"You're getting good," the captain grudgingly acknowledged, following one of Selby's rare victories. He glanced disdainfully at the first mate.

  "Better'n some people I know."

  "At least he doesn't brag when he wins," Snorkel retorted.

  Once when he found himself alone with the captain, Selby took advantage of their new-found rapport to clarify his mission. He spoke in harmless generalities. "The SocAd director wants a more complete report on the boy you saw," he explained.

  "I figured that," answered Cromwell sourly. "What's he after?"

  "Everyone's skeptical."

  "I saw it all right," Cromwell returned indignantly. "The stick and the dog both...floating right there in midair."

  "Could it have been a trick?"

  "A mutant trick," he replied ominously.

  "Do you have any idea who the boy might have been?"

  "I've answered that question a thousand times," Cromwell replied edgily.

  "I don't know -- don't know anyone on the planet except old Simon. He runs the field and does their trading for them."

  "Can you recall anything about him, what he looked like?"

  Cromwell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I have the impression that he was rather frail, with a big mop of yellow hair. Wait, I do remember something. He limped. I remember noticing it."

  Limped? That would be David Gant, Selby thought. His record had noted the lameness. He looked at Cromwell. "Anything else?"

  The captain shook his head. "Nothing except the dog, a shaggy yellow beast. He called it Rok."

  The boy was a pk. The knowledge struck Selby with finality. Reading the psychic report on the captain and hearing it from the captain himself were two quite different things. The report had been cold, impersonal, couched in clinical language; it had concerned someone who had existed solely as a name.

  But no longer. Now he knew Cromwell, had had weeks to size him up, assess his beliefs, attitudes, degree of gullibility. Only there was no gullibility, or very little. Neither was he an overly imaginative man, nor one given to flights of fancy. To the contrary, he was steady and practical, even though he did nip at the bottle too often.

  Selby asked slowly, "Have you seen anyone else, anyone at all?"

  "Occasional glimpses, not often. It's a spooky place, Selby. I wouldn't go there if it weren't for the market."

  "What kind of a fellow is Simon?"

  "Old as the hills of Gortmar," declared Cromwell. "He's walking on the edge of the grave, has been for years. At times I wonder why the wind don't blow him away."

  "Does he ever talk?"

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  "About what?" Suspicion clouded the captain's face.

  "Other people on Engo. Does he ever mention them?"

  "Never has," Cromwell declared. He stroked his chin reflectively. "I've never asked him."

  "What do you talk about?"

  "Trade, mostly."

  "Think he might talk to me?"

  "Hard to say." Cromwell shrugged.

  "Doesn't it feel odd...never to see anyone?"

  "Mutants? Can you blame them for steering clear when we come around? We haven't done very well by them, Selby. You'll have to admit that. Dumping them on that death trap." His voice changed. "Personally, I'm just as glad. I'd feel uncomfortable."

  "Because they're telepaths? How about Simon? You don't mind him."

  "Simon? He doesn't act like one." Cromwell caught Selby's eyes and asked belligerently, "How come he asks how much I want for some article or other if he can read my mind?"

  "Does he pay what you ask, or do you usually settle for something lower?"

  "Well, we haggle, of course. That's what trading's all about."

  "Does he drive a hard bargain?"

  "He certainly does." Cromwell shook his head admiringly. "He gets me right down to rock bottom."

  "Did it ever occur to you that he might know what that rock bottom was before you started haggling?"

  "Know? You mean...?" A startled look came into Cromwell's face. "Well I'll be danged. The old pirate."

  "Could be," Selby murmured.

  Cromwell eyed him hopefully. "Would it help if I wore a hard hat?"

  "I don't believe so," he answered gravely. Taking advantage of the captain's garrulousness, he asked, "Ever hear of a Mr. Olaf?"

  "Olaf?" The captain stiffened perceptibly and Selby didn't miss the guarded look that came into his eyes.

  "I've heard of him in connection with Engo," Selby explained disarmingly. "Thought he might be another trader."

  "Never heard the name," Cromwell answered shortly. Selby dropped the subject.

  That was the way things stood when Selby watched from the bridge as the planet filled the star window. Here and there through rifts in the cloud cover he saw dark, amorphous splotches which Cromwell identified as belonging to

  Engo's only major continent.

  "And a miserable continent it is," he explained. "Wind, rain, heat, quakes and them big weeping trees; small wonder they all die."

  "Don't forget the fever," Snorkel broke in.

  "Aye, and the fever that comes in the season of orange heat." Cromwell eyed Selby interestedly.

  "You must be on somebody's list to get this assignment."

  "Could be," he murmured.

  Turning away, he stared down into the orange light, pondering what might lie ahead. Finding the boy could prove a considerable problem. What if I can't find him? As Vogel once suggested, the people might simply melt into the forest, leaving no one but Simon behind. Well, he'd have to wait and see.

  What if I do find him? That question perturbed him even more. The boy's physical presence wouldn't tell him a thing, nor was he likely to admit being a pk. Not to an outsider.

  Page 23

  Contemplating it, he realized that it was extremely doubtful that anyone would talk. Then what?

  Selby became aware of a sense of guilt. Was he trying to avoid his responsibility? Or was it something deeper, some reluctance to serve a law which palpably was unjust, a law of expedience? What would Korl Smithson do under the circumstances? Or Hallam Vogel? Could an unjust act be termed justice when sanctioned by a statute? They hadn't thought so; but neither had suggested a remedy.

  What of his own conscience? If he identified the boy, affirmed the capability, could he live with himself for all the years to come? Would the knowledge that he'd acted as an agent of the law suffice? Or would it shrivel his soul, especially in light of his own secret fears?

  What of Philip Wig? The captain's certainty that the boy was a pk meant victory for Wig, the director's chair. The boy's death...Beyond that, it meant a stepped-up drive against the telepaths, added misery for those exiled. It meant a return to the dark ages of reason.

  Why had Vogel and Smithson placed the investigation in his hands? To thwart the executor? If so, they had lost. More important, what kind of a report did they expect? Did they expect to stifle the case by having him fail?

  He hadn't considered that possibility.

  The cards were stacked against him, he reflected. He couldn't win, no matter what he did. Nor could Wig lose -- not with a pk on Engo. But most of all, the Federation itself would lose if Wig won. That was the point Ewol Strang couldn't realize. And people like Mr. Olaf -- for he knew from the captain's reaction there was a Mr. Olaf -- would be pushed farther underground, their voices stilled; the mutants would have no champion at all.

  Another thought struck him. He hadn't told Cromwell of the executor's role in the investigation yet, hadn't deemed it wise. It would only serve to weaken his own position. But when he did...

  Sighing, he watched the orange planet rush toward him.

  Selby felt a sudden sense of weight as the rumbling and vibration transmitted through the bulkheads signaled the onset of retrofire. The shaking grew stronger and he felt a fleeting fear again until he glimpsed Cromwell staring unconcernedly through the starport, his fingers entwining the silver flask. The needles on the console next to him jumped and quivered.

  Abruptly the vibration ceased and the thunder died, leaving an eerie silence. Selby had the uncanny sensation of floating, the feeling of free fall to which he'd never accustomed himself.

  "Dropping out of orbit," Snorkel called, from behind him. "Sure had the shakes, didn't she?"

  "Yeah," he answered weakly.

  "Goin' to come apart someday."

  "Not this trip, please."

  "Can't ever tell, Mr. Selby. Could happen any time."

  "I hope you're fooling," he said.

  "Fooling?" Snorkel sounded surprised. "No, sir, I'm not fooling. Not a bit."

  Cromwell got on the communicator and sent out his coded call letters.

  Selby was surprised at the suddenness with which the answer came. The wheezy voice told him it must be Simon. He listened as they discussed the ship's trajectory and surface conditions.

  Finally Cromwell turned from the console and looked at the first mate.

  "Plenty of cloud, Snorky. The wind's at standard fifty."

  "Rain?" asked Snorkel anxiously.

  "She's holding off. Simon's got us on the beam."

  "Tracking equipment?" asked Selby. He hadn't expected it on Engo.

  Cromwell curled his lips. "Government supplied. Nice of them, wouldn't you say? They need it to land the exile ships."

  "Lucky for us," Snorkel cut in. "I'd sure hate to land this baby in the blind."

  Page 24

  "Not bad once you get the experience," Cromwell asserted.

  "Experience!" Snorkel grunted.

  Shortly after retrofire began again, the Cosmic Wind slipped into a blind world of dusky orange clouds that swirled against the starport, threatening to Selby's eye, nor did the increased rumbling and vibrations from the engine contribute to his peace of mind. He caught himself admiring

  Cromwell and his crew. As Snorkel had said, the ship was little more than a bucket of bolts, yet they had taken it to a hundred star systems. He wondered if the polished crews of the police patrols could do as well.

  Cromwell was back on the communicator talking with Simon when they emerged from the cloud cover and Selby got his first close-up glimpse of the planet's face. The first impression was of jagged purple mountains with orange-tinted peaks, vast forests, and small ochre plains. A pinkish sea lay off to one side.

  As the land rushed to meet them, he thought it the strangest world he'd ever seen, the most hostile appearing. In size it was much like his home planet, Amador, which served as the administrative center for Sector Three.

  But there all similarity ended. In contrast with the neat geometry of glassed-in farms, manicured parks, and stately buildings like those of the city of Mekla, Engo's visible face was that of nature on the rampage.

  A sullen river, brooding trees with tops bent and splintered by savage gales -- he shivered. On the plus side, Engo had an oxygen-rich atmosphere and a surface gravity of 0.86 galactic standard; but the extremes of heat and cold broached the limits usually considered as bearable for human life. Cromwell was right, he thought. Engo was a miserable world.

  The land wheeled past more slowly as the Cosmic Wind lost forward velocity; at the same time the forests and meadows appeared to grow, their contours sharpening as if springing new from the dark soil.

  The rumble of the retrofire grew deafening as the ship bucked and quivered underfoot. He moved closer to the starport, staring down.

  "The village," Cromwell said. He pointed a bony finger. Selby saw it then, a huddle of log huts at the edge of the towering agora trees.

  "Is that all there is?" he asked. It didn't seem much for a planet that received a hundred or so new arrivals each year.

  "Most of the people are scattered around." Cromwell gestured toward the purplish Kavu mountains. "That's where the catmels come from."

  Selby eyed the land with a feeling of dismay. If they were scattered among those forbidding peaks, he'd never find them. He voiced the thought.

  Cromwell wasn't encouraging. "I wondered about that," he returned.

  As the tramper descended Selby saw the small patch of meadow that served as the landing field.

  At one side was a cabin which sported several antennas and tracking saucers. He thought they appeared odd on the ramshackle station.

  A gaunt figure appeared in the doorway and stared up at them. Moments later the Cosmic Wind touched down with a grinding bump.

  "Pretty danged rough," Cromwell yelled irately.

  "Rough?" the first mate snorted. "She came down like a feather."

  "That's why she's pounding so hard," the captain snapped testily.

  "You've got to handle her like a lady."

  Selby watched the crew open the cargo doors and lower the landing ramp.

  Despite its formidable appearance, Engo was a new world and his eyes drank it hungrily. Seen from close up, the village fairly crouched in the shadow of the giant trees, a motley collection of Page 25

  huts lining a muddy lane that served as a street. He saw no movement, no sign of life. For some reason he was reminded of the deserted towns on the mining planet of Kanakar after the ores ran out.

  This village was like that -- silent and deserted.

  His eyes moved up. The trees -- weeping agoras, Cromwell had called them

  -- towered several hundred feet above the muddy ground, their tops twisted and splintered.

  Their branches tossed restlessly in the wind, emitting a vast, muted sighing that reminded him of a dirge. The water dripping steadily from the lower branches told him how the trees had gotten their name from Cromwell.

  When the captain was ready, he followed him down the ramp. An old man came from the shack and limped to meet them, his white hair and beard tossing in the wind. "Simon," Cromwell murmured needlessly.

  Telepath! The word leaped into Selby's consciousness and he felt a quick worry, then resolutely concentrated on filling his mind with surface thoughts.

  He wasn't certain, but hoped the technique at least would be confusing.

  As Simon drew closer, Selby saw the emaciation of his body, the gauntness of age, the wreckage of what might once have been a handsome face.

  Wrinkles and folds covered the weathered skin and the hands protruding from the ragged jacket appeared like claws. Then he saw the eyes, clear, sparkling blue, infinitely deep. Somehow he was reminded of Korl Smithson.

  "Good to see you, Cap'n," Simon said. "You came back in a hurry."

  "Picked up a good cargo for trade," Cromwell answered. He fished a flask from his pocket and gave it to the old man. "Plenty of catmel?"

  "Finest ever, Cap'n." The blue eyes settled on Selby's face and Cromwell made the introductions.

  "My new second mate," he explained.

  "Second mate?"

  "Business is growing," Cromwell said. "Might add another ship to the line before long."

  "Real profit in pelts, eh?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, the market's falling off," Cromwell answered quickly. "Might have to adjust the price a bit."

  "It's harder to get 'em now," Simon returned. "We have to go deeper into the mountains. Makes

  'em more dear, of course."

  "The price is governed by the market, what the buyer will pay," Cromwell declared.

  "You can't sell 'em if you haven't got 'em," Simon answered shrewdly.

  The blue eyes came back to Selby's face and settled there. "Welcome to Engo, Mr. Selby. It's good to see a new face."

  "Good to see a new world," he answered.

  Simon chuckled. "No one ever said that about Engo before."

  "It doesn't look that bad."

  The old man shook his head. "You wouldn't say that, not if you saw it when the winds howl out of the Kavu mountains and the flood rains come, or in the season of orange heat. You wouldn't like it at all, would he, Cap'n?"

  "I suspect he wouldn't," Cromwell replied drily.

  "Like it or not, it's good to get on firm ground again," Selby said.

  "Firm?" Simon cackled. "Wait'll the quakes hit."

  Selby laughed. "Anything you haven't got?"

  "Drouth," the old man replied promptly. "Always got plenty of water."

  Selby gazed around and said innocently, "My folks used to know a family who had a couple of kids who came out here, a boy and a girl." He suppressed a flush, feeling that Simon's eyes Page 26

  suddenly had bored right through him, but otherwise the old man gave no sign of his thoughts.

  "Boy and a girl, eh? Remember their names?"

  "Gant was the family name," he explained. "I didn't know the children myself although I seem to recall that the boy was lame."

  "That would be Lora and her brother David," Simon answered musingly.

  "A crippled boy?" asked Cromwell. "I saw him over at the meadow once. He had a shaggy yellow dog, didn't he?"

  "Name of Rok," Simon affirmed. "Davie brought him out as a puppy."

  Selby asked casually, "How are they doing?"

  "Lora's doing fine, a fine young woman," Simon declared. "She's taking care of young Johnny Sloan."

  "Johnny Sloan?" he asked. "How about David?"

  "Davie?" The blue eyes grew still and deep and inscrutable. "Young Davie is dead."

  "Dead?" Selby felt a slight shock.

  "Died in the season of orange heat," the old man said.

  Five

  ALEK SELBY trudged slowly across the muddy field of bulla grass, his storm jacket wrapped tightly around him to shut out the piercing wind that blew down from the Kavu mountains.

  Clouds swirled overhead in slow motion, threatening rain, and the muted sigh that arose from the tossing agora trees mingled with the deeper roar of the river.

  A world of sound and motion, he thought. It was totally unlike anything he'd ever imagined.

  Cromwell had told him that Simon welcomed the cloudy

  nights because then he didn't have to look up into a starless firmament.

  "He feels less lonely," Cromwell said.

  Once he paused and looked back. The Cosmic Wind appeared like what it was -- a decrepit tramper huddled on a muddy flat, looking more like a scarred derelict than a freighter which had reached a hundred stars. He found the sight strangely depressing. Cromwell had postponed trading because of the threatened storm, now was closeted with Snorkel over a chess board; and old

 

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