Those men we saw before. Following us and waiting until we drop."

Scavengers, or simply men wanting revenge for those killed by the flying, armored figures. Dumarest looked at the sky; as yet it was clear, but should the flyers come they would present easy targets.

He said, "Let's get moving. The city should lie beyond that rim."

"We could signal, maybe," panted Arbush as he beat his way through the snow. "Use the lasers, tie something on an axe to use as a flag, anything."

"Maybe."

"Why not, Earl? They could come out and get us. Damn it, we need some help."

Food, warmth, medical attention, all could be waiting. A spur which kept Arbush moving, arms and legs working as if parts of a machine, his mind lost in an enticing dream.